by Erin Grace
"Are you threatening ma wife, MacTavish?"
"Nae. My grief lies with you and your da. After all, I am here and of no danger to her . . . unlike others who may seek to cause you pain."
Others?
His mind scrambled to think of who would want revenge so badly against him as to risk hurting his family.
Hell. The same man who'd he'd suspected of making ill his da all along. Father Martin? But why would Douglas deny his part in it?
A young maid paused before the doorway, then entered the room with a fresh tray of ale. MacTavish took a tankard from the girl and drank deeply before throwing the vessel into the hearth.
The pretty lass smiled sweetly at Ewan as she placed the platter down, then turned and left the room. But he only had eyes for Ellie.
"Here me now, Ewan MacKinnon." The MacTavish's face paled, and he took a tottering step toward him. "I . . . I want justice for ma people, recompense for ma dead wife, and . . . and all of the lands of Munroe . . . ."
"MacTavish!"
MacTavish soldiers rushed to their Laird's side as the man crumpled into a dead heap on the floor. Green foam frothed in the man's mouth, his eyes open and fixed in a horrifying display of what must have been a painful death.
MacPherson tossed away his mug and rose from the table, obviously losing his taste for the fine brew.
Ewan withdrew his sword, then glanced at Angus. "Get the horses. We're going back for ma wife."
"Liam? Liam, where are you?"
Ellie felt her way through the prickly thistle shrubs and tripped over a rock, the darkness not at all agreeing with her limited eyesight. How she missed her glasses—and a torch wouldn't have gone astray either.
Although she'd insisted she go to MacTavish's keep alone, Liam explained he may as well take her, as Ewan would have his head if he'd let her go without an escort.
Either way, he fully believed he was dead man.
The poor man.
A chill mist had settled over the lake, the cold from the ground seeping through her soft leather shoes. Cold. Always bloody cold. How she missed her joggers. There was something to be said for modern thermal underwear as well. She may have to learn to knit.
Following the edge of the muddy bank, she thought about what Father Gregory had told her. It made some kind of awful sense that since Father Martin regularly travelled the surrounding lands, he would have had ample opportunity to continually poison the various waterways.
Those concoctions she'd discovered in the chapel weren't your average noxious potions—that much she was sure of.
Father Martin's knowledge of herbalism seemed to go beyond anything of the time.
An icy breeze whipped up around her skirt, sending shivers along her back. Where was that blasted man?
Liam had asked her to meet him by the lake, or else David would not have allowed her to leave the keep if he caught on to her plan. But it hadn't been easy.
A young maid named Jennie had fussed over her to no end. It wasn't until Ellie told the girl she had a headache and wished to sleep, that she manage to escape.
The sound of a horse softly neighing made her turn around.
"I hope you have nae been waiting long, ma Lady. I had a few errands to attend to."
Lord, she was relieved to see him. "What kind of errands?"
He dismounted close to her and smiled. "I had to borrow a horse from a nearby farmer. This is Tilley, a gentle horse for a gentle lady."
In the shadowy night a huge white beast suddenly loomed before her. Her stomach clenched. "You flatter me, but in truth, I'm not a very good rider. Perhaps I should just ride with you?"
"I dinna think that's such a good idea, ma Lady . . . considering the last time we rode in such a way."
Her cheeks burned with embarrassment. "Yes. Yes, of course. I'm sorry."
"Besides, Tilley won’t bolt, I promise."
She certainly hoped Tilley understood Liam's promises.
Okay, time to mount up. She could do this. She'd seen it done a hundred times before. How hard could it be?
As if he sensed her apprehension, Liam gripped her waist and lifted her as though she were weightless, before plonking her in the saddle—just like he had when he'd first found her at the river.
"Thanks." Very smooth.
He mounted effortlessly and started off ahead into the darkness.
Shit. Where was he going?
She wondered where the keys were to this thing. Living with tribes and exploring buried civilizations was one thing, but she and animals simply didn't mix. And considering her father had been a zoologist, it had made for some awkward situations growing up.
"Go. Forward." She tried nudging the horse's flanks, but to no avail. "Perfect."
This was going to be a very long night.
A shrill whistle echoed out of nowhere and, without her doing anything, Tilley began to follow in Liam's path.
After a few minutes, Liam's gray stallion came into view.
"Okay, get that smirk off your face, Liam, or it won't be Ewan you'll have to worry about." She tried to adjust her skirt, only to realize it would remain hoisted far above her knees for the duration of the journey. Just another heinous offense she could add to her ever-growing list. After Ewan dusted off his cousin, she could count herself as next. "How long will it take to get to MacTavish's keep?"
"Riding hard, about four hours. But at our pace, and the fact it's night—a lot longer."
"I thought as much." She hated to be a burden.
She really did owe him one.
After about an hour her backside began to ache. An hour more after that, what felt like blisters began to form on her thighs, and her stomach felt as if it had been in a blender. Tilley may be gentle, but she lacked suspension.
"Would you like to rest, ma Lady?
She smiled. "What are you doing, reading my mind?"
"Forgive me, ma Lady, but by the grunts you were making over that last hill, I assumed you might like to stop for a few minutes."
