Lachlan's Heart: Book Two of The MacCulloughs

by Suzan Tisdale

  “If we cannae get rid of it, then shut it down.”

  Walter’s expression changed from nervous to terrified. “I’d rather ye just hang me now, laird,” he said. “Fer I would rather that than to go to Inverness and tell Madam Euphemie that she is to shutter her doors.”

  Back and forth they went for nearly half an hour. Not even the threat of death could get Walter to change his mind.

  Realizing he was not going to get the weak man to acquiesce, Lachlan decided all further arguments were unnecessary. While he had absolutely no desire to go to Inverness, he had no other choice.

  Chapter Eight

  One of the benefits of killing whores is that they made it so damnable easy. One would think that after the brutal deaths of six of their ilk, any whore with half a mind would be a bit more cautious. But nay, they were all far too eager to earn their piece of silver or gold.

  He’d been studying his next victim for weeks now. Watching, waiting in the shadows, carefully taking mental notes of where she went and when. Number seven rarely left the confines of the filthy brothel where she lived and worked. Madame Euphemie’s. Bah!

  No matter what they called it or what kind of expensive and pretty draperies they hung in the windows, no matter the type of clientele who visited - earls, dukes, merchantmen - ’twas still a den of iniquity. A house of ill-repute. A home for whores.

  Forveleth.

  He only knew her name because he’d heard someone call her that a sennight ago. Whores never paid attention to the shadows, or what lurked within.

  If she weren’t a whore, he might find her quite becoming, what with her dark hair and big green eyes. He could see why a man might be tempted by such a delight. But he wasn’t most men. Nay, he was doing God’s work. That set him apart from all other men.

  ’Twas a chilly Tuesday, late afternoon. Whores slept most of their days away, he supposed.

  Forveleth slipped out of the back door of Madame Euphemie's Tickled Pickle - an awful name for a bordello he mused quietly. As she did every Tuesday afternoon, she quickly made her way down the alley and turned left.

  He followed behind her, unnoticed by her or anyone else for that matter. He blended seamlessly into the small crowds and other shoppers. No one would look at him and think “There is a man doin’ God’s work.” Or better still, “there is a man who will soon kill someone.”

  Nay, he fit in quite nicely.

  He paused to look at an assortment of bread at the baker’s just as Forveleth slipped inside the healer’s home. Three doors down from the bakers, ’twas an inconspicuous space but he knew the kind of things that particular healer did. Tending to whores and foul women.

  ’Twas a giddy sensation knowing that a sennight from now, he’d be running his blade across Forveleth’s throat.

  And she had no idea she had very little time left to live.

  Chapter Nine

  The Tickled Pickle was nestled inside a fine building a few blocks east of the River Ness. Three stories tall, made of limestone, there was a fine tavern on one side and a jeweler on the other, and a woolers on the corner.

  The Tickled Pickle was run by the world renowned Euphemie Boyer. World renowned for being well-versed in the art of gratifying a man. ’Twas a well-known secret that she was actually the illegitimate daughter of Robert de Brus, the sixth earl of Annandale. Not to be confused with the Robert the Brus, the former king of Scotland. Aye, Euphemie was sister to that Robert the Brus, though she’d never had the pleasure of meeting either man in person.

  But her mother, Elyne Boyer, was one of Robert de Brus’s most favored lemans. So much so, that he gifted her the building that her daughter now resided in, although in a round-about-way.

  In order to keep the not-so-well kept secret secret, Robert deeded the land and building to his cousin, Randall Chisolm, the first. Three generations of Chisolms had taken great pride in ownership. ’Twas said that Randall the first often visited the Tickled Pickle. ’Twas also said he had brought his son, Maitland here to get done with the learnin’ of bein’ a man.

  It was also known in the seedier parts of Inverness, that if a woman was in trouble, she could go to Euphemie for help.

  And that is just what Kiernan McInnes’ friend and neighbor did. ’Twas auld Mrs. MacElany who had discovered Kiernan’s near lifeless body, not more than a quarter of an hour after Kiernan’s husband finished beating the poor woman.

