He met her eyes now, knew his horror showed when he saw her smile widen. Did she know his secret? Of course, now he had two secrets. She didn’t ask if he’d let the lass go . . .
“Of course, I could go back to the continent, or even to America . . . Scotland doesn’t entirely appeal to me, but I’ll leave no loose ends. You know how I hate them. The girl is a loose end, Iain.”
She touched his forearm lightly, let her fingertips slide up his arm to his face. She wore his signet ring on her right hand, marking him as hers until the contract ended, and even then . . . would he ever be free? He felt revulsion make him sweat. She cupped his cheek, and he felt the edge of the ring against his skin. The crystal ring, worn beside his own, was as cold as ice against his skin, despite the warmth of her hand. She rubbed her fingertips over the stubble on his jaw, ran the pad of her thumb across his lower lip. He stared into the distance, unaroused. With an oath in a language he didn’t speak, she spun away from him.
“I want Laire MacLeod back,” she hissed.
Laire, he thought. Her name is Laire. He hadn’t known, didn’t want to. It made her real. He thought of the way she felt in his arms, all fragile bird bones and lion courage. Where is she now?
“I always get what I want. Have you forgotten that, Iain? Need I remind you? I could make you my slave, feed you a love potion until you crave me and go mad with longing. You’ll never be free. You’ll beg for another seven years, and more after that . . . You won’t care if I destroy your clan. You won’t care about anything but me.”
Iain heard his own blood pounding in his ears. It wasn’t just his clan . . .
“Can you track her?” she asked, her voice soft, but her threat remaining, as sharp as a stiletto pressed to his throat.
He could see his reflection in the mirror. He looked ruthless, dangerous, a man with sins on his soul. A man who’d do anything. Helping the girl—Laire—didn’t absolve him of all the other dark deeds. It made him a fool, and he was not a fool. One girl’s life was not worth a whole clan of others. His hand tightened on the pommel of his sword, making the wet leather bindings squeak.
“I can track her.”
Bibiana smiled, a faint twist of rouged lips that didn’t meet her eyes. “Good,” she purred.
He turned to go, had his hand on the latch when she called him. “Sealgair?”
He paused, watched as she picked up a small white alabaster box from the dressing table. She held it out to him, and he took it. The carved surface bore an intricate design of runes and symbols, including a raven with its wings spread.
“When you find her, I don’t want her back. I want her heart in this box.”
Iain’s belly caved in against his spine. He held her eyes, saw the terrible glow behind her cool blue gaze. He saw her for what she really was, the monster behind the illusion.
He forced himself to wait, to hold her gaze, silently ask the question. And his kin? She tilted her head and smiled at him. “Don’t fail me, sealgair,” was all she said.
CHAPTER NINE
After the sealgair left her, Laire sat on a rock on the edge of the cliff and stared down at the lights of the fort and the small village that surrounded it in the glen below.
Behind her lay all that was familiar. She longed for her the company of father and her sisters and her warm bed.
But if she returned, she’d find danger and madness. And if she went forward, there would be English soldiers, patrols, strangers. Papa did not allow his daughters to go near the fort. But he wasn’t here now.
She had to take the first step, go down the track that led forward, not back. She had to find help for her family. Without her, they were lost. She felt tears threaten. Lost indeed. She didn’t even have a handkerchief. She swiped her hand across her eyes.
Then the rain began, falling in cold, fat drops.
Laire wrapped the cloak—his cloak—more tightly around her. It was good thick wool, and it smelled of his body, clean and male. She looked behind her once more, wondering if he was there, in the dark, watching her. If she called out, would he come to her aid?
But the woods were empty, silent, and dark. She was on her own. There was no point in sitting here in the dark crying. She stood up and checked the dirk in her sleeve, making sure it was secure and easy to reach, as Papa taught her. She took a few silver coins out of the sealgair’s pouch and put them in her pocket. She’d never carried money before, had no idea how much things cost—a loaf of bread or a night’s lodging. She hoisted her petticoats and tied the bag to the strings of her stays. It hung against her hip, heavy and cold.
She took a deep breath and lifted her skirts out of the mud, though there was little point. Her gown and her satin dancing slippers were already ruined.
