Highland Sinner

by Hannah Howell

  “I fear my friend has kenned far too many women,” Sir Simon responded, “but that only makes him a rutting fool, nay a killer. Let it go, William. If ye continue to speak so, and do so to others, ye will make my job verra hard. Angry people crying out for the blood of an innocent mon means I must divert my time from finding the real killer in order to protect him.”

  Sir William nodded, but still scowled at Sir Tormand. Morainn studied Sir Tormand Murray’s handsome profile and decided the man probably found it very easy to be a rutting fool. Innocent of murder he might be, but Morainn suspected he was steeped in sin in many another way. She felt surprisingly disappointed by that knowledge.

  “Now, allow us to go and see what has been done,” said Sir Simon. “The sooner we do what we must, the sooner ye can attend to Isabella. I am sure ye wish to have her cleaned and readied for burial.”

  “I am nay sure she can be cleaned,” Sir William said in a hoarse, unsteady voice. “She was butchered, Sir Simon. Cut to pieces. Was Lady Clara truly done in a like manner?”

  The look on Sir Simon’s face told Morainn that he did not like how fast word was spreading about these murders. That highborn women were being murdered was enough to stir up anger and fear. That they were being butchered would only make it all worse, bringing those fears to a dangerous height all the more quickly. If Sir William thought as others did, or would, then Sir Tormand Murray was in a great deal of danger. The longer it took to find the killer, the more suspicion would begin to fall upon his shoulders, the more the townspeople would gather together and feed each other’s fear and anger. Morainn knew all too well how dangerous that could be.

  When the men went inside the house, Morainn debated whether to go or stay. So far luck had been with her and no one in the crowd had yet spotted her. When they did, however, she knew she could find herself in a lot of trouble. Someone who was already called a witch should not be caught so close to a place where a woman had been horribly murdered. Yet, curiosity held her in place. Some of that curiosity was of the morbid kind. Morainn wished to know what the men meant when they said Lady Isabella had been butchered. She sighed and waited for the two men to return, promising herself that she would slip away at the first sign of anyone seeing her or recognizing her.

  Tormand looked at what was left of the once beautiful Isabella Redmond and wanted to flee the room. Her thick raven hair had been cut off and was scattered around her body, although he had a strong suspicion that it had not been cut off in this room. If it had been it had probably been done after she was dead. All his instincts told him, however, that it had been brought here along with her body, that a scene had been carefully set. As with Clara, Isabella’s face had been destroyed. The big green eyes Isabella had used so well in tempting men to her bed were in a small bowl on a table by the bed. Her soft, bountiful breasts had been slashed to ribbons. The horrendous wounds were too numerous to count and he wondered how many the poor woman had suffered through before death had freed her of the pain.

  “This is worse,” murmured Simon. “Far worse. Either the killer hated Isabella far more than he hated Clara or he is verra angry that ye escaped his fine trap last time and havenae been hanged yet.”

  “I but pray that so much wasnae done to her because Isabella took too long to die,” said Tormand, as he watched Simon begin to search the room for some sign the killer may have left behind.

  “She was with child.”

  “Ah, Jesu, nay. Nay.”

  “I fear so. I hope William doesnae ken it or that the women who prepare her body dinnae see it and tell him. I think he would become near rabid with grief and rage.”

  “And he will aim it all at me. I willnae ask how ye ken that she was with child.”

  “Best if ye dinnae. Ye are already looking pale.”

  “Do ye think the killer kenned it, that he might have been even more enraged by that?”

  “’Tis possible.” Simon frowned at the floor near the window. “They brought her in through here.”

  Tormand moved to Simon’s side and looked outside. An odd array of barrels and wood were piled against the side of the house forming an unsteady stairway. He could see the droplets of blood leading from the window down to the ground.

  “So we now look for a strong, agile mon.”

  “Strong certainly. He doesnae need to be agile, just lucky.”

  “Do we fetch the hounds again?”

  “In a wee while,” replied Simon. “As soon as Sir William is too busy to see what we are about.”

  “Afraid he will want to join us in the hunt?”

