Highland Sinner

by Hannah Howell

  Morainn had just finished shutting the chickens in the coop when she heard the sound of horsemen approaching and her heart skipped with fear. “Walin,” she called to the boy playing with a ball behind her cottage, “get in the house now.”

  Walin picked up his ball. “Ye wish me to hide?”

  “Aye, laddie, at least until I ken what the men riding this way are wanting of me.”

  “Mayhap ye should hide, too.”

  “They have already seen me. Go.”

  The moment the boy disappeared into the cottage, Morainn walked to the front of her home intending to meet her uninvited guests at her front door. A flicker of amusement went through her as her cats gathered around her, her big toms to the front on either side of her. She knew they could do little to help her fight against six men, and that such sights made too many people think of such things as familiars, but she did not order them away. If nothing else, she remembered all too well how often a nicely aimed slash of sharp claws had allowed her to get free of some fool man who thought she would welcome his attentions just because he had a coin or two. William in particular hated men and that had proved helpful from time to time.

  When the men were close enough for her to recognize them, Morainn felt her breath catch in her throat. Sir Tormand had come to her and she had to wonder why. Had someone told him that she had visions? Did he seek her help? If so, it would certainly help her to tell him about the visions she had already had. Sir Simon’s presence she could understand, but she wondered why the other four men had come. Such a show of force at her door made her uneasy.

  “Mistress Ross,” Sir Simon said in greeting, as he reined in before her, “we havenae come to cause ye any trouble.”

  “Nay?” She believed him, but still asked, “Then why the other men?”

  Sir Tormand cast a fleeting glare at the other men. “They claimed we needed protectors on the journey here.” He looked at her. “But the truth is they are but curious.”

  “To see the witch?” she asked, glancing at the four very handsome men. “Are ye going to introduce them to me?”

  Tormand sighed so heavily that she almost smiled. She remained coolly polite as he introduced his brothers Bennett and Uilliam and then his cousins Harcourt and Rory. They were all a treat for a woman’s eyes and Morainn found herself made a little uneasy by that. If nothing else, the gossip such a visitation could stir could prove very difficult to bear. Pushing aside her concern, she invited them all into her cottage, idly wondering if so many tall, strong men would actually fit.

  Just as she was about to lead them inside, Tormand paused by William. “That must be one of the biggest and strongest cats I have e’er seen,” he said and started to reach down to pat the cat.

  “’Ware, sir, William doesnae like men,” Morainn cautioned him, and then felt her heart skip in alarm for he was already scratching a strangely placid William behind its ragged ears. “How verra odd,” she murmured, praying this was not some sign, as she did not really want to trust Sir Tormand, at least not too much.

  “Mayhap it just didnae trust the other men it met with.” Tormand kept his tone of voice light and friendly, but inside he found himself wondering just who those other men might be.

  He frowned a little as she led them into her small, neat cottage. The thought of her with any man actually gnawed at him, tasting alarmingly like jealousy. He did not doubt that she was troubled by unwanted attentions from men who felt any woman alone was free for the taking, especially a poor one without any family left, but was there one she wanted?

  The fact that he felt eager for an answer to that question even as he almost dreaded it was a little alarming. He did not mind desiring her, but he did not want to feel any more than that. Tormand was not bothered by her birth or circumstances and he certainly did not care what superstitious fools thought she was, but he was just not ready to change his ways. A lover was what he wanted, no more. He was only one and thirty and in no need of an heir. He had a few more years of play left to get through before he started to look for anything more, anything deeper or lasting. He was not playing now simply because every man needed a rest, he told himself.

  When the little boy Walin was brought forward and introduced, Tormand had to fight to suppress a frown. With his blue eyes and thick black hair, Walin looked a lot like Morainn, but that was not what troubled him the most. There was something about young Walin that strongly reminded Tormand of someone. Tormand could not grasp the memory that tickled at the edges of his mind, however.

