Highland Destiny

by Hannah Howell

  She pulled free of his hold and yanked on her chemise. “I am sorry. I have tried hard not to offend ye with the sight of it.”

  “Sweet, wee Maldie, ye do hold some strange thoughts in your bonny head,” he muttered, still frowning at her back as she hurriedly pulled on her clothes. “’Tis no offense to the eye.” He could tell from her quick, stiff movements that she was in no mood to be touched, so he began to get dressed.

  “The way ye stared at it and e’en the odd way ye spoke implied that ye were shocked by the sight of it.”

  “And I was. I have been your lover for o’er a week now. I thought I had seen all of you.” He grinned when she cast a quick glare his way. “’Tis clear that I have been lax in my attentions.” Balfour laughed when she leapt to her feet, then stood up to help her retie the laces on her gown. “Mayhap I must needs light a few more candles.”

  “Ye are trying verra hard to embarrass me.” She tried not to be relieved that he had not immediately recognized the mark as one only a Beaton could carry. Maldie was sure that she was not out of danger yet, and she did not want to have her guard weakened by false hope.

  “Nay, ’tisnae that hard to bring a blush to your cheeks.”

  “I am feeling verra eager to strike you.”

  “I am all atremble.” He laughed and rubbed his arm after she lightly punched him there. “I think I may bear a scar there for all my days.”

  “Ye are in a humor to tease me, arenae ye,” she said as he hooked his arm through hers and started to walk them back to the keep.

  “Aye. I am also verra hungry now.” He winked at her. “Ye have raised a powerful appetite in me, dearling.”

  She tried very hard not to blush again and hissed a curse when she felt the tingle of warm blood in her cheeks. It was good that he was in such high spirits, all of his doubts and suspicions gone for the moment. She just wished she had the skill to accept his teasing with no more than a calm, gently amused smile.

  “’Tis odd,” he continued in a more serious tone, “but I have the strongest feeling that I have seen such a mark before, one of the same shape and set in the same place.”

  Maldie’s step faltered as shock then fear rippled through her. She realized that despite her best efforts, his good humor had caused her to grow less wary. It took a moment for her to calm herself. She did not wish Balfour to guess how badly he had upset her. There was no possible way he could have seen that mark upon Beaton, but he could have heard about it. She shook away that chilling thought. Her mother had always told her that Beaton kept his mark well hidden, that the man considered it a stain set upon his skin by the devil himself.

  “I have ne’er heard of anyone else bearing such a mark,” she said, inwardly cursing herself for such a weak reply. “Ye didnae ken my mother, did ye?”

  “Nay, of course not. Nor any other Kirkcaldy.” He shook his head. “Yet, I still feel that I have seen such a mark before. Dinnae fret. ’Twill come to me.”

  Maldie sincerely hoped it would not as they entered the great hall. “Ye may mistake the shock ye felt for recognition,” she said, desperately trying to dissuade him from thinking too long or too hard on the matter.

  “’Tis possible, but I can see that mark clearly, just not upon your fair skin.”

  It was as she sat down next to Balfour that a shocking conclusion began to form in Maldie’s mind. She felt chilled to the bone. James sat across from her and she knew from his sharp look that she had let her shock show briefly in her face. Even fear of what he might think could not push away the idea forming in her head, however. No matter how hard she tried to deny it, she knew in her heart that there was only one other person, beside Beaton, upon whose back Balfour might have seen such a mark—on young Eric.

  Eric was believed to be a Murray bastard, bred from the adulterous union of Balfour’s father and Beaton’s faithless wife. Balfour had said that Beaton might be able to convince people that Eric was his son by claiming that he had wrongly cast the child out while caught in the throes of a jealous rage. But what if that was the truth? There was still the possibility that Balfour’s father had bedded the woman, but he might not have been the only one doing so. Her mother had told her how diligently Beaton worked to bear sons, often leaving her sore and exhausted. Until Beaton had discovered his wife’s liaison, Maldie was certain that he had frequently bedded the poor woman. Eric could easily be the son Beaton so desperately wanted. Beaton may have actually tried his best to kill the one thing he truly craved.

