by Lois Greiman
“I wished to give you my apologies,” she said.
“Apologies? Surely not,” MacKinnon argued.
“Aye. You were kind enough to offer to accompany me at supper and I did not even give you a response.”
He glanced away. “After Drummond’s words I was unsurprised that you ran away.”
Reaching out, she touched his sleeve. “I have wounded you. ‘Twas not my intent, I assure you.”
“Was it not?” His eyes were wide and earnest. Cat’s heart twisted. Surely this couldn’t be the one she called Blackheart. She should leave him in peace, but she had so few leads, and how could she know how a madman would act in the light of day?
“Nay,” she assured him. “I merely thought of something I had to tell Lord Tremayne.” ‘Twas an uninspired lie, but a safe one, since James’s old councilor had taken a moment to remind her that he was keeping an eye on her.
“I saw you speaking to Tremayne,” he said. “There was no trouble, I hope.”
“Nay, all is well.”
For a moment he was silent, then, “I did not do it.”
“What?” she said with her mind racing.
“I did not kill my wife.”
Shock spurred through her. What the devil was he talking about?
“Oh.” Something akin to relief spurred through her. “I never… I never thought you did.”
“Did you not?” He stepped closer, his expression solemn. Judging by his breath and his unsteady pose, Lord MacKinnon had been drinking for some time. So luck had not abandoned her completely. “You are…” He paused, momentarily at a loss for words. “You are kind.”
She lowered her eyes, though her heart was beating overtime, and her mind screamed that she must hurry. Already she sensed that others were approaching, and she could not afford to be interrupted. “You flatter me,” she said.
“Nay. ‘Tis not so, Lady Cat.”
“Please, Lord MacKinnon—-”
“I would be honored if you would call me Samuel.”
“Samuel.” She kept her eyes averted. If he was Blackheart, he was an excellent actor. Thus, she must be the same. ” ‘Tis a good name.”
He watched her in silence, then, ” ‘Tis warm and too close in here,” he said.
She had heard that line before and well knew the next request, so she nodded while in her mind she reviewed her plans, making certain she had everything she needed—Marta’s tiny vial and the rolled piece of vellum hidden away in the pouch on her girdle as it always was.
“Might I ask…” He paused. “Might I make so bold as to ask you to accompany me to the gardens?”
“The gardens would be lovely. But if you would not mind…” She forced herself to meet his gaze. “I would rather go straightaway to your chamber.”
Chapter 13
Samuel MacKinnon stared at her. “To my chamber?” he murmured.
“Aye,” she said and slid her arm through his, steadying him as she herded him toward the door. “I simply… I must have some time alone. Away from—”
“The crush of admirers?” he guessed, then frowned down at her. A bit of ale sloshed over the rim of his horn.
“Do you mind?”
“Nay.” His answer was solemn and hesitant, his gait a bit unsteady as he turned to the left. “You are welcome to use me any way you wish.”
“My thanks,” she murmured, and seeing Lord Tremayne approaching from the right, turned her face to the left and prayed to be ignored. She forced herself to go several strides before glancing back, but when she did Tremayne was still watching, his expression pinched with disapproval.
“Lady Cat?” MacKinnon said.
“Aye.” She turned back with a frown, her heart beating overtime.
“May I voice a question?”
“Certainly.” One more glance assured her that Tremayne was gone. Raucous noise issued from the great hall and she hustled him away.
“Why me?”
“What?” she asked, distracted and jumpy.
“Why me? That is to say…” He tried to pull her to a halt, but she would have none of it. She had a mission and precious little time to accomplish it. “I am hardly the highest-born among the assemblage here.”
“Mayhap I care little for titles.”
He frowned as they hurried along. “It cannot be my features. Though I do not frighten small children, still, you…” He lost the words and fell into silence.
“Perhaps tis simply because you are a good person,” she said and stopped by his door.
He scowled. “How did you know this room was mine?”
Panic galloped through her. “I… Someone said Drummond was the kind to keep his chamber locked.” She held her breath and prayed. “Do you have the key?”
“Aye. This room housed Blackburn’s spices, I am told. But with the crush of visitors it was fashioned into bedchambers,” he said and fumbled around his drink for his leather purse.
“Here then,” she said, forcing the panic into submission. “I will take your goblet.”
He handed it over before turning back to the door.
It was almost too simple to slip Marta’s potion into his ale. By the time he’d wrestled the door open, it had been well mixed. She was inside in a moment.
He followed her, pulling the door closed behind. The room was as dark as mud.
“Well,” he said. “Here we are, then.”
“Aye.” She frowned into nothingness. “In the dark.”
There was a moment of silence, then, “Your pardon?”
” ‘Tis dark. Mayhap you could fetch a light.”
“Oh.” He bumped to life, patted about on a nearby surface, and soon produced a candle.
The door creaked open. Light streamed through the crack then followed his entrance.
She quickly closed the door behind him, turned, and handed him his drinking goblet.
“Lady Catriona,” he said, not seeming to notice his drink as he stared into her eyes. “There is something you should know. But now, ‘tis… difficult to say the words.”
A confession? A clue? Was he Blackheart? Or did he, perhaps, know something about Lachlan’s disappearance? “What do you have to say?”
