By the time Diarmot reached Alice, she was crying silently and was badly scraped from falling down so often, but she was still struggling to get her brothers away from the cottage. Her eyes widened when she saw him and the others, but she obeyed his signal to be quiet. A moment later, he was holding her in his arms while Sigimor carefully checked the twins for any injuries.
“They wanted to hurt my brothers, Papa,” Alice said quietly.
“Ye were a verra brave lass to try to save them,” he told her, speaking in a near-whisper.
“Odo says we have to take care of each other.”
Liam came out of the cottage, crouched near them, and said, “Only Margaret is left.”
“I think Geordie broke something in Lucy,” Alice said. “Mama covered my eyes so I couldnae see him do it.”
“And Geordie?” Diarmot asked.
“’Member when ye told us Mama was sick because she dranked bad wine?” Diarmot nodded. “I think Geordie dranked bad ale.” She glanced toward the front of the cottage. “Are ye going to help Mama now?”
“Aye, sweet Alice, I am.”
“I will stay with the bairns,” said Nanty.
“Would m’lady like me to fetch a damp rag, mayhap a wee bit of water, to clean her wounds?” Liam asked Alice.
Free of Diarmot’s hold, Alice sat down on the blanket and looked at Liam. “Aye, sir. I gots dirt on me and I dinnae like it.”
Diarmot followed the Cameron twins and Tait along the side of the cottage until Margaret and Ilsa were in view. As he watched his wife, Diarmot began to doubt that anything would distract Ilsa from Margaret and that sword. Ilsa had the intense, watchful air of a warrior, one alert for danger or the opportunity to strike. Sigimor drew his dagger and Diarmot was a little surprised to feel himself relax. He had not realized how confident he had become of Ilsa’s brothers. There was no doubt in his mind that Sigimor would use that dagger with deadly skill at the first hint of a real threat to Ilsa’s life. For now the decision silently made was that they would let Ilsa deal with Margaret.
“Put aside the sword, Margaret,” Ilsa said. “I dinnae want to kill ye.”
Margaret laughed. “How can ye kill me? By drowning me in your own blood? I have the sword.”
Ilsa drew her dagger. “I am nay unarmed. I could have this buried deep in your heart ere ye completed one swing of that sword.” She nodded when Margaret frowned, looking uncertain. “Lay down the sword. Ye willnae hang for this,” she promised, hoping Diarmot would agree. “We can send ye to your father, have him protect ye from yourself.”
“My father?” Margaret laughed, but it was not a pleasant sound. “My father cannae protect me, willnae protect me. He ne’er has. He didnae protect me from his own brother, did he? Or my cousins. Or his foul drunken friends!”
Her father was obviously the wrong person to speak of, Ilsa thought. Now she knew where Margaret’s madness had been bred. Ilsa could weep for the frightened, abused child Margaret had been, could find mercy in her heart for the scarred, troubled woman facing her, but she would kill her if Margaret pressed her to do so. She was not sure Margaret really understood or believed that.
“I must have my revenge,” Margaret said. “Diarmot took Anabelle away from me. I will take ye away from him.”
“Ye gave the woman the potion that killed her, Margaret.”
“That mon had got another bairn on her and wouldnae accept it as his! She would have been shamed!”
“That woman was carrying some other mon’s bastard and, if she was shamed, she brought it upon herself by being a whore.”
“Nay! Ye didnae ken her! She was a warrior. She showed men their own weakness and foulness. She conquered them in their hundreds. She could make e’en the most pious mon desire her, show him and the world that he was nay any better than the beasts in the field.”
“Ye think she was some great battle maiden because she could get a mon’s rod stiff? It doesnae take any great skill to do that. Wheesht, a mon can wake up alone in his bed with a stiff rod just because he had a passing thought about breasts. And getting a mon to rut on her was nay a great victory. If a mon is hungry enough he would rut on an ugly woman with boils on her arse. He would just squint a lot. She lied to ye. Mayhap she lied to herself, as weel. I dinnae ken why she did what she did, but it wasnae any great victory. Are ye really prepared to die for those lies?”
