by Amy Tolnitch
It didn’t work. Even if she’d not given him anything, he would still feel bound to lend aid, if nothing else to protect his clan.
Life was a hell of a lot simpler in his former stone cottage where he had only himself and Cai to care about.
Magnus flung the door open and stepped in. “Padruig, we have visitors.” His eyes gleamed and he looked as if he were on the verge of laughter.
“Who?”
“A most interesting man who claims he knows you. Gifford is his name.”
Padruig smiled. “Ah, yes.”
“He brings three wagons piled high—” Magnus broke off and stared at the table. “What …” he said, pointing.
Well, how was he to explain this? Padruig wondered.
“My God, this is incredible,” Magnus said, walking over to look more closely at the jumble of coins and gems. “Where did these come from?”
Queen Sebilla’s words rang through Padruig’s mind. I must ask that all of what I share with you will stay between us. “I … I found it completely by accident. I was in one of the lower storerooms and tripped against the wall. A stone loosened and I found the pouch.”
Magnus tore his gaze from the table long enough to give Padruig a look that said he didn’t believe a word of Padruig’s explanation. “How fortuitous,” he remarked.
“Aye.” He returned the treasure to the pouch and tucked it inside his tunic once more. “Let us see what Gifford brings.”
Aimili followed shouts into the bailey. A man with white hair sticking up from his head, wearing a mail hauberk clearly made for a much larger man, and possessing the most engaging green eyes she’d ever seen, stood waving his arms and shouting directions to a band of castle folk clustered around three large wagons.
“Who is that?” Freya asked her.
“I have no idea.”
“Aimili, look,” Freya said, pointing to a man unloading a large bolt of cloth. Before Aimili had time to answer, Freya was off, like a hawk spotting prey.
“You there,” the man called to a guard. “Tell the laird I’ve come from Lady Giselle.”
At the mention of the woman’s name, Aimili halted in midstep, taking time to look over the man’s companions. No women accompanied him, much to Aimili’s relief. When she neared him, he halted his instructions and fixed her with an engaging grin.
“Ah, I should have known that Scots devil would have a beautiful woman about,” he said.
Aimili blinked and glanced toward Freya, who now clutched the cloth to her chest like long-lost treasure. The man followed her gaze.
“I am corrected. Two beautiful women.” He took her hand. “I am Gifford.”
“Aimili.”
Freya came to stand beside her. “Aimili is our lady.”
Gifford’s eyes widened. “Padruig wed?”
“Aye.”
“Hah! Good for him, the lucky bastard. And who might you be, my lady?” he asked, smiling at Freya.
“I am Freya, Padruig’s sister.”
“Well, well. And where is that boy?”
“Welcome, Gifford,” Padruig said, as he approached and clapped the other man on the shoulder.
“Padruig.” Gifford waved a hand toward the wagons. “I’ve brought provisions, as well as Giselle and Piers’s good wishes.”
“My thanks. How do they fare?”
“Quite well. Giselle, bless her ever-patient soul, delivered to my nephew the sweetest little girl you have ever seen.”
Relief, and a fair bit of envy, spilled though Aimili. So, the Lady Giselle was wed. Well, that was something at least.
“That is good tidings, indeed,” Padruig said. His gaze flickered to Aimili. “This is—”
“Your lovely wife, aye. We have already met. Now, let us adjourn to the hall. I badly erred and ran out of ale hours ago.” He said the last as if it were nothing short of a travesty.
Aimili laughed and took his arm. “Come with me, my lord. Freya and I shall see to your comfort.”
“Bless you, my lady,” Gifford said, patting her hand with his. “You are a woman not only of beauty, but also rare grace.”
“I shall join you after I see to the wagons,” Padruig said.
“Worry not, Padruig. I shall entertain your ladies,” Gifford said. He marched toward the hall with Aimili and Freya in tow.
After they’d settled on stools before the fire and a helpful boy had extricated Gifford from his hauberk, Gifford drank his second cup of ale and fixed Aimili with a curious look. “So, Aimili, tell me how you came to be the Lady of Castle MacCoinneach?”