He drew a deep breath. “Your—”
Footsteps sounded in the hall. Catriona froze. Momentarily distracted, MacKinnon glanced at the door. But the noise passed.
“My what?” she said, trying to relax.
“Your beauty astounds me. In truth, I have never seen a woman as enchanting as you. But—”
Disappointment swamped her. “Drink,” she urged. Lifting the horn toward him, she touched her finger to the bottom of the goblet, tilting it toward his lips.
He finished the brew without more prompting. The room was utterly silent. Catriona stared at him, realizing suddenly that she had neglected to ask Marta how long it took for the herbs to take effect. Perhaps she should get him nearer the bed. If he landed on the mattress ‘twould surely be quieter than if he hit the floor. She stepped in that direction.
He followed her slowly. “Are you real?”
“What?” She brought her attention back to him with a start.
He shook his head as if to clear it. “I mean no disrespect. But… there are those who say your beauty is not natural.”
“Are you suggesting that I am a witch?”
“Not a witch. A fairy, perhaps.”
“Nay.”
“Then… how can you be so enchanting?”
” ‘Tis a curse,” she said and glanced quickly about the room. There were two simple iron-bound chests, a three-legged stool, and a small table. No small boxes that might house a favored medallion met her gaze.
“Your beauty is a curse?”
Honesty was hardly needed here, but he seemed so earnest. “I mean that my features seem to draw… the wrong kind of man.”
He was silent for a moment. “Am I the right kind?”
She glanced impatiently toward the trunk again. “I hope so.”
He stepped closer still, so that they stood side by side near the bed.
“There is a terrible truth, lady. But I must tell you.”
“What truth?”
“I have not…” He paused. “What Drummond meant to tell you was…‘Twas my wife Harrowhead was with, the night he was murdered.”
She could not speak, could barely breathe.
“My wife… she was unfaithful. But I did not kill her. And I did not kill the old earl.”
Dear God, she had never imagined that he had. Mayhap this man was no safer than Lord Drummond.
“She was returning from a night with her lover when she fell from her horse.”
“I…” Emotions and questions and fears swirled around her. “I am sorry.”
He smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. “I did not tell you for your pity,” he said and cleared his throat. “The truth is this: I have not… I have been unable to… perform since I learned the truth.”
If she had been forced to guess what he had been about to say, that would not have been her first supposition. She should say something, she thought. But nothing came to mind.
“With Fayette… Well, I owed her so much for her kindness with my daughters that I dare not disappoint…” He shrugged and took a scant step closer. “But I think perhaps with you it will be different.” He caressed her cheek then leaned close. “Thank you,” he whispered, and then he collapsed, draped over the edge of the mattress like a wilted carrot.
Catriona winced. “Lord MacKinnon?” she whispered, bending slightly.
He didn’t answer.
“Lord MacKinnon?”
There was no doubt about it: He was unconscious. But MacKinnon was facedown on the mattress. What if he suffocated?
Crawling onto the bed, she grabbed handfuls of his doublet, dragged him onto the pallet, and turned him over. Then she scurried over to the nearer trunk. Which was MacKinnon’s and which was Drummond’s, she didn’t know. But that was not her immediate concern.
The nearer chest opened with a creak of protest, but her hands were immediately inside, fumbling through the clothes.
Nothing.
The other trunk was smaller but still goodly sized, nearly three feet tall and bound by iron bands with strange gargoyle faces placed at intervals on the metal.
Cat rummaged through that just as quickly, but again she was disappointed. Where might he hide a precious trinket?
The bed.
Rising quickly, she hurried to the pallet and managed to drag the scattered blankets from beneath MacKinnon’s inert form. Still nothing. She pulled up the edge of the mattress, but there were no treasures hidden between the tightly stretched ropes and the straw-filled tick.
Her heart was racing. There would be no reason to lock the door unless there was some treasure hidden inside, so where…
Her gaze fell on MacKinnon’s limp form. On the girdle beside his hip, a pouch was tied.
Scrambling across the mattress, she reached for the leather thong that held his pouch in place. He moaned.
She snatched her hands away for a heart-stopping instant, but one glance at his face assured her he was still sound asleep, so she eased her fingers forward again. Once the pouch was free, she dumped the contents onto the mattress. Only coins, a chip of flint, and a stub of candle.
She must keep looking. But where? She skimmed her gaze past his limp form then snapped it back.
His codpiece. ‘Twas a good-sized thing and a likely place for a man to hide his jewels.
She winced at her poor pun and reached under his doublet. Her fingers skimmed his abdomen.
“Fayette,” he sighed.
She nearly screamed as she jerked her hands away, but when she snapped her gaze to his face, found that his eyes were still closed, though a contented smile lifted his lips.
Still, her breathing came in hard gasps and her hands were shaking when she reached out again.
It was no simple task to undress him. She was forced to untie the half dozen laces that bound his hose to his doublet before she could even begin to drag the required garment from his flaccid body.
But when it came free, she found that his codpiece was entirely empty. ‘Twas all she needed to know, she told herself—but curiosity coaxed her gaze upward. Rigid and reddened, his swollen penis lay stretched against his pale belly. She could not help but stare.