  There was a wealth of satisfaction to be gained from such a circumstance, but Maldie found herself unable to truly enjoy it. If she was right, and every instinct she had told her that she was, a great many people would be hurt, beginning with Eric, an innocent boy. It would devastate the youth to discover that he was not a Murray, that he was actually the child of the Murray clan’s enemy. Such a hard blow might be softened if that father was one to be proud of, but Maldie sincerely doubted that Beaton had done one good thing in his entire miserable life. Eric would probably be as horrified as she was to claim Beaton as his father, but the boy would suffer far more from that than she ever had. Unlike her, Eric had savored the joy of a loving family. She had lost nothing by knowing who and what her father was. Eric would lose everything he knew and loved.

  Balfour would also be deeply hurt, and Maldie fought to resist the urge to take his hand in hers and immediately convey her deepest sympathies. If nothing else, he would wonder how she could even think of such a thing, would probably demand some proof. The only way she could tell him the truth about Eric was if she confessed to her own parentage, and she was not ready to do so.

  Maldie realized that she did not want to be the one to tell him such a hard truth. Nor was she sure it was her place to do so. She could see no gain in it either. The truth would only bring pain to a lot of people. In fact, it would deeply hurt everyone but Beaton. She had never seen the boy Eric, had never actually seen the mark upon his back that branded him as Beaton’s son. Until she saw that proof with her own eyes, Maldie decided that it was best to say nothing at all. It should also be Eric’s choice; it had to be Eric’s truth to tell. She just wondered if such a young boy would have the strength to do so. As she heaped food upon her plate, she prayed that she would not be the one forced to expose that secret, that Eric would do what he must. She chanced a quick peek at Balfour and hoped that she could keep this secret as well as she had kept all of her own.

  Chapter Eleven

  “Malcolm is dead,” James announced as he strode into the great hall.

  Balfour nearly choked on the bread he was eating. “Dead?”

  “Aye, he willnae be telling us anything more about Beaton or Dubhlinn. God’s teeth, e’en if he had survived the beating they gave him, he couldnae have told us anything. Beaton had his tongue cut out.”

  “Are ye sure?” Balfour knew James would not repeat rumor, but he felt a need to have some hard proof.

  “The bastards hung his broken body from a tree just outside of the village.” James sat down ard poured himself a tankard of wine, then took a long drink of it before continuing, “At first we didnae ken who it was, he was that badly beaten and I think the carrion birds had been nibbling at him. Howbeit, once we kenned that it was Malcolm, we also kenned who had murdered him. So, too, did it explain why his body had been left where it was.”

  “It was meant to be a gruesome taunt.”

  James nodded. “As was the hard, ugly way he was killed. They not only wanted us to ken that they had found our spy but set the fear of God into our men, making it verra hard for us to find another willing to slip inside of Dubhlinn. We have already cleaned Malcolm’s body and readied it for burial, and there are signs that he was cruelly tortured.”

  “Any word from our other mon, Douglas?”

  “Nay, but I would guess that he still lives or he would have been swaying in the breeze next to Malcolm.” James shook his head. “I thought ye foolishly wasted your time when ye took so long and wor
ked so hard to find two Murray men who had the skills ye needed and who didnae ken each other, not e’en by sight. Such care shows its worth now. By the looks of Malcolm’s battered body he spent many long hours in hell, and probably would have told Beaton all he could.”

  “Mayhap. Although Malcolm was a fine, honorable mon. He wouldnae have sent another mon to his death.”

  “Not willingly, but if he was tortured, as I believe he was, he may have been too blinded with pain to think of the consequences of what he told Beaton. He would have been able to think of only one thing—making the pain stop.”

  Balfour took a steadying drink of wine. “I realized I could be sending those men to their deaths, but I ne’er gave a thought to how hard, how lacking in honor, those deaths might be.”

  “Why should ye? Ye would ne’er deal with a mon in that way, no matter what he was guilty of.”

  “Should I bring Douglas home?”