“Padruig needed my father’s aid to oust the former Laird of the MacCoinneachs. I was the price.”
“A fine bargain for Padruig.”
She managed to give him a thin smile.
“You know, when Padruig was at Falcon’s Craig, he was a most intriguing puzzle. No one knew from whence he hailed, nor why he lived without kin.”
“How did he come to visit Falcon’s Craig?”
Gifford’s eyes brightened. “Ah, now there is a story. I have two nephews. Cain, the Earl of Hawksdown, and Piers, his younger brother. Both of them stubborn simpkins when it came to women. Fortunately for them, they had me to guide them.”
Freya giggled.
“Cain managed to snare his bride first, with no small amount of effort on my part. Then, one day Giselle appeared.” He filled his cup, shaking his head. “Fresh from the nunnery she was, and Piers just as fresh from a woman’s bed.”
Aimili blinked.
“It did not seem a good match in the beginning, but I always knew there was more to Giselle than initially appeared. Piers, of course, failed to sense this.” Gifford took a deep drink. “I did mention he was a simpkin when it came to women?”
“Aye.”
He nodded. “Well, ’tis a long story, but along their path to wedded bliss, Giselle ran away from Falcon’s Craig.”
“Alone?”
“Aye. Foolish, but there you were. The poor girl knew nothing of the world. I immediately set off to find her.”
“What of Piers?”
“Oh, he came along. In any event, it turned out that Giselle was most fortunate. When a group of ruffians came upon her, Padruig stepped into the fray and saved our Giselle. We all owe him a great debt, which we are happy now to partially repay.”
“And we thank you.”
“My pleasure. We knew something momentous was to befall Padruig though.” He beamed a smile at Aimili. “Giselle will be most pleased to learn Padruig has taken a bride.”
Aimili’s heart lifted a bit.
“I suppose becoming laird once again and wedding a beautiful lass was what that,” Gifford put down his cup and looked carefully around the hall, “ghost meant.”
“Ghost?” Freya squeaked.
“Aye. I take it you have not seen her?”
Freya looked at Aimili, who shook her head. “Uh, no.”
“Good. Cannot abide them myself.” He filled his cup once again, and Aimili wondered how he managed to drink so much without exhibiting any effects at all. “Ah, Padruig, there you are,” Gifford said, raising his cup. “Join us.”
“Thank you for delivering the provisions, Gifford,” Padruig said as he pulled a stool over. Magnus slid in next to Freya.
“Wouldn’t have missed the adventure. Asides, I will stop to see my grand-niece at Tunvegan.”
“Where is Saraid?”
Gifford sighed. “Wanted to stay with Amice, who is set to give birth any time. My wife,” he said to Aimili. “And my heart.”
Aimili sipped wine, averting her gaze from Padruig.
“The ladies tell me your ghost is gone,” Gifford said.
To Aimili’s shock, Padruig stiffened. Obviously, he knew exactly what Gifford was talking about. When he exchanged a look with Magnus, she realized that he knew of the spirit, as well. “Who is she?” Aimili asked.
Before Padruig spoke, Aimili could see from his expression that he was not going to be truthful.
“I dinnae ken. She only appeared to me once at Falcon’s Craig.”
Magnus looked down at the floor.
“Odd,” Gifford said. “I have not known them to be so quickly obliging.”
“Have you much experience with … ghosts?” Surely the day could not become more bizarre, Aimili thought.
“More than I would like. ’Tis another story, I fear. Now, I would hear tell of affairs here.”
Padruig shrugged. “As you know, another man ruled as laird after I left. His mismanagement and a host of misfortunes left the clan very short of stores. I had no choice but to send to Giselle.”
“And she is pleased that you did.” Gifford’s gaze narrowed and he looked from Padruig to Aimili and back again.
He knows, Aimili thought. He sees that Padruig would hardly describe me as “his heart.”
“I would rest afore supper if you have a place to spare,” Gifford told Padruig.
“Of course.”