A rustle of noise passed in the hall, and she jumped. Realizing she had no time to spare, she hurried to the far side of the room, peering into the corners, behind the curtains.
Her gaze hurried back to the smaller trunk. It was quite a high box, taller than it was deep, and… A false bottom!
Certain she was right, she lunged back toward it. Throwing it open, she grabbed handfuls of clothing and tossed them out. Her knuckles thumped against the bottom. She frowned, searching blindly for a way to lift it up. But nothing untoward met her fingers.
Jerking to her feet, she snatched the candle from the table and shone it on the inside of the trunk. Still, she could find nothing.
She dropped back onto her heels in abject frustration.
Already she had been there too long. Drummond might return at any moment. She must hurry.
Her gaze skimmed the box in front of her. ‘Twas then that she noticed one of the gargoyles was slightly askew. Reaching out, she touched the gnarled face. It turned beneath her hand. Her breath caught in her throat. Her fingers trembled as she rapidly turned up the other gargoyle and tugged at the sides of the trunk.
Wood slid against wood as, to Catriona’s surprise, a narrow receptacle slid out of the bottom of the chest. And in that receptacle… She shakily lifted a piece of linen.
Jewels!
Her heart thrummed noisily against her ribs. This was it. She was certain of it.
She skimmed the drawer. A ring. A large, squarish brooch. There! The medallion! Lying on a large coil of silver chain was a round medallion set with rough stones. Her hands trembled as she lifted it out.
It must be the one. It must. But… Somehow it did not seem quite the same as the imprint she’d found. Holding the piece in her shaky hand, she fumbled for her pouch and pulled out the scrap of vellum. The medallion was approximately the same size as the item Blackheart had dropped, and the stones were in the same approximate position, but the vellum showed three stones at the top and bottom of the circle and an intricate Celtic knot in the middle.
The medallion had no knotwork and fewer stones.
Disappointment nearly drowned her.
A low, humming voice sounded in the hallway.
Catriona froze, her gaze locked frantically on the door. For a moment she was certain that it would open, that all was lost—but the voices moved on.
She breathed again, drawing air rapidly into her lungs as she covered the jewels with the linens and rapidly slid the secret compartment back into the trunk. The gargoyles leered as they fell into place. The clothing settled rapidly into sloppy piles, and the trunk closed almost silently.
Catriona rose quickly to her feet and glanced about, and then, unable to leave MacKinnon so exposed, she flipped the blankets over him.
Footfalls approached from the hall, stopping her breath, but again the sound traveled leisurely away. She heard a door open and close, further down.
The nobles were returning to their rooms.
Snatching up her vellum drawing from the floor, she rushed to the door and listened.
Nothing.
She pushed the latch and stepped quickly into the hall. All was quiet, and she hurried toward her own chambers. She was in no condition to search more this night.
“Catriona.”
She almost screamed as she jerked about.
Haydan the Hawk stared at her with hooded eyes then bent slowly. Breathlessly, she watched him retrieve her fallen vellum and glance at the sketch.
“A favored trinket?” he asked, his voice deep.
“What?” Her heart was in her throat, pumping wildly. Where had he come
from? Had he seen her exit MacKinnon’s chambers?
“The drawing,” he said, lifting the leather. “Is it a sketch of a brooch you covet, perhaps?”
“Nay. Nay. I—” Her hands were trembling, so she clasped them together and prayed for calm. She had done nothing wrong. Stolen nothing. Hurt no one. Of course, if MacKinnon was found unconscious in his room, people would begin to ask questions. And if it was discovered that she had been rummaging through the young baron’s possessions… Gypsies had been burned for less.
“Nay,” she repeated and reached for the sketch. He let it go after a moment. ” ‘Tis naught of import. Just something I drew to pass the time.”
“Pass the time?” He watched her very closely. Too closely. “Why are you not abed?” he asked.
“I…” She could not help glancing just once at MacKinnon’s door, like a murderer needing to check the scene of his crime. But the door was firmly closed and all was silent. “I… Why are you not abed?”
He said nothing.
“Were you following me, Sir Hawk?” she asked. She made certain her tone was haughty, but her stomach twisted at the thought. ‘Twas fear, of course. Fear and nothing else. The thought of him longing for her did not upset her equilibrium.
“Is there some reason I should?”
She forced a laugh. “Not unless you are enamored of me and refuse to admit it.”
A muscle jerked in his jaw. ” ‘Twill be a dark day indeed when the lark leads an old bird like me a merry chase. But I would be your friend if you would have one.”
Her stomach twisted harder. She did not need him, not as a lover and certainly not as a friend. There was no more certain path to death.
“Why do you wander these halls?” he asked again.
There was concern in his eyes, power in his hand, but she had nearly been weak enough to reveal her troubles to him before. She would not be so foolish again.
“I could not sleep,” she said and turned away from him, heading toward her chambers.
“Something troubles you?”
His voice was deep and alluring. She could not help but remember the feel of his arms around her, the dance of his muscles against hers. But in the end he had drawn away.
Still, she could feel his gaze on her as he waited for an answer.