Grunting? Now there was a ladylike attribute to be proud of.
She cleared her throat as her horse came to an abrupt halt. "Very well, now that you have mentioned it . . . I could use a bathroom break."
"Barth-room?"
"Don't ask."
Chapter 24
Ellie had no idea what she'd sat on, but her thigh stung like hell.
Wasn't there one square foot of hillside not covered in thistle? At least, she hoped it was thistle. She was allergic to bees and wasps. And without a ready supply of antihistamine she would be in for a few very uncomfortable days.
Imagine turning up to the MacTavish keep looking like blowfish? She would be in enough trouble as it is without having Ewan wrap her in cotton wool for the rest of her life.
As she rubbed her leg and made her way back to where she'd left Liam with the horses, her thoughts turned to Ewan's father. There was something about his condition that rang familiar with her, and she'd been racking her brain to figure out just what it was.
Perhaps the answer was much simpler than they'd all suspected?
If poison wasn't the culprit, there were many diseases that could ravage the body slowly. What if the man had merely developed some kind of cancer and, despite his dismissal of the curse, even Ewan was looking to blame someone or something for his father's demise.
But the tampering of the clan's lakes and crops were a very different matter.
There was no doubt left in her mind that Father Martin had been responsible for the dead fish and birdlife, and now it was up to her to prove how. When she caught up with Ewan, she'd ask him to show her the fields as well.
Knowing the old priest's talent with creating toxins, she didn't doubt he could have created his own special variety of 'Agent Orange' to obliterate the clan's crops.
But what had driven the crazy old man to do such terrible things? As soon as they reached MacTavish's keep, she wanted some straight answers from the old priest.
Up
ahead, the golden flicker of firelight shone through the darkness. As she approached, Liam looked up and flashed a tired smile.
He really was very kind to her, especially after all the trouble she'd caused him.
"I thought you may be hungry, ma Lady." As he spoke, he mixed what appeared to be coarse flour in a small bowl with water from his flask. On the edge of the fire, a flat griddle-like pan rested on the coals. "It isn’t much, but oatcakes will fill your belly 'til we arrive at the keep."
Her stomach rumbled at the mention of food. She'd forgotten the last time she'd eaten.
"Thank you, Liam. That's very considerate of you. I hadn't thought to bring any supplies." Making her way to the fire, she walked beside the horses and paused. "There's an odd aroma around here, Liam."
No, not an aroma—a stench.
Every now and then whilst riding, she'd caught a whiff of something in the air, but dismissed it as being from any number of possible sources. They were in the country after all.
But this was different.
It smelled like rotting meat.
"I caught some rabbits yesterday on ma way back to the keep, must still be in ma saddle bags." Liam didn't look up as he tended the browning oatcakes, turning one over with the flat blade of his dagger. "I'll be sure to get rid of them before we move on."
As he placed the knife on a rock next to the fire, the beautiful, intricately carved handle caught her attention. She would always be an archaeologist at heart.
She sat down, reached over and picked up the weapon to examine it. "This really is lovely, Liam. I can't quite make out the embossed initials in this light. Was it your father's?"
His expression darkened as he plucked the dagger from her hands.
Had she said something wrong? An awkward silence hung between them, as he handed her a hot oatcake, then proceeded to clean the metal disc.
She took a small bite, chewed then swallowed the bland oat mixture. "Aren't you eating?"
He shook his head, but didn't meet her gaze.
"I'm nae hungry, ma Lady. As soon as you are finished, we'll move on."
"Oh." She searched for something to say. "This is very different, Liam. I've never had oatcakes made over a fire before. And there's a hint of something in it I can't quite place. Did you flavor it with some herbs?"
He glanced up at her with a strange look glinting in his eye that made her feel suddenly uncomfortable.
"Aye. 'Tis to my own taste."
Not wishing to offend him further, she swallowed another bite, stood, and dusted of her cloak. "Oh. Well, it's very good." The sooner she found Ewan the better. Her mind was starting to play tricks on her.
Perhaps she was just tired?
Stuffing the last of the cake into her mouth, she approached Tilley and began to untie the water flask tethered to her saddle. She needed to wash the dry mixture down. She wouldn't be hungry again for a while; the way the oats sat heavy in her stomach, she doubted if she'd eat for a week.
She glanced at Liam's horse and screwed her nose up at the pungent odor emanating from his hunting bags. Guilt pricked her conscience. He'd gone and wasted good food in his effort to help her get to Ewan, when game was in such short supply there. The least she could was dispose of the poor things while he cleaned up their campsite.
She began to untie the bag, when the familiar odor of bitter herbs reached her nose.
"Dinna touch that." Liam's abrupt command made her jump, set her heartbeat racing.
What was his problem? Ever since she'd commented about his dagger, he'd become tense and brooding.
She didn't like it at all.
"I just wanted to help you by getting rid of the dead rabbits. There's no need to shout." Ignoring his rude behavior, she reached into the bag and withdrew a large chunk of dark flesh. In the pale firelight, the dark red mass glistened with a greenish-brown shimmer. "These aren't rabbits."
An icy shudder rippled along her spine, made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.