“She didnae lie! She was shaming them all and that is why she is dead!”
Margaret lunged at her, but Ilsa was ready for the move. She nimbly moved out of the way and tripped Margaret. The sword fell from the woman’s hand and they both dove for it. Ilsa found herself in a hard battle, but Margaret had no skill. She fought like an angry woman. Ilsa fought like a youth facing a bigger and stronger opponent—dirty. In but a moment, she had the woman pinned to the ground.
As she caught her breath, ignoring the squirming, cursing woman beneath her, Ilsa glanced toward the cottage. Out of the corner of her eye she caught sight of an all-too-familiar head of bright hair. She was no longer alone. She did hope that her rescuers had only just arrived or she would suffer from a lot of teasing about her crude remarks.
“Margaret,” she said. “I can kill ye. Ye must ken that by now. Ye have a chance to live, though twill probably be in the care of nuns or the like. But e’en that is life. Do ye surrender?”
“Aye,” said Margaret. “I yield.”
Ilsa carefully stood up, never taking her eyes off the woman. She realized she had dropped her dagger in the fight and quickly drew another from inside her sleeve. Margaret had recently assured Geordie that she would not poison him so Ilsa had a very good idea of how empty the woman’s promises could be.
The moment she stepped back and Margaret got to her feet, Ilsa knew it was not going to be that easy. Margaret also had a dagger and lunged at Ilsa. Cursing softly, Ilsa slashed the woman’s hand, making her cry out and drop her dagger. Then Ilsa punched her in the jaw. She shook her hand to ease the sting as she watched Margaret collapse into the dirt.
She stared at Margaret for a moment to be sure the woman was unconscious, then turned to go to her children. Her brothers and Diarmot were just stepping into view when Ilsa heard the whisper of movement behind her. She had erred, should have taken Margaret’s dagger completely out of her reach. There was no choice for her now. She stood between the men and Margaret so they could not take this burden from her. With a heavy sigh, she turned and threw her dagger.
Margaret stood, her dagger still clutched in her hand, and stared at the knife buried in her chest. Slowly, she collapsed to her knees. Even as Ilsa stepped up to her, the woman fell almost gently onto her back. Ilsa stared into Margaret’s eyes and saw the haze of impending death begin to cloud them.
“I told ye I could kill ye,” Ilsa said. “Why didnae ye believe me?”
“Oh, but I did,” Margaret whispered.
So, she had been chosen as the executioner, Ilsa thought arid she leaned down and gently closed Margaret’s lifeless eyes. Diarmot reached her and pulled her into his arms. She leaned against him and glanced around at her brothers Sigimor, Somerled, and Tait. A moment later, a small body wrapped itself around her legs, and Ilsa smiled down at Alice. Liam and Nanty walked up, each carrying one of the twins.
“How did ye find me?” she asked as she eased out of Diarmot’s hold and picked up Alice.
“Odo followed ye,” said Diarmot, standing so that Alice could not see Margaret’s body as the Cameron twins took it into the cottage.
Ilsa shook her head and idly rubbed Alice’s back. The child was clinging to her, but did not seem overly upset. Ilsa prayed there would be no scars left by this adventure. She then noticed that Alice had a lot of scrapes upon her arms and legs.
“What have ye done to yourself, dearling?” she asked, looking more closely and seeing that someone had already tended to the small wounds.
Diarmot smiled and stroked Alice’s hair as he told Ilsa what Alice had been doing. “She was a verra b
rave, clever lass.”
“Och, aye.” Ilsa kissed Alice’s forehead. “Ye did verra weel, lass. Verra weel indeed.”
“May we go home now?” Alice asked.
“Tait, Liam, and I can take them back to Clachthrom,” said Nanty. “I dinnae think—” he hesitated and glanced toward the cottage.
There were bodies to deal with, Diarmot realized. Geordie and Lucy could simply be buried in the wood for all he cared, but Margaret had kinsmen who would wonder what had happened to her. He would have to take her back to her cousin and try to explain all that had happened. That was not going to be easy, he thought, then kissed both his daughter and wife on the cheek.