She took the first step down the slippery path.
Laire was soaked to the skin by the time she reached the inn, but at least the weather and the late hour meant that there were few people on the road to notice a woman walking alone in the middle of the night, in the rain.
If anyone had seen her, they’d think she was in trouble, and so she was.
She paused in front of the inn, patted the dirk in her sleeve and pulled the hood of the huntsman’s cloak low over her eyes. She took a breath as she opened the door, and did her best to slip inside quickly and quietly.
The taproom was full, and she smelled stale beer, beef stew, and wet wool. The room was dimly lit, but she saw the scarlet tunics of the English soldiers who filled several tables. A few Scots kept to the opposite side of the room, as if an invisible line divided them. Not a single one of the Scots wore a MacLeod plaid, yet they were talking about her kin.
“I hear The Fearsome MacLeod has taken another bride. How many wives is that now?” Someone said in Gaelic, and Laire’s ears pricked.
“At least a dozen.”
“Nay, it’s a dozen daughters he has.”
“And no sons.”
She felt a prickle of guilt and swallowed it.
“Then who is the new Lady MacLeod? What clan is she from?”
“She’s from no clan at all. She’s a foreign lady.”
“What kind of foreign?” a dark man demanded, frowning.
“French or Italian. Some say she’s from Flanders.”
The dark man grinned. “Ach, as long as she’s not a Sassenach or a Lowlander, I’ll drink to her health.” Laire watched the pewter mugs rise and clatter together.
The alewife hurried over, her face dark as thunder. “Keep your voices down. There’s a dozen English soldiers here tonight, and every one of them knows enough Gaelic to know what Sassenach means. I don’t want any trouble, and neither do you. Have ye no homes to go to?”
“Now, Aggie, there’s so much rain fallin’ a man could drown just walking across the heath. Ye wouldn’t want that, would ye?” someone said.
“Behave yourselves,” Aggie grumbled, refilling their cups.
She looked up and saw Laire hovering near the doorway. “What the devil are you doing here at this hour?” she demanded, one ham-sized fist on her hip. Everyone in the taproom stopped to look.
Laire felt eyes burn into her, read curiosity and suspicion, saw the flare of lustful interest in a woman alone. She wrapped the wet cloak tighter still.
“Have you a room for the night?”
Aggie frowned. “Depends on why ye want it. Are ye plying your trade?”
“I’m first,” one of the English soldiers said, and the others laughed.
Laire felt her cheeks fill with hot blood, but she kept her eyes on Aggie. “No. I’m on my way to—” she bit her lip. “I’m seeking work,” she said, thinking fast. “As a lady’s maid.”
Aggie’s eyebrows flew into her hairline. “A lady’s maid?” She looked at Laire more carefully. “The only one likely to need a lady’s maid hereabouts is the new Lady MacLeod, at Glen Iolair.”
Laire tightened her fists in the folds of the cloak. “The lady is . . . she brought her own maid with her when she married the
laird.”
She spoke in Gaelic, and the English soldiers didn’t understand. “Well, is she open for business or not?” one of them asked Aggie.
She turned to him. “I run a respectable inn, Sergeant. The lass is not a whore.”
“Then why she here in the middle of the night, all alone?” the sergeant asked. The Scots bristled.
“Aye, go home, lassie,” one of them muttered. “There’s naught but trouble here.”
But the sergeant was already on his feet. He was a big man, fat as well as tall. His greasy hair was tied in a queue, and there was dirt under his nails and on the knees of his breeches. “She needs to register at the fort if she’s not from these parts.”
He was coming toward her and the other English soldiers were grinning. Laire felt her belly shrink against her spine. The Scots began to rise to their feet, indignant at the insult to one of their own, even if she was a stranger. There’d be a fight and the Scots would lose. Laire looked at the English muskets stacked against the wall, felt her heart kick. She reached for the dirk in her sleeve as the sergeant drew closer.
But Aggie stepped in front the man before he reached Laire. “Nay, ye don’t. Not in my inn. Ye know the rules here. I have a promise in writing from Colonel Rowly: No fighting here.”