  They were soon all crowded around her table, each with a tankard of cider, and a plate of honey-sweetened oatcakes set in the middle of the table. Talk was idle for a few moments and Tormand watched his kinsmen flirt with Morainn. The annoyance he felt over that troubled him so much that he was beginning to think coming to see her had been a very bad idea. Then she fixed her sea-blue eyes on him and he felt his heart skip in welcome.

  This was not good, he mused. Not good at all. Unfortunately, he did not have any urge to flee what was beginning to feel too much like a trap too many of his kinsmen had fallen into—the kind that ensnared a man’s heart.

  “’Tis pleasant to have company to break up the tedium of the day,” Morainn said, “but I dinnae think ye rode here just to introduce your kinsmen, Sir Tormand.”

  “Nay, especially since I didnae invite the fools to ride with me and Simon,” Tormand replied, and sent his grinning kinsmen a brief scowl. “They have decided I need to be protected and stick like burrs.”

  Morainn felt a strong twist of envy in her heart. Even though Tormand was glaring at the others, she knew he cared for them. They were family and she sensed that those bonds were both deep and wide. She had never truly had a family. Once her father had left, shortly after her birth according to her mother, her mother had apparently lost interest in being a true loving mother. She had never harmed Morainn, but the woman had rarely displayed any true affection for her only child. Morainn had spent her growing years being made to feel little more than a burden.

  She hastily shook aside the envy and regrets. Her mother had made sure that her child had always had food to eat, clothes to wear, and a roof over her head. She had also taught Morainn everything she knew about the healing arts, the one thing Anna Ross had actually felt passionate about. That knowledge had allowed Morainn to make a life for herself after she had been banished from the town. For that alone, Morainn knew she owed her mother a lot. She may not have had the close, loving family these Murrays obviously did, but she had been gifted with far more than too many others got.

  “We heard that ye had visions,” said Tormand, thinking it a poor start to the conversation, but not sure how else to broach the subject of why they were there.

  Fear of the consequences of admitting such a thing made her hesitate, but then Morainn recalled Sir Tormand’s defense of her before the angry crowd. “Aye, sometimes,” she replied. “Visions, dreams, call them what ye will.”

  “They make her scream in the night,” said Walin.

  “Ah, weel, nay always.” Morainn handed Walin an oatcake in the hope that it would keep him silent for a while. “I cannae have a vision just because someone needs one, however. They come to me when they wish to. They are nay always clear in what they try to tell me, either.”

  Hearing the hesitancy in her voice, Tormand said, “Dinnae fear to speak of it to us. The Murray clan is littered with people who have such gifts. Mostly the lassies.” He heard his kinsmen murmur their agreement to that claim. “We dinnae think ye are truly a witch simply because ye have these dreams. We Murrays call them gifts for a reason.”

  It was difficult not to gape at the man. She glanced around at the other men, but saw no sign that Tormand was lying. They all just watched her silently, a hint of compassion in their eyes as though they understood exactly how difficult it was to have such a gift as hers. Morainn knew some people who thought of her gift as God-given, and not of the devil, but she had never met anyone who freely admitted
to having such things in their bloodlines. There was even the hint of pride in Sir Tormand’s voice as he spoke of it.

  “Then, wouldnae ye prefer going to them?” she asked.

  “If one of them had seen anything, then I would have been sent word of it. Several of them sensed there was some trouble coming my way, that I could be in danger, but nay more than that. ’Tis why these fools are here.”

  It was difficult not to press him for more information about his family and the gifts he said they had, but Morainn resisted the urge. “If they have sensed that then, why do ye nay leave here?”

  “Because that would look too much like fleeing out of guilt and the killer might follow me anyway. I wouldnae be ending the murders, only taking them to a new place, to new victims.”

  She nodded. “Aye, I have, er, dreamed that ye are connected to this in some way, but that ye arenae the killer. Nay, ye may stand in pools of blood in my dreams, but there is none on your hands. Unfortunately, my telling anyone that willnae be enough to help ye fend off any accusations.”