Aimili stood. “I shall see him to the northeast tower chamber.”
Gifford grabbed up the jug of ale and gave her a bow. “Lead on, my lady.”
She left the hall without looking at Padruig.
As soon as they were outside, Gifford said, “Another simpkin, ’eh?”
“Aye.”
“’Tis a good thing I am here.” Gifford puffed out his chest and took Aimili’s arm. “I cannot understand what is amiss with men these days. When I found my beloved Saraid, I did not hesitate to tell her of my feelings.”
“Padruig is a complicated man.”
Gifford snorted. “Love is not complicated unless one makes it so.”
Truthfully, Aimili had never thought so before, either, but now, well, now everything seemed complicated, not the least of which was her own mixed feelings for her husband.
“Padruig was always a secretive man. Even Giselle, who knew him best, did not know he was really a laird, though a fallen one apparently.”
“There was a tragedy,” Aimili told him as they entered a side tower. “Padruig’s sister died and he blames himself for it.”
“Ah. Guilt. ’Tis a terrible burden to carry.”
“Here you are,” she said, motioning into a chamber. “I will have someone bring a brazier to warm the room.”
“Thank you.” He took her hands and gazed intently into her eyes. “I can tell that you are a special lady, and I have great respect for Padruig. ’Twill all work out, you shall see.”
Aimili tried to smile but failed.
He winked. “But perhaps now that I am here, I can help things along a bit.”
Her lips quirked. “Perhaps you can.” Something about Gifford was so direct, so confident, that Aimili allowed herself the tiniest kernel of hope.
The more Aimili thought about the circumstances of Brona’s death, the more she became convinced that the story was flawed. For one, she believed Madeleine MacVegan. If Symund MacVegan had not killed Brona, the question was, who had? Her love, Malcolm? That made no sense, either. Brona had made it clear he was her choice.
Knowing Padruig would not discuss the matter, she decided to seek out Magnus. After over an hour of searching for him, she found Magnus and Alasdair huddled in close conversation with an old man Aimili did not recognize.
When the men spotted her, they fell silent. Magnus pressed a hand to the old man’s shoulder and handed him a basket of food. “Thank you, Art.”
The old man nodded and with a brief glance at Aimili, shuffled away.
“I want to talk to you about the day Brona was killed,” Aimili said.
Alasdair’s brows rose nearly to his hair.
“Why would you wish to think of such a bloody, dark day, my lady?” Magnus asked. “’Tis not a matter to concern a new bride.”
“Do not patronize me,” she snapped. “I get enough of that from your laird.”
For a moment, Magnus looked stunned, then he smiled. “My apologies, my lady. Clearly, some of Padruig’s loutish behavior has infected me.”
“I do not believe it happened as people have said.”
Magnus and Alasdair glanced at each other.
“Neither do you,” she guessed.
“My lady—”
“No,” Alasdair said, cutting off Magnus. “We have too many unanswered questions.”
“That day … Padruig cannot forgive himself.”
“Please sit,” Magnus said, gesturing to a bench just inside the garden. He sat beside her. “Unfortunately, I agree. Padruig will not allow himself to live with the weight of Brona’s death hanging over him.”
“’Tis why Magnus and I have begun looking into the matter,” Alasdair told her.
“Symund did not kill Brona.”
“Why would you say that, my lady?”
“Call me Aimili, please.” She looked between the two men, considering how much to tell them. “I met Madeleine MacVegan. Symund’s sister.”
Magnus’s eyes flared with concern. “You encountered a MacVegan? Where?”
“At the market. That is why you could not find me.”
“My lady, Aimili, I am beginning to understand why Padruig despairs of keeping you safe.”
She rolled her eyes. “I was in no danger. Madeleine simply wished to speak with me.”
“And?”
“She did and quite convincingly. Madeleine swore Symund would never have deliberately hurt Brona.”
“Well, of course, she would say that. Nevertheless, we found Symund holding a dagger dripping with Brona’s blood. ’Twas a horrible sight for all of us, but particularly for Padruig.”