  “Him and most of the other fools gathered in front of this house.”

  Tormand grimaced and nodded. The fools would turn it into a loud, crowded hunt. If the killer were anywhere near at hand, he would be warned in plenty of time to flee the area. It was very doubtful that the killer was still around, but if the man was fool enough to want to watch the reactions to his crime, Tormand did not want a crowd screaming for retribution to make him go into hiding.

  Just as he was about to ask Simon if he had found anything else in the room, he heard the sounds of the crowd outside begin to grow loud. “What do ye think is stirring them up?”

  “I dinnae ken,” replied Simon as he started out of the room, “but I doubt it is good.”

  “Look ye there! Isnae that the Ross witch?”

  Morainn was abruptly pulled from her wandering thoughts about Tormand Murray by that sharp cry. She felt a chill flee down her spine as she slowly turned toward the crowd. She saw Old Ide, the midwife, pointing one dirty, gnarled finger her way and her unease began to change to fear. Old Ide hated her, just as she had hated her mother, for she saw her as competition. Whenever she could, the older woman tried to cause trouble for Morainn. This was not a good time or place to meet with her enemy.

  “What are ye doing here, witch?”

  A soft cry escaped Morainn when Sir William grabbed her by the arm. She inwardly cursed herself as a fool. If she had not been so caught up in her thoughts about Sir Tormand, not all of them particularly chaste, she would have seen Old Ide in the crowd. That would have been enough to make Morainn leave. Ten years ago it had been Ide who had goaded the crowd into turning against Morainn’s mother. Now Morainn was trapped and she doubted any of these people were in the mood to listen to or heed her explanations or their own good sense.

  “I was but caught up in the crowd,” she said, hiding her wince as Sir William tightened his grip.

  “She has come because this is a place of death,” said Old Ide, as she pushed her way to the front of the crowd to glare at Morainn. “Her kind always comes to where there is death. They can smell it, ye ken.”

  “Dinnae be even more of a fool than ye already are,” snapped Morainn.

  “Fool am I? Hah, I say. Hah! I ken what ye are about, witch. Ye have come here to gather up the soul of that poor murdered lassie in there.”

  Morainn was about to tell the woman that she was an idiot when the murmuring of the crowd caught her attention. Several people were actually nodding in agreement with Old Ide’s nonsense. There were not that many, but there were far more than she could ever escape from. If Ide did not shut up, Morainn feared there would soon be even more people ready to heed the woman’s lies. Morainn remembered all too well how easily a crowd could be stirred by Ide’s words into a dangerous mob. Ignoring the threat of Ide’s hatred was what had killed her mother.

  “I was but trying to get home,” she said in what she prayed was a calm, soothing tone of voice.

  “Ye didnae need to stop here. Ye could have slipped around us. But, nay, here ye are, lurking in the shadows. I tell ye,” Ide yelled to the crowd, “she is after gathering that poor woman’s soul.”

  She looked at Sir William, hoping to find an ally, but he was looking at her as though he believed she could do exactly as Old Ide claimed she could. “I am nay a witch and I am nay here to catch souls,” she said.

  “Then why are ye e’en in town?”
he demanded. “They banished ye, didnae they?”

  “They may have tossed me out, Sir William, but nay one of them complains when I come to heal them or spend what little coin I have in their shops.”

  “That still doesnae explain why ye were hiding here, lurking about in the shadows near my home.”

  “And why dinnae ye ask all of them what they are doing here?” She glared at Old Ide. “Aye, why dinnae ye ask why they flock here like corbies, feeding upon your misery?”

  Morainn wished the words back even as she said them. The crowd was incensed by them and that gave Ide a fertile crowd in which to sow her lies and their fears. There would be no help from Sir William, either. That man looked as if he expected her to start changing into some soul-stealing demon at any moment. Even as she fruitlessly tried to break free of the man’s grip, she attempted to reason with him and the crowd. It was obvious, however, that few of them wished to heed reason. Morainn began to fear that she was about to suffer far worse than banishment this time.

  “Silence!”