  With the help of her husband, George, Mrs. MacElany loaded Kiernan - battered, bloody, with swollen eyes, lips, and broken bones - and her daughter Brigid, into the back of a wagon and took them straight to Euphemie.

  Euphemie knew who Kiernan was. She’d met the lass a few times, years ago, when Keevah lived here. Without asking who had done such a thing to the sweet, pretty lass, Euphemie had one of her hired men, a tall, strapping man named Charles, take the poor woman above stairs, straight to her own bed chamber on the second floor.

  ’Twas Euphemie who penned the letter to Keevah. She paid an extra ten groats to Charles’s younger brother, Drake, to take the message straight away to the MacCullough Keep. Do nae stop for man nor beast, Euphemie had ordered him. And bring Keevah here straight away.

  A healer was sent for and she arrived quickly. One look at the woman and she shook her gray-haired head. “Jesu,” she exclaimed. “I will do the best I can.”

  “Do better than that,” Euphemie told her. “She is nae one of us, Lora.” As if that mattered one whit to the aulder woman.

  Scoffing, she shook her head again. “I care nae who she is, ye ken that, Euphemie,” she said as she set her basket of herbs and supplies on the floor near the bed. “Was it her husband who did this?”

  “Aye,” Euphemie nodded as she sat on the bed next to Kiernan. “I hope he burns in hell someday soon.”

  Euphemie stayed with the healer for as long as she could. When night fell, she painted on an air of grace and good humor before descending the stairs to greet guests.

  This wasn’t her first foray into keeping a woman safe from an abusive, ugly husband or lover. She and her ladies had helped a goodly number of women heal or escape over the years and no man was ever the wiser.

  Nay, keeping Kiernan’s presence here wasn’t the problem.

  The problem would be keeping her alive until Keevah arrived.

  Yuletide was only a few weeks away. The MacCullough women were beginning to ready the keep for the weeks-long celebration. Dried flowers and evergreens were hung from the chandeliers and mantles in the gathering room, adding a most festive air to the keep.

  On this cold, snowy afternoon Keevah, Aeschene, and Marisse were gathered near the hearth. While Aeschene and Marisse were in light spirits, the same could not be said for Keevah.

  “Ye can never have too many sleeping gowns for yer bairn,” Marisse said as she carefully stitched the hem to another gown. The blue fabric was as soft as down and she couldn’t resist smiling as she sewed.

  Weeks ago, a few of Richard’s men had retrieved her loom from her cottage and placed it near the hearth. She’d been working on another blanket for Aeschene’s babe, using blue, red, and green yarn. Twice now, she had to stop and redo her work for she had absentmindedly made several of the loops too loose. Her mind was not on her task this day. Instead, ’twas focused entirely on a man who was a two-day ride away. A man who hadn’t kept his promise.

  “I do thank ye for the blankets,” Aeschene said with a nod towards Keevah. “I have never felt anything so soft.”

  Keevah hadn’t been listening. She’d been too busy cursing under her breath for having made yet another mistake in her work.

  Marisse leaned over her chair to whisper in Aeschene’s ear. “She is nae payin’ attention.”

  Before Aeschene could respond, one of Richard’s men came bursting through the door and down the steps. “M’lady! M’lady!”

  All three women jumped with a start.

  “M’lady,” he called out again.

  “Good heavens, Henry. Calm do
wn,” Marisse admonished. “We are nae deaf.”

  Out of breath, he stood between Marisse and Aeschene. “I be terribly sorry, but ’tis important.” The urgency in his voice was unmistakable.

  “Well?” Marisse asked after allowing him time to catch his breath. “What is so important?”

  He glanced at Keevah, who had left her place at her loom. “’Tis an urgent missive for Keevah.”

  Keevah stared at the rolled parchment he held in his hands. She’d never received a missive before. Urgent or otherwise.

  A slight blush crept up her neck, flushing her cheeks. She took the scroll into her hands and thanked him.

  The young man left as quickly as he’d arrived. Keevah continued to stare at the scroll for several long moments as her heart pounded against her breast. Mayhap ’tis from Lachlan, she dared to hope.

