‘I canna do that, Laird.’ Connor’s expression grew grave. ‘He fought bravely, but he was badly injured. He canna leave his bed.’
Ewan was on his feet before Connor had finished speaking. ‘Take me to him.’
Both Connor and Marguerite stood. Ewan took her by the shoulders and pressed gently to make her sit, but she resisted.
‘Let me come with you.’
‘This is Lochmore business,’ he said. ‘You should stay here and rest. You can use the bed in the adjoining room.’
‘I don’t need to rest.’ Her face took on the determined look he had discovered there was no arguing with. Ewan cocked his head and she followed him back down the staircase to the lower floor where the servants lived. If she wanted to wear herself out climbing up and down staircases he would not stop her.
‘Pardon my presumption, but I took the liberty of putting him in the guest chamber rather than in the servants’ hall. We’re doing what we can to ease his suffering,’ Connor explained. ‘I would never have presumed if you had been here.’
Ewan felt the guilt rear up again. He would have been here if he had not tarried with Marguerite. He’d neglected his responsibilities far too long.
‘I’d have instructed you to do the same,’ he reassured Connor.
Looking gratified, Connor led Ewan into a chamber that was stiflingly hot as a fire burned in the grate and gave the room its only light. The small windows were covered with screens to keep out the noxious airs and midges and the room smelled strongly of blood and bodies. Ewan tugged at his brat and saw Marguerite loosen her airsaid.
Connor’s generous nature had only extended as far as Angus using the room, not the heavily curtained tester bed. He lay on a truckle bed in front of the fire, swathed in blankets from the waist down. From the waist up he was covered in a light linen sheet.
‘Angus? Can you hear me?’ Ewan stood at the end of the bed, appalled at how pale and frail Angus looked.
‘Ewan? You’ve come home?’ He craned his head and tried to sit, but doing this brought forth a great wheezing cough and he lay back. ‘I tried to stop them, but I couldna.’
The old man was practically weeping, his already lined face creased into deeper valleys. Ewan squatted by the bed and stared in horror at what he saw. The bruising round Angus’s jaw and eyes was testament to the truth of his words and he could barely open his eyes. Ewan drew the sheet back and inhaled sharply. A gaping cut ran from Angus’s ribs to collarbone. If it had been the other side, his heart would have been pierced and from the red taint on his lips Ewan suspected he was bleeding inside.
A bowl of water stood on a low table. Marguerite wrung out a square of linen and began to wipe it over his wound. Ewan reached for her hand.
‘You don’t have to do this.’
‘He has a fever and should be kept cool. It is too hot in here. I nursed my mother when she was ill. I know what to do. Let me pay back the kindness you have shown me.’
Ewan sucked his teeth, thinking that Angus had not been particularly kind towards her. ‘If I told you not to, would you obey?’
She smiled ruefully. ‘Probably not.’
‘Is that the lass?’ Angus mumbled. ‘You’ve not found your way home yet?’
‘Did Duncan do this to you?’ Marguerite asked, her voice a sad whisper. ‘I’m sorry for bringing so much trouble on to you all.’
‘It wasna Duncan,’ Angus wheezed. ‘This was Donald McCrieff and his men. They were lying in wait for the cart. For you, Ewan. He didna know we had separated. When the servants opened the gate to let the cart in they ambushed us and breached the wall.’ Angus coughed and wiped his hand weakly across his mouth leaving a streak of blood. He frowned. ‘Jamie dragged me away from them before I could teach the curs a lesson. We failed you, Laird.’
Ewan looked at Angus’s face. He looked older than Ewan recalled seeing him before and Ewan could understand the humiliation he was feeling.
‘You didn’t fail me. You drove them back and kept them from entering the inner courtyard itself. If they had done that, then Lochmore Castle would have been lost.’
Raids weren’t unexpected, as he’d tried to explain to Marguerite. This was different, however. To encroach so deep into Lochmore territory and strike at the home of the Laird himself would not be settled easily or forgotten quickly. If it had been Duncan the attack would make sense, but there seemed no reason behind this.