“Who reacted as any loving brother would. Still, what if the dagger did not belong to Symund?”
“She has a point, Magnus,” Alasdair said. “In the aftermath of the battle, we never recovered the dagger.”
“I do not know. The look on Symund’s face …”
Aimili shook her head. “Could it have simply been pain? Madeleine and Symund were twins, best friends. She said that she felt his anguish upon finding Brona dead. I was skeptical at first, too, but in the end I believed her.”
Magnus stood and paced a few steps. “I do not like this.”
“No.” Alasdair frowned. “’Tis becoming clearer that someone was behind the events that day.”
“Who was the man I saw you speaking to?” Aimili asked.
“Art, from the village. He remembers seeing a rider racing toward the MacVegan holdings that day.”
“Who?”
“He could not say.”
Could Vardon have been behind this? Aimili wondered, remembering her suspicions about Freya’s fall. Fear took root in her belly, the kind of fear that was paralyzing in its intensity. Until this moment, she’d not really understood how far Vardon would go, how scheming he could be. Freya could have been killed by her fall. Brona, her lover, and Symund MacVegan had died, along with numerous members of the MacCoinneach and MacVegan clans. And Padruig had been left a haunted shell of himself, tortured by guilt and failure.
“We think whoever caused this tragedy is still here,” Alasdair said softly. “Perhaps he is even the man who attacked you.”
“You must be very watchful, my lady,” Magnus added.
Aimili fought down hysteria. They truly had no idea what, or who they faced, and she could not enlighten them without betraying Queen Sebilla’s trust. “Who could it be?”
“We are no sure yet. We are compiling a list of men there that day.”
“If what we suspect is true, this person’s ire is ultimately aimed at Padruig,” she said slowly.
“Aye. That is our fear, as well.”
“We must stop him, Aimili said.”
“First, we must determine who he is.”
Aimili thought over the many clan members she’d met since arriving at Castle MacCoinneach. No one stood out as particularly discontented or unusually resentful of Padruig or of her arrival. She frowned. Vardon was obviously a master of disguise. She sensed his dangerous presence, as did some of
the horses. D’Ary said he felt his stench, but none of them had any idea of the mask behind which Vardon hid his evil.
“We shall find him out,” Magnus tried to reassure her. “He is a traitor to the clan and shall be dealt with as such.”
“He tried to kill me once,” Aimili reminded them, stamping down the terror of that day. Vardon had not only wanted her dead, but he’d also wanted the dagger she now kept with her constantly. “He thinks to strike at Padruig through me.” Even though Padruig didn’t want her as his wife, Aimili knew her murder would be a terrible blow to his honor, be viewed as another failure.
“He may try again. ’Tis why I pray you be more prudent in your actions,” Magnus said.
Perhaps it was the effect of too many shocks in one day, but a strange sort of calm settled over Aimili. “Why not give him the chance?”
“No,” Magnus said. “Are you mad? Padruig would … by the saints, I cannot even imagine the depth of his rage should we do such a foolish thing!”
Aimili stood and put her hand on his arm. “Listen to me, Magnus. Someone’s hand of malice threatens us all. As long as we do not know who, I am not the only one in peril. What of Freya?”
Magnus paled.
“Let us set a trap for that bastard,” she said. I fought him off once. I can do so again, she told herself. And with Magnus and Alasdair’s aid, tear off his mask.
Alasdair blew out a breath, clearly torn. “My lady, I cannot decide if you are incredibly brave or incredibly reckless.”
“A bit of both I think.”
Padruig stood at Brona’s grave, his mind filled with memories of his sister. Brona had approached each day with an almost childlike anticipation. Unfailingly kind, endlessly trusting, Brona had never expected anything but the best from people.
Images assailed him. Sparkling blue eyes, the joyful sound of her laugh, the air of confidence and enthusiasm she’d brought to every task.
Other images invaded, pushing out the happy ones. Her sightless eyes, her favorite violet bliaut stained red, and perhaps the most heartbreaking of all, her delicate hand even in death reaching for Malcolm.