by Gwyn Brodie
A sense of foreboding enveloped Drostan like the surrounding fog as he rode in silence, as did the others, scouring the ground for any sign of the dead woman—another victim of the same killer, he was certain.
"Over here," Ailig shouted from the edge of the wood.
When they reached Ailig, Robbie cried out, "Please, God, nay!" He jumped off his horse and fell to his knees beside the dead girl. "'Tis Mary." His voice was raw with anguish. "When I find the bastard who did this, I'll kill him with my bare hands." Robbie's dark eyes flashed between anger and pain.
Drostan dismounted and swallowed hard. 'Twas clear Mary had been strangled, for the bruises on her neck were in the distinct shape of fingers and stood out clearly against skin as pale as new snowfall. Something caught his eye, and he squatted down beside Robbie for a closer inspection. By the looks of it, the murderer had worn a ring on his right hand that had left a cut on Mary's neck, then Drostan remembered that the McDaniels lass had the same mark on her skin, meaning both had most likely been strangled by the same killer.
Drostan placed his arm around Robbie's shoulders. The devastating expression on his brother's face was enough to make a grown man weep. "I promise you we'll find him." As horrendous as the other murders had been, the last two were especially disturbing as they were personal and close to home. Somewhere out there was a madman. An icy finger crawled up his spine. Who would be his next victim? Isobel's lovely face came to mind, and his heart slammed against his chest. Then he remembered Ailig was back at Willowbrae and breathed a sigh of relief. Hopefully, his brother was awake and had slept off his drink, for there was no doubt that he would protect Isobel with his life if the need arose.
Their father squeezed Robbie's shoulder. "I'm sorry, lad. We'll see the lass back to her family."
"Reach Mary up to me." Robbie climbed astride his horse. Drostan knew his brother was trying hard to keep from breaking, but once he was alone, he would weep his heart out, as any of them would.
Drostan rode up beside Robbie, noting how tenderly he held Mary against his chest. "Something has been ripped from her bodice. See there?"
Robbie nodded. "'Twas the brooch I gave her. She promised she'd not take it off until after we wed." His voice cracked with emotion.
Drostan frowned. Did the murderer always take a reminder of what he had done? At least it appeared he had with the girl at Queensferry, and now, Mary.
Crossing into Cameron lands that joined Mackintosh holdings, he thought about all he knew of the killer. What did the victims have in common? They were all daughters of wealthy lairds. How had the murderer managed to get close enough to the young women, who were always surrounded by clan members and guards, to take their life? Then he recalled how Isobel had gone out riding alone. Perhaps a lot of ladies enjoyed slipping off to experience freedom and did not realize they were risking their lives in the process. If that was not what happened, then the answer was clear—the killer was a man of wealth who fit in perfectly with others of status and means. What else did Drostan know? The knave wore a ring on his right hand—another sign of prosperity.
As they neared Castle Glennag, 'twas evident a search was already underway for Mary, as a great many clansmen and servants were busy scouring the grounds and surrounding wood.
Robbie rode into the bailey with his head held high, as tears dripped from his chin onto Mary's emerald green skirt.
Drostan cursed to himself. If he could take away Robbie's pain, he would. But what he could do was make a promise to Mary and the other victims. I'll find your killer, even if it takes the remainder of my days.
SUPPER WAS UNDERWAY by the time Drostan and the others returned to Willowbrae. He sat down beside Isobel with a heavy heart, but a smile from her instantly lifted his spirits.
"Where's Robbie?" his mother asked, glancing about the great hall.
His father cleared his throat. "My dear, Robbie has gone to his bedchamber."
She frowned. "Why is he not joining us for supper?"
The laird sighed. "Maggie, I'm afraid Lady Mary Cameron was found dead near Sionnach Ridge this morn."
His mother gasped. "Good heavens, what happened to her? She was here only a few days ago."
"Mary was strangled—like the others," Drostan declared, not stating the obvious—that she, like the others, may have also been brutally compromised beforehand, but he had seen no evidence that had happened. Perhaps the bastard had been interrupted and then quickly strangled Mary.