  “Nay. If Beaton hasnae found him ye could weel put him in danger by trying to get word to him. I didnae ken Malcolm weel, he was your cousin Grodin’s mon, but I do ken Douglas. A good mon, brave and steadfast. He is also a clever mon. If he thinks he is in danger of suffering Malcolm’s fate, he will flee Dubhlinn. Douglas will have the wit to ken that it wouldnae be cowardice to do so, that he can be of no use to you dead, for ye will not only lose what knowledge he has gained, but a good sword arm as weel.”

  “Good. I dinnae want another mon’s death upon my conscience.”

  “Malcolm’s death isnae your fault. He kenned the risk he was taking, and ye warned him many times that he would die if he was caught. None of us could foresee the way the poor bastard would die. If we had, ye would ne’er have sent him there. Ye cannae take on the burden of every death. Aye, ye are too quick to let guilt take hold of ye. Ye have ne’er caused a death out of arrogance, anger, pride, or even simple carelessness. We are at war with Beaton and Eric’s life is in danger. Ye shouldnae be surprised if men die. They will continue to do so until Beaton is dead.”

  “And so ye must cease pouting o’er it,” Balfour added, smiling faintly as he repeated one of the phrases James had often flung at him and his brothers during their training.

  James returned his smile. “Aye. Wise words ye should heed more often. Now, what is of greater importance than even Malcolm’s death is how Beaton discovered the mon.”

  “Mayhap Malcolm made a mistake, revealed himself in some way.”

  “Mayhap, but I find that hard to believe. He was a clever lad from what little I learned of him. Certainly clever enough to ken if he had erred, and flee ere he could be caught. Ever since this cursed trouble began, years ago, we have had a mon inside of Dubhlinn, yet none was ever discovered. Beaton has proven again and again that he pays little heed to those who work to protect him and keep him in comfort. Once accepted by the people working within and without Dubhlinn, a mon was ne’er e’en looked at by Beaton. There is another possibility ye must consider.”

  “Someone within Donncoill told Beaton who Malcolm was.” Balfour disliked the turn the conversation had taken, but knew he would be putting his clan in danger if he did not consider all possibilities. “It could have been Grizel.”

  “Grizel has been dead for a fortnight. And we killed the men she had gone to meet.”

  “Before that?”

  “Possible, but, nay likely. Beaton wouldnae have waited for so long to catch and torture a Murray. If one of the men Grizel had gone to meet had escaped us, I could believe it was her who pointed the finger at Malcolm. Malcolm might have survived torture for a fortnight, although I pray to God he didnae have to endure for that long. But, nay, Beaton learned who Malcolm was after Grizel died.”

  “We have yet another traitor at Donncoill?”

  “Or one of Beaton’s spies.”

  Balfour knew who James suspected. The man’s mistrust of Maldie was so complete that it had begun to infect him. It was hard to believe that she could send a man to his death, however. And if she was one of Beaton’s minions, she would have to know what a slow, torturous death it would be. Maldie was a healing woman, one whose patience, skill, and gentleness were already legendary at Donncoill. Such an act should horrify her, should be something she could never willingly do. Balfour also hated to think that he could be so fooled by such a woman, that he could ever desire her.

  “I ken who ye think it is,” he finally said.

  “Aye, and ye think so, too, although ye are working yourself into a sweat trying to push the thought from your mind. Aye, Malcolm could have done something foolish that got him caught, something he didnae realize he had done, or was seen and acted upon so quickly he had no chance to flee. Howbeit, ’twould be a grave mistake to ignore the possibility that someone slipped word to Beaton that one of our men was in his camp.”

  “I ken it,” Balfour snapped, then he sighed and rubbed the back of his neck. “I ne’er told her Malcolm or Douglas’s names, only that we had a mon within Beaton’s camp.”

  “Beaton wouldnae need a name, only to ken that one of the poor souls laboring for him was one of our men. Did ye tell her that we had two men at Dubhlinn?”

  “Nay. And, ere ye accuse me of it, I am nay allowing my heedless passion for the lass to taint my thoughts, or turn me from the truth. Mayhap my heart, but nay my loins. I just dinnae want to believe I could care for and desire a woman who could send a mon to such a horrible, painful death. And, she is a healer. Ye but need to watch her tend to the ill or injured once to understand how difficult I find it to believe that such a woman could do such a cruel thing.”