  “We ken that, Mistress Ross,” said Sir Simon. “We dinnae plan to make ye speak of such things before those who are too quick to see the devil’s hand in anything they dinnae understand. We but hoped that ye may be able to help us find this killer. Three women are dead and we have no idea of the who or the why, only supposition. We desperately need some sort of trail to follow.”

  “Ye want me to tell ye of my dreams? I saw no trail in them, sir. The face of this monster has ne’er appeared to me, if that is what ye are seeking.”

  “Nay, we come here hoping that ye have a certain gift that many in town say ye have.”

  “And what would that be?”

  “The ability to touch something and see the truth.”

  Chapter 6

  Morainn knew she was staring at the three common hairpins Sir Simon held out to her as if he were holding an adder and asking her to kiss it, but she could not help it. She hated touching anything that had been near death, tragedy, or violence. The visions that came to her when she did were rarely pleasant. If these things were found near the murdered women she dreaded what truths might flow into her mind. The dreams she had been having lately were bad enough.

  “Where did ye find these?” she finally asked, although she was already sure of the answer. “They are but common hairpins, nay something any of those fine ladies would have worn.” Morainn could tell that was not exactly true, but doubted the men had noticed anything unusual about the hairpins.

  Simon watched her closely as he replied, “I found them in the places where the murders were done.”

  “The women were murdered in their beds, aye?”

  “Nay. They were murdered elsewhere and, when they were dead or nearly so, they were carried home and placed in their beds. I found these at the killing sites. They could belong to some woman who once lived in the place, or trysted there with a lover, and have nothing at all to do with the killings.”

  Morainn was not surprised to see her hand shaking as she reached for the hairpins. Every instinct she had told her touching them was going to be one of those times when she felt her gift was a bitter curse. She was startled when Tormand suddenly put his hand over hers. The look on his face was one of concern, but that was not all that left her feeling breathless. The touch of his elegant long-fingered hand sent such a flare of heat through her body that she barely stopped herself from immediately yanking her hand away from his. A sudden warmth in his unusual, beautiful eyes told her that he had felt it, too. Morainn had to swallow hard before she felt she could speak without her voice revealing how unsettled she was.

  “I cannae even try to get a vision unless I touch them,” she said, hoping everyone would think the faint but husky tremble in her voice was due to her fear of what she might soon see. That was certainly there, churning away in her belly like a piece of bad beef.

  “Ye dinnae have to do this,” he said even as he wondered what had possessed him to interfere, for it certainly was not in his best interest to do so.

  Tormand needed the answers she might find for them. He had doubted that she could gain any insight simply from touching something, but no more. Her fear was real. It was that which made him reluctant to have her test her gift. And, yet, three women were dead and far too many people were starting to eye him with suspicion. It made no sense to stop her, but he had not been able to sit back when he saw her fear.

  “I think I do,” she said quietly. “Women are being murdered. They may nay have been innocent of sin, but I dinnae think they deserved what was done to them. And, people begin to suspect you, aye?”

  “Aye.” He removed his hand with a reluctance that was not fully due to the need to protect her from what she might see or feel. “If these were touched by the killer it willnae be a pleasant vision ye will have.”

  “Och, I ken it, but three women are dead, arenae they, and more may soon be murdered if this madmon isnae stopped. What sort of person would I be if I didnae at least try to stop it. Is that nay what such a gift is for?” She looked at Sir Simon. “Just one, I think.”

  Simon placed one of the hairpins in her hand, and Morainn closed her fingers over it. She was just thinking that the concerned looks all six men were giving her were rather touching when she was abruptly pulled into hell. The images came at her so fast and hard she felt as if someone was pummeling her brain. Strong emotions, all of them bad, slammed into her, making her heart pound so fast she feared it would be damaged.

  Fear. Pain. Hate. Icy cold fury. Pleasure. The last made Morainn’s stomach churn for she knew it came from the ones causing the pain and the fear. There was madness there, too. It swirled around the pair, inflicting such horrors onto another person like some evil spirit. Knives gleamed, and blood flowed. Morainn tried to flee the stench of blood and death but she could not move.

