Highland Sinner

by Hannah Howell

  “Did ye see the killer?” asked Simon.

  Finally sitting up straighter, Morainn forced herself to meet Sir Simon’s gaze. She felt the heat of a blush touch her cheeks, but ignored it. There were more important things to worry about at the moment than her own embarrassment. And, in all fairness to herself, she never would have been so sick if she had not touched that hairpin in an attempt to help him find a killer.

  “Aye and nay,” she replied. “There are two.”

  “Two men?” Simon frowned. “Aye, I am nay really surprised.”

  He would be surprised soon, she mused, and said, “Nay, a mon and a woman.”

  Morainn almost smiled at the look of shock on all the men’s faces. She had to admit it had shocked her, too, but not nearly as much as they appeared to be. Did men truly believe that women never fell victim to such a madness, that they could not feel such a murderous hate and anger? If men were so incapable of thinking a woman could be as dangerous, as lethal, as a man, it was no wonder that so many fell victim to the bad ones.

  “A woman helped to cut up those women?” asked Tormand, shock still faintly trembling in his deep voice.

  “Aye. That hairpin is hers. The others probably are as weel,” Morainn replied. “I cannae tell ye if they fell out as she did her evil work or if she left them apurpose, however.”

  “As a sign, mayhap,” murmured Simon.

  The man had recovered from his shock quickly, Morainn thought. There was a look in his steel gray eyes that told her he was already working on these new facts, trying to put the puzzle together. She began to doubt that there was much that could shock the man for long. Morainn wished there were more men like Sir Simon Innes. She suspected fewer innocent men would die on the gallows.

  “Why would she leave a sign?” asked Harcourt. “And why leave something so common that no one can read whatever message she is trying to send?”

  “’Tis nay so common,” said Morainn and felt herself blush a little when all the men looked at her. “Common ones are made out of wood or the bones of chickens, mayhap ducks or geese. Sometimes even a sheep. That one is made from the antlers of a stag and it has a wee design carved upon it.”

  Simon carefully studied the hairpins and then cursed. “I am nay so weel acquainted with such things that I can tell one animal bone from another, but a common hairpin wouldnae have a fancy design etched into it. That costs money, as does one made of antler horn. ’Tis a rose, I think.”

  “The perfume,” Tormand murmured.

  Morainn stared at him in such surprise she barely kept herself from gaping. “Ye ken who it is?”

  “Nay, I had a dream last night, a dream about these murders, and I smelled the perfume.”

  The way he was looking at her and the heat that entered his gaze told Morainn that he had dreamed about more than the killings, but she forced her mind back to the matter of her vision and what it might tell them about the killers. Later she would consider what it meant when a man she was attracted to had a dream the same night she did and, she guessed, one that was probably very similar to hers. It took all of her willpower not to blush when she thought of what had happened in that dream before it had turned into a nightmare.

  “Heavy, cloying, almost too strong to tell what it is, for all ye wish to do is pinch your nose shut,” she said.

  “Exactly like that. Ye have smelled it, too?”

  She nodded, forcing herself to think only of the dark parts of her dreams, the ones that had to do with the killings and not the hunger the man stirred within her. “In every dream I have had about these killings. I wondered on it, but then decided it must be the way the vision was trying to tell me that it was a woman being killed. The voice I heard in the dreams wasnae clear enough for me to ken if the one who spoke was a mon or a woman. Yet, in one of those dreams the hand that held the blood-soaked knife was small and delicate.”

  “But ye have seen no faces?” asked Simon.

  Morainn shook her head. “Nay. Weel, nay yet. Each dream gives me a wee bit more. The perfume, then the voice, then the hand. The vision I got from touching the hairpin gave me more.” She swallowed hard, fear of what else she might see making her blood run cold, but she could not let that fear stop her from helping in the hunt for this vicious killer. “Mayhap if I hold another one I will see a face or some other thing that will help ye find these killers.”