  “I am prepared to believe that she wouldnae do it willingly, that Beaton holds some sword at her throat which forces her to act on his behalf. The why of it doesnae really matter to me now, only in that it would make ye feel less pained if she was being forced to be Beaton’s spy. I just want her power to hurt us taken away from her.”

  Balfour lightly drummed his fingers on the thick wood of the table. James was right. If there was even the smallest chance that Maldie was slipping information to Beaton, she had to be stopped, deprived immediately of any opportunity to see anything, hear anything, or get a message out to Beaton. He would have to confine her, keep her under close guard, until he was able to uncover the truth. If she was guilty she would accept such a gentle penalty for her crimes. If she was innocent he was going to hurt her, deeply insult her, possibly beyond her ability to forgive him. Balfour realized that his choices were few and grim. If Maldie was guilty and he let her run free, she could cost him the victory he needed and many of his clansmen’s lives. If he treated her as a spy, confined and guarded her, it could cost him Maldie.

  “I face a loss no matter which way I turn,” he muttered.

  “Aye, ye do,” James agreed, reaching out to briefly clasp Balfour’s shoulder in a gesture of understanding and sympathy. “But think on this for a moment. Either way ye turn ye could lose the lass. If she is a spy, she will flee or ye will be forced to hang her, but a lot of Murrays will have died needlessly, fighting in a battle she has made sure they can ne’er win. If she is innocent, ye may send her fleeing your side hurt and angry. I fear that trusting her will cost ye the most.”

  “It will.” Balfour finished his wine and abruptly stood up. “’Tis always best to get the most distasteful chores done quickly. I will go and confront her at once.”

  “She may confess all, e’en tell ye why she works for Beaton, and it may be a reason ye can understand.”

  “She may, but I dinnae think wee Maldie will be that forthcoming.”

  Balfour made his way to the bedchamber he shared with Maldie with the slow heavy tread of a condemned man. His mind filled with the heated memory of their wild lovemaking by the tower only two nights ago, and he grimaced. He had walked away from there feeling at ease, confident, and light-hearted. Maldie had grown quiet, and he had begun to think that she was keeping something from him. He did not want to think that she was hiding the fact that she had just sent a man to his dea
th. Balfour dreaded the thought that he could be such a fool.

  As he stepped into the room Maldie turned and smiled at him from where she sat by the fire, brushing her newly washed hair. She was beautiful. He wanted her and he loathed himself for that weakness. He even loathed her a little. Balfour knew that if she proved to be guilty of aiding Beaton, he would be far more than hurt. He would never again trust in his feelings for a woman.

  Maldie frowned as Balfour said nothing, just stared at her as he shut the door and leaned against it. He was very tense, his arms crossed over his chest and his hands clenched tightly. There was a hard, cold look upon his face that made her very uneasy. She tried to reach out to him, to find out what emotions made him look so stern, but she could feel nothing. His face was alive with emotion, yet somehow he had closed himself off from her. That made her feel afraid. Suddenly she did not know the man standing by the door.

  “What is wrong, Balfour?” she asked, her growing fear clear to hear in her trembling voice.

  “Malcolm, our mon in Beaton’s camp, was found hanging from a tree outside of the village.” The shock on her face appeared real, but Balfour knew he could no longer afford to trust in what he saw, heard, or felt.

  “Oh, Balfour, I am so sorry,” she said, standing and moving toward him.

  “Why? Didnae ye expect Beaton to kill him?”

  She stoppd so quickly she stumbled, and she stared at him in confusion. “Why should I ken what Beaton was going to do to the mon?” Had Balfour suddenly discovered who she was, she thought, fighting the urge to flee from the cold, angry man she faced.

  “’Tis but passing strange that Beaton has ne’er found one of our men, not in thirteen long years, yet suddenly he discovers poor Malcolm.” He watched the color fade from her face and struggled against the urge to comfort her, to take back his harsh words.

  “Ye think I am aiding Beaton? Could not Grizel have told him?”

  “Grizel has been dead for a fortnight, and the men she went to meet also died, so they could tell Beaton nothing. If she had told Beaton sooner, then Malcolm would have been dead sooner. Nay, it had to have been someone else.”