"We returned her body to her family at Glennag," his father told her. "Robbie held her in his arms the entirety of the journey."
"My poor son." Sobbing, she jumped up and left the great hall headed for the stairs. To the lady of the castle, the well-being of her children was of the utmost importance, and always had been.
Isobel wiped a tear on her napkin.
Drostan squeezed her hand, thinking of how he would have felt had it been Isobel instead of Mary, who had lost her life. His chest tightened, and he realized just how much he had come to care for the lass.
"I could not imagine losing my dear Isobel." Lady Fraser wiped at her eyes.
Laird Fraser looked across the table at his daughter. "Promise me, Issie, you'll not leave this castle alone." The unsteadiness in his voice conveyed how much he worried about her safety. "Tis clear Mary had no guards with her outside the walls."
"I promise," she said, and the fear in her eyes told Drostan she meant it.
"Marcus?" Kinkirk said to his son.
"Aye?"
"What happened to your face, lad?"
The younger Anderson touched the scratches on his cheek. "I was struck by a limb while out riding this morn."
"Have a care, son. You could've easily blinded yourself."
"Marcus nodded, and while the rest of the table picked at their meal in silence, he heartily ate every bite of venison stew in his trencher, before filling it a second time.
Drostan's gaze landed on the ring on Marcus's right hand, and his blood turned to ice. That fact, along with the scratches on his face, raised Drostan's suspicions considerably. Could Marcus be the one who had killed all those young women? As a wealthy man of means, he would have had no trouble at all moving about in their circles. If Drostan's hunch were correct, he would need more than scratches and a ring, which was worn by many men of wealth, to know the truth. The undeniable proof of Marcus's deeds was what Drostan needed before he brought his suspicions to light.
Even if he were to be wrong about Marcus being the killer, before he saw Isobel wed to such a heartless and unsympathetic man, he would marry her himself. And he would not mind in the least doing so, for the thought of having Isobel in his bed each night, and waking up with her beside him each morn heated his blood and warmed his soul.
WITH A PLATTER OF FOOD, two cups, and a bottle of whisky from his own collection, Drostan tapped on Robbie's bedchamber to no avail. "Robbie, open the door."
After a long moment, the door opened. "I'm not hungry," Robbie said, his gaze falling on the food.
"You'll be needing a dram, then." Drostan shoved past him and put down the platter, poured two drinks, and reached one to his brother.
Robbie drained the cup, then held it out for more.
Drostan filled it again, hoping it might dull his brother's pain, or at least, help him sleep.
"Much thanks." Robbie took a seat on the bed and sipped on the amber liquid. "I cannae believe Mary is gone. I loved her more than life itself." His eyes were bright with unshed tears.
Drostan sat down on the chair beside the bed. "Naught can be done to bring her back, but perhaps we can keep other young women from meeting the same fate by catching her killer."
Robbie's eyes widened. "Do you have a notion of his identity?"
Drostan shook his head. "Nay, but I do have some thoughts on the matter, but I dinnae wish to say anything just yet." He stood and grasped Robbie's shoulder. "I'll go now; 'tis late. You'll need all your strength and be sound of mind if we're to catch this ma
dman, so you must eat."
He nodded.
Drostan headed across the bedchamber.
"Brother?"
He stopped. "Aye?"
"Thanks."
Drostan nodded, swallowing past the knot in his throat, then stepped out into the corridor and closed the door behind him. Ready for the day to be over, he entered his bedchamber in hopes of finding sleep. Instead, he found Isobel stretched out on his bed deep in slumber.
Once he got over the initial shock of finding her there, he sat down on the edge of the bed and gazed down at her. The moonlight streaming through the window illuminated the softness of her features, the splaying of her dark hair across the pillow, the slight parting of her full lips, and her shapely curves, made evident by the thin fabric of the nightdress. His heart drummed against his chest, for he had not forgotten how she had felt in his arms that night in the kitchen. He wanted naught more than to lie down beside Isobel and hold her until the first light of morning filled the room with its glory. Instead, he leaned over and gently kissed her cheek.