“It isn’t a fight I’m after,” the sergeant said. “And I’ll take her outside.”
The alewife stood her ground. “Colin!” she bellowed, and a big lad stood up behind the bar, rubbing his eyes. He was so tall his head brushed the pewter pots hanging on hooks above the bar. “Fetch the colonel’s letter for me. The sergeant needs to see it.”
The lad brought out a plank of wood with a piece of parchment nailed to it.
One by one, the Scots rose from their seats and went to stand beside Colin, who hadn’t said a word.
“Now, would ye like more ale, or are ye going to call it a night and go back to your barracks?” Aggie asked.
The sergeant looked at the Scots and Colin, who stood head and shoulders above the rest of them, and he looked at Laire.
Laire clutched the knife, though she kept it hidden for now. The sight of a dirk might set light to the powder keg of emotions. The Englishman spat on the floor.
“She’ll need to register at the fort. Tomorrow morning, first light.”
Aggie nodded. “Fair enough. Now off ye go, Sergeant, and your men with ye. I’m closing for the night.”
She waited while the Englishmen drained their cups, picked up their weapons, and left. Aggie bolted the door behind them.
The Scotsmen resumed their seats, and Aggie poured another round for her countrymen.
Laire sank into the nearest chair, her legs no longer able to hold her. Tears threatened again, but she gritted her teeth, refused to let them fall, or to let down her guard.
“We’ll stay, Aggie, to protect the lass,” one of the Scots said. The expression in his dark eyes suggested it wasn’t protection he had in mind.
“Och, will ye now? What will Morag say to that, Jock MacKenzie?”
He flushed scarlet.
“I’ve got Colin and a good sharp dirk, and my man will be back tomorrow. We’ll be safe enough,” Aggie said.
Laire watched as the men filed out, and Aggie locked the door once again. She was cold and tired. She took her dirk out of her sleeve and laid it on the table. “May I have some water?” she asked politely. “I can pay.”
Aggie stared at the weapon and began to laugh. She laughed so hard her sides shook, and her double chins, and her heavy breasts. “Ye can have anything ye like, lass. Come with me. It seems to me you’ve got enough water dripping from your clothes. Come and get dry. Have ye a name?”
“It’s—Ella,” she said, giving her dead mother’s name.
Aggie led Laire into a comfortable and well-appointed back parlor. The inn must be a profitable business, Laire thought, for the room was nearly as grand as her father’s own chamber.
“Sit ye down by the fire,” Aggie said, and plumped the cushion on the settee.
Laire unpinned the cloak, and Aggie hung it on a hook near the fire, where it dripped onto the stone floor.
“Och, that’s a bonny gown,” Aggie said, looking at Laire’s violet silk, though she ran her gaze dubiously over it. “Or it must have been, once. It’s seen some hard wear.” Laire clasped the sleeve where the lace had torn away. The dress felt lopsided without it. There was mud from the hem all the way up to her knees. Her hair was a fierce tangle, her arms scratched by brambles. Aggie noticed it all. “Have ye come far, then?”
“From Inverness,” Laire said, naming the only large town she knew. She’d been there once, with her father. “My last posting was there.”
“And how did ye come to lose it?”
“My mistress died,” she said quickly. “She was very old. I’m looking for a healer,” she said.
Aggie considered. “A healer? There’s a healer up at Iolair.”
Laire sighed. Ada. But Ada was gone . . .
“What do ye want a healer for?”
Laire swallowed. “I need someone who knows about poisons.” Aggie blanched. “How to stop them, I mean. My old aunt suffers from gout—I’ve heard it’s caused by poisons in the blood.”
Aggie nodded. “So they say. I’ve a touch of it myself.” She crossed to the sideboard and poured whisky into a cup. “Will ye take a dram to warm ye?”
Laire shook her head. “Just water, if you please.”
“Och, is it that ye can’t pay after all?”
“I can pay.” Laire fished in her pocket for one of the silver coins.
Aggie swallowed the whisky herself in one gulp. “Now how did ye come by that?”
How did ordinary folk come by money? Her father had always carried whatever coin his daughters needed, or a reliable clansman held it on their behalf. There was never a need for a daughter of the Fearsome MacLeod to carry money. Until now.