  Simon gave her a gentle smile. “Nay, not today. From what I saw, such visions are hard on both body and mind. Rest a day or two and we will try another then. I have put the one ye have already touched aside so that ye will nay have to see its secrets again.”

  “But another woman could die while we wait.”

  “Aye, there is that chance, but your gift does us no good if ye use it until ye are ill or broken in heart and mind. Rest. We can return on the morrow if ye think ye will be able to abide touching another one. For now mayhap ye can think long and hard on all the dreams and visions ye have had concerning this matter. There may be some small but verra important thing that ye will remember.”

  Morainn did not think there would ever come a day when she could abide touching one of those hairpins, but she nodded. She would force herself to do it. To her shame, she admitted to herself that the biggest reason she would do so was for Sir Tormand Murray’s sake and not the poor murdered women’s. Morainn hated to think that she could be so swayed by a handsome face.

  It was only a few minutes later that she stood at her door watching the men leave, her arm around Walin’s small shoulders. All the men had given her a very gallant farewell, but it was Tormand’s that she knew would linger in her mind. There had been a look in his eyes that had caused her heart to pound with a strange mix of fear and anticipation. If she did not wish to end up as just one more of what was undoubtedly a legion of besotted women, she would have to be on her guard around that man.

  “She has a true gift,” Simon said, as he rode beside Tormand.

  “Or a curse,” Tormand said. “She saw Isabella’s murder, saw that they took her eyes.”

  “Aye, in many ways she did, although she didnae see it too clearly, thank God. I am reluctant to ask her to try again with another one of the hairpins, but we have nothing, have found no trail to follow on our own. Whoever is doing this is verra clever or verra lucky.”

  “They say madness can oftimes make one more cunning,” said Bennett. “I am just finding it difficult to believe a woman would have a part in all this. Och, aye, I ken that they can be as cruel and vicious as any mon, but to actually wield the knife? That is what I find so hard to accept.”

  “And, yet, it makes a strange kind of sense,” said Harcourt, and shrugged when the others looked at him. “From what ye tell me, each woman had her beauty utterly destroyed. A woman could understand how much that meant to the women, mayhap e’en hate that beauty they hold. ’Tis the fact that the women’s hair was cut off that makes me inclined to think a woman really is involved. A mon might destroy a woman’s face or body in some mad, jealous rage, but I doubt he would realize how important that hair would be to a woman.”

  “Ah, aye, ye may be right,” murmured Simon. “Then again, I believe we can all agree that there is madness behind these murders and who can understand the mind of a mon touched by madness, or a woman’s.”

  Tormand only half-listened as Simon and his kinsmen debated all that Morainn had told them. Most of his thoughts were on the woman they had just left and not on her words. He was certain they had shared a dream last night. Such a thing had never happened to him before, but he knew it meant something, was important in a way that left him very uneasy. It implied some bond had been made between him and Morainn Ross and he did not want any bonds.

  There was also what had happened when he had touched her hand to worry about. He did not mind being strongly attracted to a woman. If nothing else, it made the lovemaking richer and more heated, more satisfying. But he had felt a strong lusting for a woman before and had never felt such a wave of heat and l
onging simply by touching the woman’s hand. A large part of him was eager to pursue Morainn, to find out how that fierce heat would feel once he had her naked between the sheets. Another part of him wanted to put the spurs to his horse and ride as far away from Morainn Ross as he could.

  “I would appreciate it if ye didnae try to seduce this one.”

  Simon’s voice startled Tormand out of his thoughts about getting Morainn into his bed, which he decided was a good thing because he was growing hard and hungry. Tormand was glad to see that his kinsmen were riding ahead of him and Simon and had not heard the man’s words. For a moment, he was angry that Simon would dare to give him such a warning. Then he inwardly sighed, admitting to himself that it was probably deserved. He had been thinking about seducing Morainn. In truth, he had been thinking about riding back to her cottage to get her naked and into a bed as quickly as he could.