“Aye,” he said. “There is some work to be done here.”
“Diarmot,” Ilsa began. “Margaret—”
“I learned about Margaret at Muirladen. This wasnae a great surprise. Tis why we rode back here after but a day at Dubheidland. I will tell ye all about it later.” He kissed her again and went to join the Cameron twins in the cottage.
Ilsa soon found herself seated in front of Liam holding Cearnach in her arms as they rode back to Clachthrom. She felt very tired and she knew it was not solely because of all she had done. There was blood on her hands now and, deserved or not, it would be a while before she could fully accept that burden with ease.
“Ye had nay choice,” said Liam. “In truth, I think she made ye do it.”
“She did,” said Ilsa. “She made that clear just as she died. I will accept it. I almost do e’en now. And I think it may have been a mercy in this case. She was quite mad. There was nay reasoning with her, nay making her see how insane her belief was about Anabelle and all the woman was and had done.”
“Aye.” Liam was silent for a moment, then murmured, “Actually, I have a question or two about some of your, er, beliefs. An ugly woman with boils on her arse?”
Ilsa saw Nanty and Tait grinning at her and sighed. They had been there to hear her just as she feared. Now the teasing would begin. Although she sighed again rather dramatically, she inwardly smiled. It would undoubtedly grow annoying but, for now, she welcomed the distraction.
Diarmot sighed with a mixture of relief and exhaustion as he left the bathing room off the kitchens and started toward his bedchamber. The day had held more triumph than tragedy, but he was not sure he would even have the strength to make love to his wife. Even the confrontation with Margaret’s kinswoman had been easier than he had expected. The woman had assured him that there would be no demands for revenge, that Margaret would be quietly buried and all forgotten.
He frowned as he realized that Margaret’s cousin had not really been surprised by the madness that had surely infected her cousin. Diarmot had to wonder if Margaret’s father had suspected that his daughter was not quite sane. If he had, the man should never have tried to marry the girl to him. Diarmot decided there was no gain in fretting over it, but he would be very careful in his dealings with the man in the future. It was to be hoped that, after this tragedy, those would be few and far between.
The other thing that left him an odd mixture of exhausted and tense was that he had had a revelation. He loved his wife. He had suspected as much as soon as his memory had fully returned at Muirladen, but now he knew it for certain. That first sight of her facing the sword-wielding Margaret had finished what had begun as he had stood in the copse and recalled their first time together. He had known that he would not find life very sweet if he did not have Ilsa at his side.
Once she had loved him too, but he was no longer certain of that He had hurt her, could recall the hurt in her eyes all too clearly as time and time again he had abused that love. Although he had done it all unknowingly, he suspected the damage done was the same. Diarmot was not sure how he could mend it. He was very afraid that he may have killed that love he now knew he needed as much as he needed air to breathe.
He was going to have to woo his wife, he decided as he entered their bedchamber and looked toward the bed. It was not something he felt he was very good at, but he would do his best. While matters were so uncertain between them, he did not think he should suddenly begin declaring his love and need for her. He was going to have to go slowly, show her he trusted her and win back her trust.
Quietly shedding his clothes, he eased into bed and pulled her into his arms. This was where she belonged. A part of him had known it from the beginning, although he had fought it. Diarmot wanted Ilsa to know it, too.
“Diarmot?” Ilsa murmured, turning in his arms and sleepily kissing his chin.
“Aye, sorry to wake ye,” he said, even as he realized that he was not quite as exhausted as he had thought he was.
She snuggled up against him and stroked his chest. “Was there any trouble when ye took Margaret’s body to her cousin?”
“Nay.” He caressed her slender back and smiled when she hummed with pleasure and moved against him. The cousin wasnae verra surprised at all Margaret had done.”
The family kenned she was insane?”
“I fear so, but it doesnae matter.”
“At least three people are dead, one of them quite probably an innocent, and many more were almost killed. I think it does matter.”