‘They didna care about the keep.’ Angus coughed. His face grew even more drawn.
Ewan frowned. ‘What, then?’
The granary and storerooms inside the castle wall were full from the harvest, but there was nothing worth inciting a clan feud over. Had he been right all along in suspecting Marguerite was the target? A cousin would defend clan honour, after all. He would do the same in in Donald’s place. He felt a chill creep over his back and glanced at Marguerite. Her head was bent over Angus and she was methodically cleaning his wound with a quiet determination and calm he admired. Once again she was proving herself more capable than he had given her credit for.
‘You don’t know? Did Connor not explain?’ Angus said with a wheezing moan that became a cough.
‘He told me nothing,’ Ewan said, exasperation mounting so that he almost shouted at the injured man. Marguerite put a hand on his sleeve, frowning and rolling her eyes towards Angus disapprovingly. Ewan drew in his frustration.
‘Tell me.’
Angus grasped at Ewan’s collar with a weak grip. ‘It was the chapel. You must see for yourself.’
Desecrating a holy place? It made even less sense than anything Ewan could have imagined. He climbed to his feet and rushed to the door, calling for Connor. He had expected Marguerite to follow him, but she had not left Angus’s side.
‘I will stay for him. I can be useful here.’ She dropped the linen and walked to Ewan’s side. ‘Ewan, I have seen fevers before and I do not think it is good. I will do everything I can to ease his suffering.’
‘Thank you.’ He found her fingers and squeezed gently, delighting in the way she inclined her head and half-closed her eyes at his touch.
The servant appeared at the door.
‘Please bring fresh linens, more water,’ she said with the authority of a queen.
They looked to Ewan, wondering whether to obey.
‘Do as she bids you,’ he told them.
As he left he heard her ordering the servants in a crisp voice to bring warm broth and be quick about it. He wondered what they made of this strange, small woman with the deep voice and unfamiliar accent that curled around their ears. He was still not sure what he made of her himself.
* * *
The bitter, salty air was a slap to his face after the overpowering heat of Angus’s sickroom. It was all Ewan could do not to break into a run in his haste to discover what had happened. The chapel was in the outer courtyard, set close to the wall beyond the granary, and as soon as the inner gate was opened a crack he strode with Connor barely keeping pace. Ewan pushed the door open, heart thumping. By the light of the lanterns they both carried he could see signs of a disturbance. Pews had been overturned and righted haphazardly. There was large gouge in the door. The glass in the window behind the altar had been smashed and the altar cloth was crooked.
‘Down there,’ Connor said, indicating the spiral staircase that led down to the crypt beneath the chapel.
Ewan hesitated on the first turn of the step. His hair stood on end as the smell of dust and damp filled his nostrils, bringing back memories of his childhood. Hamish had insisted that both Ewan and John visited, accompanying them with tales of heroes long dead, to be reminded how a Lochmore chief should be fierce and fearless in battle. Ewan had always hated this place with the carved effigies of past Lairds staring sightlessly from their resting places atop their tombs.
Grief welled in him that Hamish would not r
est among his kin and Ewan vowed there and then that neither would he. He would build a new chapel and new crypt for when his time came.
He descended into the darkness of the crypt. He knew their names from memory and spoke them as he passed by their graves. His grandfather and namesake, Ewan—the most recent Lochmore lay in the closest alcove to the staircase along with his wife, Morag. Beyond them, Camron and his twin brother, Colban, who had died together at Nesbit Moor, Seyton and Joan from a century before that, and at the far end the great Laird Rory and...his...
Ewan took a step forward, then dropped to his knees with a wordless bellow of anger that echoed around the silent vault. The lantern fell from his hand, plunging him into darkness. The chill of perspiration washed over his body and panic fought with fury over which would dominate his mind. It was only a brief moment before Connor followed, casting light on to the carved figures, giving them an eerie life as light and shadows played over their forms. Ewan looked again at Rory’s tomb, hoping in vain he had been mistaken in what he thought he saw, but nothing had changed. The lid with its stone knight had been dragged from the top and lay shattered into two pieces on the stone floor.