  “Want her for yourself, do ye?” he asked, and was not really surprised by the tone of possession edging into his voice. Tormand had to accept that he already felt very possessive of Morainn.

  “I wouldnae turn her aside if she smiled my way, but that isnae why I am speaking up about this. The lass has enough trouble in her life without ye adding her to your list. Especially now. If we are right in believing all of this is connected to ye, that someone is trying to destroy ye by killing women ye have bedded and pointing the finger of blame toward ye, then bedding Morainn Ross puts far more than her heart and virtue at risk. Aye, and I do mean virtue. I dinnae e’en think that boy is her bastard as so many claim he is.”

  “Nay, I dinnae believe he is, either.”

  Tormand was chilled by Simon’s words. It was a chill that went far deeper than it should, if all he felt was a simple concern that yet another woman might suffer and die because she had found some pleasure in his arms. Forcing himself to look closely at what he felt, he saw that it was fear, a fear that she would be taken from him before he had ever had a chance to find out what she meant to him.

  In some inexplicable way he and Morainn had become connected to each other. He was certain of it. He was also certain that she had shared the dream he had had last night, and he wondered if she had seen them making love. Had she felt the same heated need he had? There was also what he felt when he had touched her hand to consider. It was as though the bond that had begun in that dream, even in the first meeting of their eyes, had been strengthened by that simple touch.

  He had the sinking feeling that his days as a man who took what he wanted whenever he wanted it were rapidly drawing to a close. Tormand had always felt that the women of his family had been talking romantic nonsense when they had claimed one just knew when they met their true mate. However, just in case there was some truth in that, he had actually avoided any woman who had stirred anything more than lust in him. The fact that he had liked Marie was one reason he had never tried to return to her bed, had stepped back before that one night of comforting could become anything more. He knew he could not step back from Morainn.

  For a moment he nearly convinced himself that that was because her gift was needed to help them find this killer. The lie did not hold firm for any longer than that. Tormand knew he was drawn to Morainn in ways he could not fully understand, at least not yet. Even the fact that she was beautiful and he lusted after her did not explain away what he felt, was feeling.

  His unwillingness to look too closely at those feelings was now proving to be more a hindrance than a defense. He knew he was going to have to overcome that unwillingness. Although he was reluctant to change the way he lived, he was not fool enough to push aside or turn away from the woman who might well be his fated match. Then he thought of the list Simon had mentioned and nearly groaned. He might not have to even try to push Morainn away; his past might well do it for him.

  “Why dinnae ye believe he is her true child?” asked Simon, cutting into Tormand’s rambling thoughts. “He has black hair and blue eyes as she does.”

  “Nay exactly as she does,” Tormand replied, grasping at the change of topic Simon offered like a starving man would clutch at a crust of bread tossed his way. “Aye, ’tis true that children can hold a mix of each parent, e’en look akin to some ancestor many years dead and gone, but ye can still see the kinship if ye look hard enough. I dinnae see it in him. And, he calls her Morainn, doesnae he? Nay maman. Why play that game when she holds him close to her side and kens that near all who live round here think the boy is her child?”

  “True. I wonder whose child he is?”

  “I dinnae ken and yet there was something oddly familiar about him.”

  “Mayhap ye should check over that list of yours.”

  “Ah, that list. If ye ken I might try to pull the lass into my sinful clutches, just show her the list I am making. One look at that and any woman with a pinch of wit in her head will stay verra far away from me.” Tormand was feeling sorry for himself, but then the import of Simon’s suggestion became clear to him and he glared at his friend. “And just what are ye implying by telling me I should check o’er my list?”

  “That a mon who spends so much time casting his seed hither and yon will eventually sow something.”

  “I was always verra careful never to sow anything.”

  “I suspicion many a bairn’s father might say the same thing.”