“It was a gift—a legacy—from my mistress,” she lied.
Aggie nodded, satisfied. “And ye still want plain water?”
Laire nodded, and Aggie poured her a cup from a pitcher that stood on the sideboard, next to the whisky. She watched as Laire drained the cup of water, then refilled it.
“I prefer a dram myself, but probably best for a young lass like you to avoid strong spirits.”
Better than she could imagine . . .
“I believe it might be good fortune that ye’ve come tonight, Ella, for both of us. I’m setting out on a journey tomorrow, early. I wish to visit my sister in Inverness before winter sets in. My son Colin is coming along with me, but he’s not much of a talker. A companion, a lady’s maid, would make for grand company.” She sat down. “It seems to me that the worst thing ye could do is to go to that fort tomorrow, or ever. Best ye stay away from English soldiers, as bonny as ye are. That sergeant won’t forget a face like yours. Can ye use that dirk you’ve got in your sleeve?”
Laire nodded. “Aye. My father taught me.”
“And where is he now?”
Laire hated to think. Papa was probably in his bed, dazed, confused, thinking only of Bibiana. “Dead,” she said, and prayed it wasn’t true.
“Then he’ll not object to you taking a journey with me. It will be three or four days of riding. I hope we’ll have good weather for it, or it will take longer than that. I can’t bear going by ship, since I can’t abide the water. Will that suit ye?”
“I’m not afraid of rain,” Laire said.
“Well, my old bones are. They ache like the devil when it pours. I’ll need a healer myself by the time we reach Inverness. I have a salve, but I can’t rub it on my own—Well, I’m sure ye understand. Ye can help me with that, since Colin certainly can’t. And when we reach Inverness, my sister is sure to know if there’s anyone in Inverness wanting a maid.”
She rose to her feet. “We’ll start early. There’s a box bed in the corner. I’ll fetch ye some dry clothes and a bite to eat. You’ll be safe here, so ye can re
st easy.”
When Aggie left her, Laire lay down on the wee bed. She looked at the black cloak hanging by the fire. Why had the sealgair helped her? He was Bibiana’s servant. He could have easily subdued her, taken her back. Instead he’d let her go, given her his own cloak, his purse, his dirk. She remembered the way his body felt pressed to hers, his hand covering her mouth, keeping her still. He’d done it effortlessly, expertly, but he hadn’t hurt her. He’d been gentle. “You are kind,” she whispered to the air.
Because of him, she was safe. At least for now.
CHAPTER TEN
Iain crept forward on his belly, silently, and peered through the foliage. He’d tracked Laire MacLeod to the inn, and arrived early in the morning. He found a detachment of English soldiers questioning the innkeeper about a pretty young Scotswoman with dark hair.
To his credit, the innkeeper said he knew nothing, had been away for a few days, and the inn had been in the charge of his wife in his absence. That good woman had left that very morning to make a visit to her sister in Inverness, in the company of her son, and none other that he knew of.
Inverness . . . now why would she go there?
It didn’t matter—she’d never arrive. It had taken Iain only a few hours to pick up her trail, even on foot, while the innkeeper’s wife, her son, and one other rode sturdy garrons. They were travelling slowly, taking the easiest, gentlest routes.
He understood when he caught up with the three travelers. The heavy woman was already cursing her overburdened horse, complaining loudly about aches and pains in every limb and that it was still three days to Inverness. Laire MacLeod rode beside her, wearing his cloak, quietly watching for signs of trouble. The big lad rode in the rear, his broad face as dull and lumpen as porridge.
Iain imagined capturing Laire MacLeod, slitting her throat, and cutting out her heart. The alabaster box was heavy in his pack. He wasn’t a violent man. He’d always avoided such duties. Rafael was the assassin—Iain stuck to birds. His guts had ached since he’d left Glen Iolair. He didn’t want to kill her, but when he measured the worth of one pampered, pretty lass’s life against all the lives of his kinfolk, it didn’t add up. He’d been a fool to think saving one lass would absolve him of the sin on his soul. His soul was as black as Bibiana’s.
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