The tomb of Rory Lochmore was open.
Ewan pushed himself to his feet and staggered to the lidless stone coffin. He already knew what to expect and his fears were confirmed when he saw the empty place where Rory had rested for over two centuries. He ran his fingers over the letters that named the occupant of the tomb. They were worn by time and would be practically illegible to unfamiliar eyes. Now only dust remained where the body had lain. An iron crow had been abandoned on the floor beside the two pieces of stone, its function complete. Ewan reached for it, feeling his fingers tightening around the cold iron bar.
‘They only took him.’ His voice sounded unnaturally calm considering the rage and confusion that boiled in his belly. ‘They left her there. Why?’
‘I don’t know,’ Connor said. ‘Everything was confusion when the McCrieffs broke through the gate. We were all so intent on protecting the inner gate that we realised too late five men had come down here. Angus discovered them leaving. He challenged them, but I don’t know what passed between them. He fought fiercely, but as you’ve seen...’
Connor spread his hands wide, shaking his head in sorrow.
Ewan leaned against Ailsa’s tomb. Her hands were crossed over her breast and between them, in a slight indentation, lay a brooch. He had never paid too much attention to it, but now he picked it up, running his fingers over the unusual design of thrift flowers, crossed swords and initials R and A. There were no jewels and the metal was not rare.
‘They took his brooch, but left hers. It makes no sense.’
He placed it back carefully between her waiting hands. The stone woman’s eyes appeared to gaze at Ewan, but in supplication or judgement he could not say. Where was her husband now and why had he been stolen from her?
‘We should put the lid back,’ Connor said.
‘No!’ The blood pounded in Ewan’s temples and his stomach threatened to empty itself. ‘Not until Rory sleeps there once more.’
He could not say how long he stood at the tomb, but when Ewan took his hands from the stone they were cold and aching from gripping tight. He thought his energy had been spent, but when he crossed the courtyard a surge of rage coursed through him. He had no idea what time it was, but the horizon was turning grey and the glow of campfires beyond the outer wall had died down.
‘If we rushed them now, we could drive them off,’ he snarled, striding forward.
Connor seized his arm. ‘Not enough men.’
Ewan ground his teeth, knowing his steward was right. Already men had died protecting Lochmore Castle. He could not send the handful of servants and workmen to their deaths needlessly.
‘Tomorrow I’ll speak to Angus,’ he said, thinking that tomorrow was almost today. ‘Now I need to rest.’
* * *
Ewan was halfway to his bedchamber when he remembered Marguerite. He crept to Angus’s room. Angus was sleeping fitfully and Marguerite was stretched out beside his bed, asleep on the floor with one hand still clutching a damp linen cloth. Ewan tugged it from her hand and she mumbled under her breath.
His eyes stung, remembering he had promised a bed. He lifted her with ease, cradling her to him. As he laid her on the bed she opened her eyes blearily and put her arms around his neck. He suddenly could not bear to be alone with the thoughts that haunted him so he clambered on to the bed beside her. She rolled over to face away from him. He did not expect to sleep, but lay awake until the sun came up, his head too full of questions and fears.
* * *
He did sleep. Only briefly, but long enough to have rolled over and wrapped his arms around Marguerite. She was fast asleep, her back curled against his chest. The temptation was great to stay holding her while he still had the opportunity, but Angus appeared to be awake. He slipped from the bed.
‘Hamish?’
‘It’s Ewan.’
Ewan bathed the old man’s face as Marguerite had done, hardly able to bear the sight of the once-vibrant man reduced to weakness. When Angus died that would be the last link to Hamish and Ewan would be truly alone.
‘I saw the crypt last night. Connor says you saw the raiders. What happened?’
‘They told me you...’ Angus was mumbling. He sounded tired and confused. The fever was growing on him. ‘No right to possess.’
‘I have no right?’ Ewan’s shoulders stiffened and despite himself he raised his voice. ‘I!’
This was what Ewan feared. Condemnation from his clan as unworthy, but, even worse, from the other clans.