Liam pulled the foul meat from her hands, then stuffed it back into the bags, his face near distorted with anger.
"I told you nae to touch, you foolish wench. But, then again, you were never good at doing what you were told."
Her chest constricted, making it hard for her to breathe. Her heartbeat was pounding. Her head was beginning to feel dizzy. She fought to focus on his face.
What in Hell was wrong with her?
"Those aren't your dinner. They are baits, aren't they?" Her accusation bought a sneering smile to his face. She shook her head, as the ground beneath her feet seemed to soften and give way. "You've been killing the game. But why?"
Her knees began to give way. Liam's hand gripped tightly under her arm. She gazed up and met the blurred double-vision of his smiling face.
"What . . . what have you done to me, you bastard?"
As darkness claimed her failing sight, his voice rang in her ears.
"Hush now, ma Lady. You have nothing to fear. I will take good care of ma cousin's widow."
The gates of MacKinnon Keep barely opened in time to let Ewan's horse through, as the steed bolted into the bailey.
"Ellie! Ellie, answer me woman!"
His echoing shouts brought the glow of torches and curious faces from doorways and windows of the keep. Several soldiers, still fastening the ties of their plaids, rushed out to meet him as he dismounted and handed his reigns to a guard.
"Angus. Have another horse ready to go for me, now!"
Every second of his journey from MacTavish Keep had been dogged with a burning feeling of dread, not for what he might find waiting for him at home—but for what he might not.
"I am here and of no danger to her . . . unlike others who may seek to cause you pain." MacTavish's words had haunted him as he rode.
Never before had he felt such a terrifying angst; though he'd surely looked death in the face more times than he could count.
Dying didn't frighten him, losing Ellie did.
Sword in hand, he stormed through the great hall and headed toward the chapel. As he approached the wooden door, his heart leaped at the sounds of a female voice inside. Perhaps his unruly wife was talking to the priest and had done as she was told and stayed put.
Who was he kidding?
The startled look on Father Gregory's face as he burst through the door gave him the answer, before he'd even asked the question. His wife wasn't there.
His cook, Millie, bowed then bobbed an awkward curtsey as she fiddled with her apron.
"Aye, ma laird. I wasn’t expecting you home tonight. Can I get you something to eat?
He stared from one servant to the next.
Father Gregory mopped his brow. "We—we were just going over the dinner plans for the wedding on Sunday, ma Laird. Is there anything the matter? Mille dinna want to disturb Lady Elspeth, as Jennie had seen her to bed with a headache earlier this evening."
Ewan turned on his heel, dashed along the corridor, and took to the stairs two at a time.
As he reached his chamber door, his mind was in such a state he could barely think straight. "Ellie?"
His chest tightened as he stood in the empty room.
Ellie's night clothes were still laid out for her on the bed—she had obviously lied about wanting to sleep off a headache. But why?
The chamber appeared neat and tidy, no signs of a struggle. It didn't make sense. Even if she had wanted to find him, she would have had no idea how to reach MacTavish's keep.
The thought of her out in the hills, alone and in the dark tore at him, made his stomach clench.
Wanting to go faster than his legs could carry him, he raced across the bailey to where David was coming out from the guard's hut. Without slowing down he grabbed his soldier's plaid and shoved him against the stone wall of the keep.
"Where the hell is ma wife? She was in your care."
As he held David's unwavering gaze, he couldn't mistake the look of honest regret in his soldier's eyes. Hell. He rel
eased David, who coughed, then cleared his throat.
"You've the right to kill me, Laird. I dinna know the lady left the keep. Aye, it was ma responsibility to keep her safe."
"Angus, ma horse!" He shook his head. "Nae. 'Tis ma fault. I cannot blame anyone but myself. Ellie had been trying to talk to me, but I wasn’t listening."
David clasped the handle of his sword. "I wish to come with you, Laird."
"Nae. There's nae need—"
"Ma Laird!" Father Gregory's high-pitched voice carried across the noise of men preparing to leave. "Don't leave!"
He met the young priest halfway across the courtyard. The man was holding something in his hand.
"What's the matter, Father? I have nae time to waste."
The priest nodded and panted with the effort to catch his breath.
"You left the chapel before I had the chance to give you this missive." He took the folded parchment from the Gregory's unsteady hand and glared down at the familiar script written upon it. "Aye. Father Martin would be most upset with me if I'd failed to see his task done."
Ewan's jaw tensed as he opened the letter, so much so he could barely speak. "Father Martin was here?"
"Nae, Laird. Liam delivered the message on his behalf about two hours ago."
A molten hot arrow of fury pierced Ewan's heart at the sound of his cousin's name. Never had he wanted to kill a man more. How blind had he been?
Father Martin had an accomplice all along.
Chapter 25
The muffled sound of voices crept into Ellie's growing consciousness, as she vaguely wondered what had crawled into her mouth and died.
"Oh, God." She didn't recall drinking.
She thought to rub her neck to ease the throbbing headache that was increasing with each passing moment, only to discover her hands were firmly tied behind her back. What the hell?
Liam.
She released a deep breath, as battered fragments of her last memories came back to gloat. She should have seen the man for what he was all along—a real bastard.