Isobel stirred, then her eyes fluttered open. She looked up at Drostan and smiled.
His throat tightened. "What are you doing in here, lass?" he whispered.
"I couldnae stop thinking about poor Mary and needed to see you. I knocked, but you didnae answer. I heard someone coming, opened the door, and hurried inside. Were you with Robbie?"
"Aye."
"I couldnae imagine losing someone I loved. I couldnae imagine losing you."
"Are you saying that you love me?" His breath froze in his chest as he waited for her to answer.
"Aye," she whispered. "I am."
Drostan's heart shattered into a million pieces. No longer could he lie to himself—he was in love with Isobel. He took her face in his hands. "I love you, as well, lass," he declared, listening to words fall from his lips he never thought he would hear.
"You dinnae have to say that, Drostan. I'm a woman full-grown and can well bear the truth."
He chuckled. "'I'm afraid, 'tis true. You've stolen my heart."
Her eyes glistened with tears. "Well, then, we're in quite a predicament, with my father about to betroth me to Marcus."
He frowned and vehemently shook his head. "That'll not happen, lass. I swear it." First thing in the morn, he would speak with his father again and prayed he had somehow been able to change Laird Fraser's mind. And if not, there was the other option.
THE FOLLOWING DAY, the morning's blue sky had turned to a dark grey by the time Isobel caught her father alone in the bailey. That in itself had been no easy task, as one or the other of the Anderson men was always hovering about him like some irksome fly. As she made her way toward him, a strong wind lashed at her clothing and whipped her loosed hair into a frenzy, stinging her cheeks. "Da, I've a question to ask you," she said, once she reached him.
"What is it, Issie?"
Her heart pounded against her chest. "Do you intend to betroth me to Marcus Anderson?" she blurted out, praying it was not so.
He cleared his throat and nodded. "'Tis the reason Marcus and Kinkirk came with me to Willowbrae."
She suddenly felt ill. Drostan had been right. "Just when did you intend to inform me of the matter?" she asked, folding her arms across her chest defiantly.
"Soon, very soon."
Tears blurred her vision. "The two of them might as well get back on their horses and leave Willowbrae, for I'll not be marrying Marcus. I dinnae love the man; in fact, I can barely tolerate being in the same room with him."
Her father's mouth fell open in surprise, and he glanced about. "Hush, lass. Someone might hear you. I've already promised him your hand in marriage."
"Then, unpromise it." She choked back a sob.
"Daughter, you ken as well as I that I've indulged you greatly during your upbringing. For years you've rejected every suitable match I've encouraged, leaving me no choice but to take matters into my own hands. You refused to choose a husband for yourself, so I chose one for you, which I believe is a good match. I gave my word to Kinkirk, and now you wish me to dishonor myself by going back on my promise?" He shook his head. "If you dinnae follow through with this marriage, Issie, you and I both will be disgraced."
She narrowed her eyes. Something seemed out of sorts. "What's the true reason you wish me to wed Marcus?"
He blew out a breath. "'Tis just as I've said."
"Nay." She shook her head. "You're lying to me, and to my knowledge, you've never lied to me before."
He closed his eyes and exhaled loudly. "A few months ago, while in Edinburgh on business, I drank too much one night and found myself at the gambling table. By the evening's end, I owed Kinkirk quite a large amount of funds."
Never had she known her father to be a gambler and was most surprised by his admission. "Just how much are you indebted to the man?"
He hung his head. "I would have to sell off a sizeable portion of Fraser lands in order to settle it."
Isobel could not believe what she was hearing. "Whose idea was it for me to wed Marcus to settle the debt?"
"'Twas Kinkirk's. Marcus has seen thirty-four summers and has yet to father an heir, even though he's been twice wed. The laird said that if I agreed to wed you to his son, who as your husband would also receive your sizable dowry, it would resolve the debt."
