Chapter 5

Jenefer pulled her cloak tighter around her throat and peered out from the shadows of the trees. The castle below, lit by the last rays of the setting sun, truly did glow like gold.

She meant to lay claim to that gold. And even though she’d sworn an oath of solidarity to her cousins, she’d always known this fight was hers alone.

Besides, she wasn’t exactly acting on her own. The three of them had agreed on their strategy. They’d decided to make the Highlander believe that Creagor was haunted. And since they’d learned from a passing merchant that the Highlander’s household had arrived earlier today, they’d planned to begin the haunting tomorrow eve.

Jenefer didn’t intend to veer from their objective. But she wasn’t about to wait for the morrow. It was better to strike while the iron was hot and the moon was full, before the enemy had time to prepare.

Before supper, she’d feigned an aching head as an excuse to retire to her chamber. There she’d gathered her ghostly attire and stolen from Rivenloch by way of her Aunt Miriel’s secret tunnel into the woods.

Jenefer already knew the way to Creagor. Years ago, when she’d first learned the castle might one day be hers, she’d sneaked over on her own to explore. She knew there was a wooden palisade surrounding the keep and a stone wall enclosing the courtyard. She even knew the exact location of the laird’s bedchamber. Now all she needed to do was to wait until dark and move into place below the window.

Staying hidden at the edge of the forest in sight of the bedchamber, she perched on a lichen-covered boulder to keep watch from the trees. Then she opened the satchel she’d brought with her.

Knowing she was settling in for a long night, she’d procured supplies from the buttery. She pulled out a chunk of hard cheese, a dozen oatcakes, three veal pasties, four bannocks, two apple coffyns, a slab of butter, and a full skin of ale. That should last her till morn.

From this vantage point, she spied a guardsman occasionally popping his head above the palisade of timbers that fenced the keep. The Highlander had doubtless brought men-at-arms with him, but he either didn’t have enough to post permanent lookouts at the four corners, or he was unconcerned about intruders.

While she waited for the inhabitants of the castle to retire for the night, she chewed on a buttered bannock and considered what improvements she would make to the keep, once it was hers.

The first thing she’d do was replace and expand the timber palisade with sturdy stone. Timbers could be put to the torch. But it would take a giant siege engine like a catapult or a trebuchet to fell a stone wall.

As long as she was enlarging the palisade, she thought, taking a swig of ale, she might as well expand the interior wall. There was plenty of usable land to enclose a much larger courtyard. It was always best to protect as many of the outbuildings as possible, considering how tempting a jewel like Creagor was to the invading English along the border.

The current palisade was far too close to the keep, and the towers didn’t even have narrowed arrow-slit windows for defense. She could have easily fired an arrow over the timbers and shot the Highlander while he stood at his open window.

She arched a sardonic brow. That was still a possibility if her current plan failed. She’d brought her longbow with her. She never went anywhere without it.

She washed down the bannock with a swallow of ale and resumed plans for improving Creagor. In addition to the usual kitchens, dovecot, orchard, gardens, and shops that filled the courtyard, a larger space could house some rather appealing amenities…

A grand archery range.

A splendidly appointed tiltyard.

An impressive practice field.

A generously furnished armorer’s forge.

And a stable large enough to provide for the mounts of knights who came to participate in the illustrious tournaments she intended to host.

Imagining the fluttering pennons and the clash of claymores sent a thrill through her. Her Aunt Deirdre hosted some of Scotland’s most distinguished tournaments every spring at Rivenloch. But Jenefer was sure she could rival Rivenloch’s events at Creagor in the autumn, once she put builders to work on the additions.

She shivered. She told herself it was from excitement. Not the cold. But the weather had definitely taken a turn today. Fog no longer blanketed the ground. A chill breeze stirred the crisp leaves of the trees.

Still, Jenefer was accustomed to cold. She’d be fine. Besides, what was a little bitter wind when men would shed blood for a holding as magnificent as Creagor?

Two veal pasties, seven oatcakes, and one apple coffyn later, Jenefer had begun shivering in earnest. But she forgot all about the cold when she suddenly spied light in the window of the laird’s bedchamber.

She sat up straight, her gaze locked on the window.

That would be him.

The Highlander.

The savage who thought he could usurp her castle.

Quickly stuffing the remnants of her supper into the satchel, she felt the fire of battle enter her heart. She prepared to give the performance of her life.

Paying no heed to the icy wind, she threw off her cloak and began untying the laces of her surcoat. Once she’d loosened and hauled off the garment, the wind began to whip at her linen kirtle, wrapping it around her legs.

Leaning against an oak for balance, she tugged off her boots and stockings, tucking them under the boulder. She untied her braid and ran her fingers through her hair, separating the long tresses.

With a bracing, determined breath, she swept the kirtle off over her head…and lost it to the wind. She cursed as it flew across the sward, skipping away like a naughty child, alternately snagging on bushes, then blowing free. Figuring the garment was lost for good, she drew out the filmy white veil she’d packed.

It rippled in the breeze as well, but she managed to drag the veil over her naked body, anchoring it atop her windblown curls with a circlet of silver.

No one would mistake her for a nun now. The sheer veil afforded her no modesty. And no warmth.

But this was war.

Whatever discomfort she had to suffer, it would be worth it. She planned to win this battle. Her future and the title of Laird of Creagor depended upon it.

Clenching her teeth against the biting wind, she emerged from the trees and made her way toward the candle glow in the window. The light of the full moon glistened on the grass, where frost crunched under her feet. The translucent veil, lifting and fluttering on the currents, looked even more ethereal and eerie than she’d hoped.

As she positioned herself in view of the laird’s window, she was tempted to yell out to get his attention. But that wouldn’t have been ghostly. She had to have patience. Still, if he didn’t look out soon, she supposed she’d have to resort to some sort of eerie emanation. Perhaps a low moan or a high keening wail.

Meanwhile, she’d simply stand in silence, stare up at the window, and shiver. The chill wind danced with her veil and gave her icy kisses while she waited.

And waited.