‘No, Lochmores. No right,’ Angus gasped. His hand became a fist, flailing.
‘Tell me why!’ Ewan’s voice grew harder. ‘I need to understand.’
‘Leave him alone!’
The protest came from Marguerite. Ewan had not realised she was awake. Her eyes were black with shadows and brimming with fury. They lit for a brief moment as they met Ewan’s, then hardened as she swung her legs over the bed. ‘Can’t you see he’s ill?’
Ewan cringed as the reproach added to his mounting guilt at accosting Angus, but his need to understand the invasion was too strong to ignore.
‘Don’t interfere, Maggie!’ Ewan stood over Angus’s bed, dismissing her. ‘Angus, try to remember. I need to know. The brooch was old and worth nothing, and Rory...’
‘Setting old wrongs,’ Angus whispered.
‘I told you to leave him be!’ Marguerite snapped. She crossed the room and stood between Angus and Ewan, arms folded. ‘What has happened that is so bad it means you hound an injured man?’ she demanded. ‘Something was stolen? How can it be worth more than his peace?’
‘More than a brooch was stolen.’ Ewan’s jaw clenched as the empty tomb and fractured effigy swam before his eyes. ‘They’ve desecrated a tomb and stolen my ancestor.’
Marguerite’s mouth became a circle of horror. She clutched his forearm. ‘Why would they do something so atrocious?’
The muscles tightened beneath her fingers and he became acutely aware of her touch. ‘That is what I’m trying to discover and what you are preventing me finding out.’
Marguerite bit her lip guiltily, understanding his urgency. She glanced at Angus, who was lying mutely, eyes closed. She tugged Ewan’s arm and he let himself be led out of earshot.
‘What?’
‘When my mother...’ She blinked away tears that made Ewan weak with the yearning to wipe them and erase her pain. She took a deep breath, starting again.
‘His fever would not cool, however I tried, and that wound is so large. Ewan, I think he is dying. Last night he thought he was a young man again, swimming in the loch with Hamish.’
Ewan’s stomach twisted with grief at the mention of his father and the anger softened slightly.
‘He wept for Hamish,’ Marguerite continued. ‘Be kinder to him now.’
She stood before him, small and defiant, and Ewan finally gave name to the emotion that had grown from a seed to an oak—not to her—he could never do that, but to himself.
He loved her.
Ewan nodded. Marguerite returned to the bed and began to bathe Angus’s burning forehead.
‘Do you know why they took the body of...?’ She glanced at Ewan.
‘Rory,’ he said, kneeling by her side and giving her a slight, weary smile.
‘He disnae... They were...’ Angus gazed at them from his least swollen eye.
Ewan shook his head, mystified and agitated beyond comprehension but doing his best to contain the emotions that were intolerable.
Angus gave Ewan a long, even look, focusing briefly. ‘Hamish died before his time.’
‘That’s not an answer.’ Ewan spoke evenly. The pulse in his throat began to speed up. His patience was wearing thin, but he was mastering it. Marguerite reached for his hand and squeezed it. He didn’t take his eyes from Angus, but pressed his thumb in her palm in acknowledgement.
Marguerite held a water-soaked linen to Angus’s lips. He sucked thirstily.
‘Do you know what Ewan speaks of?’ she coaxed.
‘John was heir. Knowledge for Chief alone.’ Angus’s eyes rolled towards Marguerite and back to Ewan. ‘Father to son.’
‘But not me because I was never meant to be laird.’ Ewan sighed. ‘He was closest to you. Did he tell you anything?’
Marguerite gave Angus a drink of water, most of which trickled down his neck.
‘Once he was taken with drink. When we were young...’
‘Tell me,’ Ewan urged.
Angus closed his eyes. Ewan called his name sharply.
‘Not now,’ Marguerite said. She put her fingers on his lips, firm and warm. Desire rocked him.
‘You must have other matters to attend to. Or you should rest yourself.’ She didn’t know he had slept beside her. ‘Let Angus sleep. I’ll stay in case he says anything else.’
A Runaway Bride for the Highlander Page 20