  The bellow that cut straight through all the noise the crowd made startled Morainn so much that she put her foot back down on the ground instead of kicking Sir William as she had planned to. Sir Simon and Sir Tormand stood on the front steps of the house, their hands on their swords, glaring at the now subdued crowd. Morainn prayed that they were going to prove to be the saviors she desperately needed right now.

  Nodding once he had the silence he had demanded, Sir Simon spoke in a quieter but still very firm voice as he asked, “What is going on out here? Have ye forgotten that this is a house of mourning?”

  “The witch is here, sir,” said Old Ide, pointing at Morainn.

  “Aye,” said a plump, graying woman who stepped up beside Ide. “Ide says that the witch has come to steal the dead lady’s soul.”

  The look on Sir Simon’s face made several of the people in the crowd blush and stare down at their feet. Morainn was glad he was not aiming that look of utter disdain her way. She could not see Sir Tormand’s face as clearly, but the taut line of his fine profile told her that his expression was probably just as condemning.

  “None of ye should heed such superstitious nonsense,” Sir Simon said to the woman and then he looked at Ide. “And ye shouldnae speak it. Nay, nor should ye be stirring up such trouble outside this house. Silence,” he hissed when Ide tried to protest. “Only a fool would spit out such idiocy. Aye, or someone who wishes harm to the one she accuses. Do ye fear to lose your place as midwife here, Ide Bruce?”

  When that question had several people eyeing Old Ide with anger and suspicion, the woman crossed her arms over her ample chest and said no more. Morainn felt Sir William’s grip on her arm ease a little when Sir Simon then looked their way. She glanced up at Sir William and found him flushing beneath Sir Simon’s cold, steely gray gaze.

  “Is this the woman?” asked Sir Simon.

  When Sir William nodded, Sir Simon signaled him to bring her closer. Morainn stumbled a little as the man dragged her over to the steps. One cold look from Sir Simon had Sir William hastily releasing her. She idly rubbed her arm as she looked up at Sir Simon, fighting the urge to look instead at Sir Tormand Murray, the man who had haunted her dreams for far too long.

  “And who are ye, mistress?” Sir Simon asked.

  “’Tis the Ross witch,” said Sir William.

  “This is the woman ye all banished ten years ago?” Sir Simon looked her over and then stared at the crowd. “She would have been nay more than a child and ye tossed her out to fend for herself? That child frightened ye that much, did she?” When most of the crowd was unable to meet his gaze, he nodded and looked at Morainn again. “Your name?”

  “Morainn Ross,” she replied.

  “I dinnae believe what the old woman says.” He smiled faintly when Old Ide gasped in outrage. “For ’tis clear that she tries to rid herself of a rival, but, for the sake of those who are seduced by her lies, tell me why ye are here.”

  “I came to the town to buy some barrels to store the cider and mead I make.” Catching a movement out of the corner of her eye, Morainn looked and saw the cooper trying to slip away. “There is the cooper, sir. He can tell ye that I speak the truth.”

  The cooper stopped and looked at Sir Simon. “Aye, sir, she was doing just that.” He scratched his belly. “Truth is, I was surprised she had come this far on her way back home. Must walk fast.”

  “Mayhap she flew, eh, Ide?” called out one man.

  When the crowd snickered, Morainn felt herself relax, her fear seeping away. It would be wondrous if this confrontation made people ignore the lies Old Ide told about her, but Morainn doubted that would happen. For now, however, she was safe.

  “I tell ye, she is a witch,” snapped Ide, unwilling to give up the battle too quickly.

  “Is she?” asked Sir Tormand, his deep voice cold, with a sharp bite to it. “Has she harmed someone then?” There was a murmur of denial in the crowd. “Lied to ye? Cheated ye? Stolen from ye?” Each question brought another muttered denial. “Ah, but she has healed some of ye, hasnae she?” This time several nods were his answer.

  “But, if she isnae a witch, why was she banished?” asked a young man.