  “Well?” Marisse asked. “Are ye nae goin’ to read it?”

  Her blush intensified. "I cannae read.”

  Marisse rose from her chair and placed a comforting palm on her hands. “Would ye like me to read it for ye?”

  Truly, there was no other way around it. No matter who the missive was from, she couldn’t have read it there were there a dirk to her throat.

  One look into Marisse’s eyes and she knew that no matter what message was written, Marisse would not humiliate or embarrass her. “Aye, please.”

  Gently, Marisse took the parchment from her hands and looked at the seal. “I dunnae recognize the seal,” she said.

  Neither did Keevah.

  Marisse carefully unrolled the document and began reading aloud.

  Dear Keevah,

  I fear I have the worst of news for ye, lass. ’Tis Kiernan. He has finally done it and we fear she is nae long for this world. She has asked for ye and I believe ye ken why. Come at once.

  Euphemie.

  Keevah’s heart felt as though it had plummeted to her feet and bounced up again as an intense ache filled her heart. She hadn’t heard either name spoken aloud in many years.

  “The bloody bastard,” she cursed.

  Aeschene and Marisse were quiet for a long while, waiting patiently for an explanation. Keevah could only stare at the parchment, her mind whirling, her heart breaking.

  “Who is Kiernan? Who is Madame Euphemie, and who is he?” Marisse asked in a low whisper.

  Keevah tamped down her anger and swallowed back her tears. "Kieren was my dearest friend,” she began, her throat suddenly feeling quite dry. ’Twas, in fact, an understatement. She and Kieren had been closer than friends. They’d been like sisters. Kieren knew all of Keevah’s secrets - secrets she would take to her grave.

  "And Madame Euphemie?” Aeschene asked.

  Keevah gave a slow shake of her head. “A friend to each of us. And aye, before ye ask, she is that kind of madame.”

  No further explanation was needed. Both women knew of Keevah’s past.

  More silence fell as a rush of memories, many good, some not as precious, came rushing into her mind. The ache in her heart continued to intensify.

  “And who is he? What does it mean ‘he has finally done it?’” Marisse asked.

  Keevah swallowed her tears. “Her husband, Dermott,” she began as she slowly fell into the chair next to Aeschene. He was one of the most brutal, unforgiving men she’d ever known, and she’d known a lot of men.

  She thought back to the last time she’d seen Kiernan. “He has changed, now that I have given him a child.” Dermott hadn’t always been a ruthless bastard. Nay, those changes came long after he and Kiernan were married. Both women believed that once she was able to give him a child, his anger would subside. Apparently, they’d both been wrong.

  “She has a daughter,” she explained. “Brigid. She is nearing six years old now. “I had believed he had changed, after Kiernan gave him a child. Now, I know I was wrong.”

  “Och, Keevah,” Marisse said as she knelt in front of her. “I am so sorry.”

  “We will arrange for yer escort to Inverness at once,” Aeschene said.

  Keevah was wholly surprised by the offer. “But—”

  Aeschene would not allow her to protest. “Yer friend needs ye,” she said. “Ye must go at once.”

  Keevah allowed the tears to finally fall, a blend of heartache and relief. “Thank ye,” she murmured as she swiped away her tears.

  Kieren, please wait for me, she prayed. And God, please do nae let Dermott find them.

  In less than two hours' time, Keevah had packed her belongings, said her goodbyes, and was being escorted through the gates of the MacCullough keep. Eight of Richard’s finest warriors had been put in charge of her safety.

  Keevah refused to wonder why they had all volunteered for this duty. More likely than not, the young men were simply eager for a chance to be away from the keep, and a chance to find some excitement in Inverness.

  She sat atop a fine gray mare and tried to remember the last time she had ridden a horse. It had been years.

  The wind was bitingly cold, whipping and thrashing all around them. Thankfully, there was only a light dusting of snow. It would take three days for them to reach Inverness.

  As the wind intensified, she pulled her cloak more tightly around her torso. She was very thankful for the warm mittens and fine woolen scarf her friends had gifted to her. Still, she felt cold; cold to her bones. But she knew ‘twasn’t the biting wind that chilled her. ’Twas her memories intermingled with guilt.