  She became aware that her whole body was shaking violently, but she could not release the hairpin. She struggled to fix her mind’s eye on the shadowy figures that moved around in the thick fog of sharp emotion. The victim was easy to find and Morainn did not need to know which person in the fog was doing the screaming that pounded at her mind. She could see the killers bending over the victim, like two carrion birds, who worked to inflict as much pain as possible.

  Morainn finally grasped the sense of someone huge, broad-shouldered and bulky with muscle. She also smelled that heavy scent she had smelled in her dreams. It came from a small figure, one nearly lost in the shadow of the larger one, but Morainn could gather no more information than the fact that the figure was slight and female. Then she caught a too vivid sight of a knife aimed at a beautiful green eye, wide open and full of terror in a blood-soaked face, and she knew she could bear no more. A sharp cry escaped Morainn as she finally released the hairpin.

  The moment she was no longer touching the hairpin, Morainn felt the contents of her stomach racing up into her throat and she gagged. Suddenly, long, strong arms were wrapped around her and she was vaguely aware of being on the floor on her knees, moaning. A bucket appeared and Morainn violently released all of the poison the dark vision had left boiling inside of her.

  By the time she regained control of her stomach, Morainn was too weak to do anything more than slump against the hard body of the man behind her, steadying her. She stared dully at Sir Simon as he knelt down and gently bathed her face with a cool, wet cloth. Someone made her drink a little cider and rinse her mouth with it several times. A small part of her clouded mind was aware of one of the men talking softly, comfortingly to Walin.

  As her senses slowly returned they brought intense embarrassment with them. She was sprawled in Sir Tormand’s arms like a wanton. The elegant Sir Simon was crouched before her, bathing her face and hands as if she was some helpless child. Morainn caught a movement out of the corner of her eye and saw one of Sir Tormand’s handsome kinsmen taking the soiled bucket outside. If she were not so weak, she would run away and hide for a year. The humiliation she felt was almo
st more than she could bear.

  Morainn said nothing as Sir Tormand helped her to her feet. He led her back to the table and she sat down, unable to look at him as he sat beside her and kept a light grip on her arm. She wanted to shrug that steadying hand off, but knew she still needed it. It took a few bites of the lightly buttered bread that magically appeared in front of her and a few cautious drinks of cider before she felt as though she might be able to speak clearly. She stared at the top of the table, however, unable to meet the gazes of the men who had seen her so thoroughly disgrace herself. Morainn placed her elbow on the table and pressed a hand to her aching forehead as she tried to think of a way to tell them what she had seen in a way that would make some sense to them.

  “Did one of the women lose her eyes?” she asked softly. “Green eyes?”

  “Aye,” replied Tormand, shocked by what she asked, for it implied she had actually seen at least part of the killing of Isabella. “Isabella Redmond.”

  “Jesu.” She shuddered and hastily took a drink of cider. “I ne’er gave much thought to what Sir William meant when he said she had been butchered. Didnae really want to.”

  “I am sorry ye now have a better idea of what he meant.” Tormand glanced at a wide-eyed Walin. “This may nay be something we should speak of in front of the boy.”

  Cursing herself for forgetting about the child’s presence, Morainn lifted her head enough to look at Walin. “Dearling, it might be best if ye go out to play for a while. This is a verra dark thing we must discuss now.”

  “Are ye feeling better now, Morainn?” Walin asked even as he stood up to leave.

  She doubted she would ever feel better after what she had seen, but forced herself to smile gently at the boy. “Aye, and feeling more so with each passing moment. Go play for a wee while, laddie. Ye really dinnae want to hear this.” As soon as the boy was gone, she told the men. “At the end I saw a knife aimed at a beautiful green eye set in a face covered in blood from more cuts than I cared to count. Not that any vision would ever let me be so precise. ’Tis why I couldnae stay any longer, why I had to flee what I was seeing.” Morainn did not really want to find as much pleasure as she did in the light soothing touch of Tormand’s hand against her back.