The Wild Baron (Baron 1)

He dipped his head down and kissed her nose.

“I will think about this, Susannah. Surely a man of my reputation is quite used to having ladies telling him every hour of at least every other day that they love him, adore him, even worship him. What do you think?”

To her own astonishment, she heaved him off her and onto his side. “You’re a baboon,” she said, and pressed herself close, giving him nipping bites and kisses on his neck, his shoulders, his chest. Then she reared up to look down at him. “I’m married to a baboon with a reputation. I’m sorry, Ro-han, but I’ve thought a good deal about it. I’ve decided that you must rid yourself of all those other women. I don’t wish to disappoint Charlotte, but I don’t believe I can let you keep them about. You will be with me every night or else it won’t go well for you. I can be mean if it is required of me. Very mean.”

“All right.”

“All right what?”

“No more other women.” He yawned deeply, caressed her breast, then scratched his belly. “How could I go to another woman? You have laid me flat. I am barely breathing. I am barely still of earthly matter. You have nearly brought my heart to a standstill.”

“Good,” she said and kissed his throat. “Goodness, I’m wet from you.”

He actually shuddered, thinking of his seed inside her body. “Don’t forget that you were an active part of this delightful amusement. Not all is from me.”

He fell onto his back, bringing her with him. She snuggled against his side, her hand flat on his belly, her head on his shoulder. She loved the scent of him. She realized, of course, that he had not told her he loved her as well. It had only been a month. He had quite a number of bad habits to break before he realized how fine it would be to have her as his wife, to have just one woman—namely her—who would be with him all her life.

No, a man of his reputation couldn’t be expected to so easily forget all the delightful female variety available to him on every front. She just wanted to be his only front from now on. She wanted very much for him to be content with just her in his life.

He kissed her forehead, her ear, and mumbled something about how lovely she was and how satisfied she made him feel. She fell asleep smiling, filled with hope. She dreamed of a Scottish king who was wearing not only a kilt but also blue war paint all over his face. He was yelling at soldiers, not his own soldiers, of which there were multitudes, but a huge number of soldiers facing him from a goodly distance away. His huge claymore was swinging rhythmically over his head. He was very strong. Then she saw his face a final time when suddenly he turned to face her. There was no war paint this time. It wasn’t a Scottish king she saw, it wasn’t Macbeth. It was Tibolt.

She prayed that Tibolt hadn’t killed Bishop Roundtree, but she knew even if he hadn’t been the one to strike the bishop down, he had known about it, he had approved the act.

It was odd that life could be so exciting yet so filled with tragedy, all at the same time.

She couldn’t wait to see what the Devil’s Vessel was.

They left Dinwitty Manor the following morning, in the dull light of dawn. Thank God it wasn’t raining. It looked to be a brilliant, warm day. It would take them five days to reach Dunkeld, a town whose cathedral was founded in the year 815, Phillip had read to them the previous evening.

Rohan sighed, pulled Susannah tightly against him, and felt her soft breast against his arm. She recited quietly:

“Beneath the abbot’s resting stone

Down the rotted stairs.

Reach inside the wall that screams

The Devil’s Vessel lies in-between.”

“I can’t get it out of my mind,” she said. “I’ve said it over and over to myself. I just hope that when we find something, I’ll know what to do and where to go.”

“I’ve memorized it as well,” Rohan said. “We are a lot alike, Susannah. That pleases me.”

Phillip rolled his eyes. “Well, I’m not like either one of you and I’ve also memorized the damned thing. Now, I’ve asked Railey, our coachman, to keep his eyes open for anyone appearing to be following us. He told me at our last stop that he hasn’t seen anyone.”

“Thank God for that,” Susannah said. Then she added, “But I don’t trust Tibolt. I really don’t.”

“Unfortunately,” Rohan said, “I agree with you. We’ll keep watching.”

The Cathedral of Dunkeld, converted from a church to a cathedral in 1127 by David I, Phillip had told them, stood on Cathedral Street in the midst of thick oak and sycamore trees, gardens and walkways along the River Tay. Rising beyond the river’s shores were mountains covered with huge tracts of forest. The cathedral was badly in need of restoration, a project, the local innkeeper told them, that would happen in its own good time, as did everything of a civic nature. But Rohan’s eye found the ancient parts of the cathedral from the twelfth century. Certainly their abbot must lie there.

The innkeeper was master of one of the Little Houses that were lined up on Cathedral Street. They had been rebuilt, the innkeeper told them, after the devastation caused by the battle of 1689. In the inn there were only six small rooms, a tiny dining room, and a taproom.

Susannah was so excited that she could barely pay attention as the innkeeper, truly a kindly old man, continued in his thick brogue: “Ye probably wonder aboot this battle in 1689—’twere between the Highlanders—Jacobites the lot of ’em—and the extremist Covananters. Aye, the Highlanders fought their way into the town, but the Covananters fired everything. The town were gutted, ye ken. Burnt to the ground and below. The Jacobites withdrew and the cause of James II was lost fer good. William and Mary were assured of the English throne.”

“And the cathedral,” Phillip said as the innkeeper opened the door to a tiny, quite charming little room with beamed ceilings, a narrow bed, and a long, skinny window that gave onto the River Tay. “What happened to the cathedral?”

“ ’Och, it survived well enough, as ye can see, but there’s much work to be done.”