  Before Tormand could argue that any further, Simon rode ahead a little to speak to Harcourt. Tormand sank back into his thoughts even though it was not a place he wished to be. There was so much turmoil inside of him, he was surprised his stomach had not turned against him. Simon’s parting comment had only made it all worse.

  He could not believe there was even the smallest chance that Walin was his child. Tormand knew he had always been careful, even when drunk. Most of the women he had bedded, especially those from the court, were well versed in ways to keep a man’s seed from taking root as well.

  The word most suddenly stuck in his mind like a thistle burr to a horse’s tail and his heart sank. Cold reason smothered his instinctive refusal to believe he could have sired a child on one of his many lovers and that she would not tell him if he had. Simon was right. Many a new father had probably thought he had been careful, had done all that was needed to insure that there was no bairn produced by his pleasuring a woman. Was it not his own mother who had once said that only celibacy could insure that no child is born? One thing Tormand had never practiced was celibacy. These last few months had been the longest he had been without a woman since the age of fourteen, when Jenna the cooper’s daughter had given him his first taste of the pleasures of the flesh.

  Tormand cursed. He now had the seed of doubt planted firmly in his mind. There was no returning to a state of blissful ignorance or happy denial. Along with hunting down a brutal killer and trying to keep his neck out of a noose, he was going to have to find out all he could about Walin. If there was even the smallest chance that he was the boy’s father, he could not ignore it. He had to find out the truth, one way or another. When he realized that could well prove to be yet another bond he had with Morainn, yet another thing that would keep pulling him back to her side, he cursed again. Fate was obviously playing a May game with him and he was losing.

  Chapter 7

  Her heart pounding, Morainn opened her eyes. She felt as she did when she had some vision and yet she knew she had not had one. Wearied by the vision that had brought her to her knees as she held the hairpin Sir Simon had given her, she had crawled into her bed early and slept like the dead. Something had startled her awake, however. Something that was making her feel very afraid.

  Then she heard a familiar low growl. The moon sent enough light into her bedchamber that she was able to see her cat William crouched low on her bed, its fur all puffed out, making the cat look even bigger than it was. It was glaring at the door and she could swear that its eyes actually glowed. A glance around revealed that her other cats were also tense and staring at her bedchamber door.

  And then she heard the floor cr
eak just outside the door. Her heart in her throat, Morainn grasped hold of the large knife she kept beneath her pillow and slowly sat up. There had been a few times when some fool man had crept into her room thinking he could steal what she refused to give him willingly. They had left chastised and bleeding. Instinct told her that this time it was no lust-crazed idiot outside her door.

  Even as the door began to open she smelled the cloying scent of too many roses and her heart clenched with fear. Forcing back the rush of panic that threatened to make her scream, she crouched on top of her bed. If her visions were accurate, she was about to face a woman and a very large man who wanted to kill her.

  She thought of Walin and, even though her fear increased, she also found a source of cold determination and strength within her. Morainn knew these monsters would kill Walin if he woke up and do so with barely a thought for the innocent life they would end. If she was quick and lucky, she could get past them, grab Walin, and flee. Once out of the cottage she had a dozen places they could hide until these killers gave up the hunt. Morainn prayed she was given a chance to flee, if only for Walin’s sake.

  The door was suddenly thrust wide open and the voice from her dreams hissed, “Softly, ye fool!”

  “Nay need, m’lady,” the huge man standing in the doorway said. “She be awake. The lass must have heard us.”

  Morainn cursed the shadows in her room that kept her from seeing these people clearly as the woman appeared beside the man. His massive size made the woman look tiny and delicate, but Morainn could see the glint of a knife in her elegant little hand. My knife is bigger, Morainn thought as she tensed and tried to decide which one of the intruders she should aim for. Her eyes told her to go for the man because he was the one to try to hurt so that she had time to run, but her instincts told her that would be a bad choice. Her instincts told her to go for the woman and the big man would move out of the way to help the murderous bitch, giving Morainn a chance to get out the doorway he now blocked.