“Actually, there is a strong possibility Lady Ogilvey was murdered by Margaret.” As he continued to caress her, he told her all he had learned at Muirladen.
“Jesu,” she whispered. “One has to wonder how it all went on for so long and no one put a stop to it.”
Ilsa was a little surprised that her passion was stirred by his touch despite the horror of what they were discussing. She decided it was because she had faced death today, and dealt it out. The warmth of his body, the heat of his touch, were helping to ease the chill all of that had set into her bones. Here, in his arms, was life, and the passion they shared was delightful proof of that.
“I wouldnae trust Lesley Campbell much in the future, if I were ye,” she said, and gasped softly as he licked her nipple through the thin linen night shift she wore.
“I have nay intention of doing so.”
He tugged off her night shift, then settled her lithe body beneath his. “I have been gone for a sennight.”
Ilsa kissed his strong throat. “I did notice that ye werenae about much.”
“I was aware of a certain absence meself, especially at night.”
“What? My brothers didnae keep ye good company?” Ilsa slid her hand down his stomach and stroked his erection, enjoying the soft sounds of pleasure he made.
“They certainly couldnae provide me with the company I was hungering for.” He kissed the soft skin between her breasts. “They dinnae smell as sweet, either.”
She laughed, but it was quickly choked back when he took her nipple deep in his mouth and suckled. Ilsa tangled her fingers in his hair and gave herself over to the hunger he bred in her. This was what she needed and it was obvious that he did as well. At least here they were still well matched.
Their lovemaking quickly turned firece and wild. Ilsa could not get enough of the taste or feel of him. Diarmot acted as starved as she felt. When he finally joined their bodies with one hard thrust, she could not hold back, falling into that sweet oblivion he always gifted her with. She clung to him as he swiftly followed her there.
“Now I truly am exhausted,” Diarmot murmured as, finally able to move from her arms, he tucked her up against him and nuzzled her hair.
“My brothers couldnae make ye tired, either?” she asked sleepily and grinned when he grunted.
“Your brothers could weary a saint. I was, er, astonished when I first entered Dubheidland,” he said as he idly stroked her stomach. “I have ne’er seen so many redheads in my life. Twas near to blinding.” He smiled when she giggled. “My welcome wasnae verra warm at first, but Sigimor explained everything.”
“Oh, dear.”
“Aye, whilst some of your kinsmen accepted me after that, there were a few who watched me as if they expected me to start drooling and babbling at any moment.” He laug
hed along with her, then kissed the side of her neck and closed his eyes. “Tis over now, Ilsa.”
“Aye, a sad ending, but still a relief.”
“Now we can cease peering into every shadow and just live our lives. Now we can take the time to work on our marriage.”
Ilsa waited for him to say more, but then heard him snore softly. The tension that had suddenly gripped her eased away and she sighed. She should have expected something to be said, some change to happen now that he had regained all his memories and their enemy had been defeated. Yet the thought of any change made her extremely uneasy and she did not really understand why.
Their marriage was not perfect, but it was far better than most. They shared a delicious passion and, slowly, had begun to share other things. They had a large family already and many friends. Now they would be able to accept friendship and make new ones amongst the people of Clachthrom since they no longer had to suspect everyone of being a traitor or the enemy. She did not know what more he thought they should have and realized, to her great surprise, that she did not really want to know.
What had happened to her dreams and her hopes, she wondered? Had they also disappeared that day she had entered the church to see him about to marry someone else? Had hurt and anger bred a fear she had not fully recognized until now? There was a lot she had to think about before she could accept any more changes. Unfortunately, she had the strong feeling Diarmot would not give her any time.
That was just like a man, she thought crossly. His mind was now at ease, his enemy was dead, and now he would turn his attention to his wife and his marriage. All was clear and simple in his manly mind.
She took a slow deep breath to calm herself, realizing she was working herself into a temper. It was late, she was exhausted, and it was not the time to think about anything as important as her marriage. Or as complicated as her own feelings, she mused with a tired sigh as she closed her eyes. She would find the time to think about it all on the morrow.
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