  “I suspicion someone stirred up a crowd with lies and superstition. Once it was done, it couldnae be taken back.” Tormand smiled faintly when the woman called Ide was glared at by nearly everyone in the crowd, revealing that this was not the first time the woman had played this deadly game. He wondered who had suffered then. “Go home. Ye shame yourselves by carrying on like this before this house of mourning and by listening to a jealous old cow’s lies.”

  Morainn stared at Sir Tormand Murray. Her heart told her that he believed all he was saying, that they were not just words spoken to disburse an unruly crowd. She firmly told herself not to allow that to drag her into some foolish infatuation with the man. He was far too high a reach for one like her and his reputation did not offer any woman hope that he would care for her, or be faithful. Her only responsibility was to try to do what she could to make sure he did not hang for crimes he had not committed.

  Tormand watched the crowd meander away and then turned to look at Morainn Ross. He felt his breath catch in his throat as he met her gaze. Wide blue eyes, the color of the sea, stared up at him with surprise and a touch of wariness. Her hair was as black as any he had ever seen, tumbling to her waist in long thick waves. It was impossible to get a good look at her figure beneath her dark cloak, but he caught glimpses of high, full breasts and nicely rounded hips. She was not as small as many of the women in his family, but she was not tall, either. He suspected the top of her head would tuck in just neatly under his chin.

  It was her face that fascinated him the most, however. Her dark brows were perfect arches over her beautiful eyes and her lashes were long and thick, accentuating their rich color. Her skin held no blemishes, a true rarity, and was touched with a soft hint of gold. He wondered if that was the color of all her skin and quickly banished the thought when he felt himself begin to grow hard. Her nose was small and straight and the bones of her heart-shaped face were neatly cut from her high cheekbones to her surprisingly firm chin. Her mouth was a little wide and her lips were temptingly full, almost lush. This was not the woman he had expected to see when Walter had spoken of the Ross witch.

  “Go home, Mistress Ross,” said Simon. “It might be best if ye try to avoid coming here for a while.”

  “Because Ide might actually get those fools to listen to her evil lies?” Morainn asked, feeling her anger stir at the unfairness of it all and knowing too well that the answer to her question was a resounding aye.

  “I fear so. ’Tis unfair, but it would be a bad time to argue that.” After Morainn curtsied and left, Simon turned to Sir William. “I am done now. Ye may see to your wife. My deepest condolences.”

  Sir William nodded, but then looked toward Morainn. “Are ye certain she isnae a witch? The church says—”

 
“The church says a lot of things few of us heed. She isnae a witch, Sir William. She is a good healer. Nay more.”

  “They say she has visions.”

  Simon nodded. “I have heard that but if the visions she has only aid people, then where is the evil in that? Go, Sir William, tend to your wife and let us find this killer.”

  As Simon and Tormand walked away, Simon quietly said, “They threw out a child.”

  “Aye.” Tormand was a little surprised at the rage he felt over that. “I had expected a woman of at least middle years, if nay some old crone. Mayhap Walter’s suggestion has some merit.”

  “What suggestion?”

  “That I take something the killer or the victim touched and see if she has some vision of the who, what, or why.”

  “Ye just want to see her again.”

  Tormand just smiled. He would not deny it. What troubled him was the strength of the attraction he felt for her. His interest had never been grasped so quickly, so fiercely. It was worrisome, but he knew that would make no difference in the end. She might not be a witch, but she definitely had some power and Tormand knew that power would soon pull him to her side.

  Chapter 4

  His eyes were so full of passion’s fire she could feel the heat upon her skin as he looked at her. The dual colors of his eyes grew brighter, the blue and the green sharper and clearer as he pulled her into his arms. Morainn purred in welcome as his sinful mouth covered hers. She wrapped her arms around his strong body as he ravished her mouth, his clever tongue stirring a heat within her that she had never felt before.

  Eager and ready for more of him, she pulled at his clothes as he pulled at hers until they were both blessedly naked. The sight of him took her breath away. When their flesh touched she moaned with pleasure. He was such a beautiful man, lean and strong, his warm skin smooth beneath her greedy hands. She felt the hard proof of his desire for her press against her and she ached for him. Her breasts felt full, the tips burning for his touch.