Her throat tight with emotion, she turned and ran into the castle, leaving him to stare after her. Aye, as a child, he had refused her naught, so why was he using her to settle a debt of his own making, then keep it from her? A sob escaped her as she hurried up the stairs to her bedchamber.
DROSTAN FOLLOWED HIS father into the library and closed the door. "Have you spoken with Laird Fraser regarding the betrothal?"
He nodded. "Aye. I informed him in no uncertain terms that Marcus was not the man I'd have as my daughter's husband."
"Did he listen?"
"I dinnae ken. But he did tell me that Isobel had confronted him earlier today and that she had not been at all pleased with the arrangement."
Drostan exhaled loudly. "I'll go find her." He headed for the door.
"Son?"
"Aye?"
"What do you intend on doing if Laird Fraser decides to follow through with the betrothal?"
Drostan grinned. "Why, marry Isobel myself, of course." His father's chuckling followed him out the door.
Outside Isobel's bedchamber, he knocked, and when she did not answer, he knocked again. "Lass?"
The door slowly opened, and in the doorway stood Isobel. Even with her eyes swollen and her nose as red as a ripe strawberry, he found her to be the most enchanting creature he had chanced to encounter in his lifetime.
"I spoke with my father," she said. "He confirmed what you already told me. And there's more. I'm the means of resolving a gambling debt my father owes to Kinkirk."
Drostan frowned. How could a man use his own flesh and blood in such a way? "If 'tis payment he needs, I'm certain that with my father's help, I could come up with the funds." He would do anything to keep her from having to share a bed with that beast. The mere thought of Marcus putting his hands on her bare skin made him sick to his stomach.
She shook her head. "I'm afraid 'tis not so simple as that. Kinkirk wishes for Marcus to father an heir as soon as possible, 'tis the main reason he requested the marriage. Oh, Drostan, what am I to do?" Tears slipped from beneath her long dark lashes, tearing at his heart.
"My father has spoken with Laird Fraser as well. Dry your tears, and let's go and have our supper."
"I've already sent Glena to inform Lady Mackintosh I'd be eating in my room—not that I'm the least bit hungry."
"Dinnae fash so, lass. Give your da until the morrow to ponder what you and my father said, then perhaps he'll change his mind about the betrothal. Besides, a helping of Elspeth's stew always makes me feel better."
Flashing him a wee sad smile, she dried her eyes on her sleeve, came out into the corridor, and closed the door behind her.
Once they stepped off the narrow stairs, he drew her arm through his and escorted her across the great hall to the high table. It appeared they were the last to arrive.
Marcus looked up from his trencher and frowned. "Lady Isobel, I was under the impression you intended to have supper in your bedchamber this evening."
"I changed my mind," she said matter-of-factly, taking a slice of cheese from the platter and biting into it.
Laird Fraser was unusually solemn and hardly ate a thing during the entire meal. Drostan knew the laird loved his daughter, but did he love her enough to not wed her to the whoreson seated down the table?
During supper, Marcus's gaze rarely left Isobel, and his eyes narrowed when she took a bite of buttered bread from Drostan's fingertips. If that displeased him, how unhappy would he be when he learned there would be no marriage?
FROM HER SEAT AT THE high table, Maggie watched the exchange between her son and her best friend's daughter. She had been correct in her belief—Drostan had fallen in love with Isobel. Any other time Maggie would have been immensely pleased by that fact, for she had worked long and hard to find her eldest the perfect wife, but not now. Not since she had learned from Jamie that Laird Fraser planned to proceed with the betrothal of his daughter to Marcus. That obviously placed a substantial obstruction in the way of Drostan having Isobel for himself.
For days she had watched the interactions between them, and the way Marcus glared at Drostan during the daily meals had not gotten past Maggie. She absolutely could not stand that man—not after what he did to her Drostan all those years ago.
Such a smile her son had on his face when he looked at the lass. And neither could keep their hands off the other, fingers entwined beneath the table, sitting close, even when there was room on the bench to spare. Aye, she had seen it all, and her heart soared when she did. Maggie straightened with determination. Drostan would have Isobel—somehow, she would see that he did.