  As they traveled along the winding dirt road, her thoughts kept returning to Kiernan and Brigid. Guilt assaulted her heart and mind. I should have kept in touch. I should have at least tried to visit. I should have done more. How could we have been so stupid as to believe Dermott had changed?

  Truly, they hadn’t possessed many choices. According to the laws of Scotia, Kiernan and Brigid were Dermott’s property, to do with as he wished. They could have run away, but chances were good he’d have dragged them back.

  “Do ye need to stop, lass?” ’Twas Aric, one of the older men assigned to protect her. He looked genuinely concerned for her.

  “Nay,” she replied solemnly. She needed to get to Inverness as soon as possible. Before her friend died. Before Dermott discovered where she was hidden. Before he could get to Brigid.

  ’Twas the middle of the night when Keevah and her guards arrived in Inverness. Snow fell in soft flakes, leaving a fine dust of snow across the city. Dawn was at least two hours away.

  Phillip escorted her to the door and inside the dimly lit space. Years ago, she’d called this place home. A quick glance around the entryway told her naught much had changed.

  Pushing through a set of ornately carved doors, she came into the gathering room. The air rushing in fanned the flames of the low burning fire in the hearth to her left. It caressed the flames of the fat beeswax candles scattered around the room. Expensive upholstered chairs and chaises were carefully placed here and there. Tables of varying sizes, covered in silk and lace held those candles.

  A moment later, Charles, Euphemie’s personal guard, entered from the hallway on the other side. Recognizing Keevah at once, he spun around and left.

  “Who is he?” Charles asked.

  “Euphemie’s personal guard. He is a good man,” she answered in a hushed whisper. She went to the fire and rubbed her hands together. Cold to her bones, she shivered as she soaked up the warmth from the fire. Phillip remained quiet and vigilant, maintaining at his post by the double doors.

  Moments passed before Euphemie came rushing into the room. As always, she was elegantly dressed in silk and brocade. Her auburn hair was perfectly coiffed with braids twisting around her scalp, the rest cascading down her back in a river of curls.

  “Keevah,” she said as she rushed to pull her in for a warm embrace. “Thank God ye are here.” Immediately, she began pulling her toward the stairs. “She is nae long for this world, Keevah. I think she has been holdin’ on just for ye.”

  Tears stung at her eyes, but she refused to
free them. “Where is Brigid?”

  “Asleep in Mava’s room,” she replied. “Dunnae worry over it. Mava is our new cook and housekeeper. She has a room next to the kitchens. Away from everyone.”

  Relieved the child was in someone’s good care, she followed Euphemie up the stairs. “I put her in my room,” she said as she led the way down the dimly lit hallway. “Shareen is with her now.”

  They paused outside the door to Euphemie’s room. Euphemie hugged her once again and stepped aside. “Call for me if ye need me lass.” She patted her hand and disappeared into the shadows.

  Keevah took in a deep, steadying breath before slowly opening the bedchamber door. The soft light from the hallway spilled in, washing over the bed on the opposite side of the room. The only other light coming from the low-burning fire in the brazier and one lonely beeswax candle that sat on the bedside table. Globs of wax had dripped over the holder and pooled on the tabletop.

  There, in the large bed, bathed in half-light, was her friend, Kieren. Barely recognizable now her face covered in dark bruises that were visible even at this distance. Keevah rushed to her side, fell to her knees as she took her hand. “I am here, dear sister. I am here.”

  Kienan’s once beautiful, bright blue eyes were half swollen from the beating her husband had given her. Lips that at one time in her life were so easy to curve into a warm, beaming smile, were now cut and protruding macabrely. With gentle fingertips, Keevah lightly brushed the blond curls away from her forehead only to find a large, bulging cut that someone had stitched back together. Her delicate alabaster skin had turned purple in so many places. Lord above! She has been here for days. What must she have looked like when she arrived?

  Tears pooled in Keevah’s eyes, her words catching on the knot of grief in her throat. “Kieren, ’tis me, Keevah.” Gently, she squeezed her friend’s hands in hers and clutched them against her heart.