He looked at the little alabaster box, removed from his pack and waiting on the table to be filled. Bibiana wouldn’t wait forever . . .
He reached into his pocket, felt the locket there. He imagined putting the locket into her father’s hand, telling him his daughter was dead. Would Donal MacLeod even remember Laire? He shut his eyes, felt shame—and deep sorrow.
He looked across the square again.
He picked up his cloak and left the room.
Hoolet stood silently, staring at her reflection in the mirror. Laire swiped the dust away so she could see the vivid color of the gown better.
“I look—bonny,” Hoolet said on a sigh.
Laire smiled. “Aye.”
“Like I could go to a ball or a fancy party,” Hoolet murmured, her eyes still on her reflection. “I look at them sometimes, ye know. I peek through the windows of the grand houses, watch the fine folk inside dancing and drinking and laughing. They have no idea I’m there. Lasses like me are invisible to them.” She ran her fingertips over the shimmering brocade. “But they’d notice me in this gown, they would.” She dipped a graceful, practiced curtsy.
“They wouldn’t be able to look at anything else,” Laire said. That was what Meggie always said when she tried on a new gown . . .
Hoolet looked at her, the scorn gone, though her expression was still guarded. “I have a gown of my own. A green one. I took it on one of the missions, fair game, from a trunk in a warehouse by the docks. I have some lace too, and ribbons. I thought that someday—” she paused. “I thought that someday I’d make that gown look just like this one, and I’d go to a ball, slip in, be inside the window, where the candles are, and all the music, and the fine food . . .”
“Now that I can do,” Laire said. “Will you show me the gown? My sisters and I share our clothes. We pass our gowns around, change them to keep them new, add things, take things away to suit each of us. Aileen—my eldest sister—is a fine seamstress. Her fancy needlework is a good as any on the gowns here in this room.”
Hoolet gaped at her. “Truly?”
Laire smiled. “Aye. Now sit down, and I’ll tie up your hair. My sister Jennet is the one of us that’s truly gifted with hair, but I’ll do my best.”
Hoolet grinned, her wary face opening with a genuine smile for the first time, and slid onto the small chair that stood before the dressing table. “Ooh, the stays pinch!”
“You don’t need them. You’re slim enough,” Laire said.
“Aye but they give me—” Hoolet blushed and clasped her hands to her upthrust breasts, piled high above the low neckline of the gown. They both laughed.
There was a soft sound below, the squall of hinges, and the sound of footsteps on the marble floor of the foyer. A door shut, and the sound of it echoed through the house like a pistol shot. Laire’s eyes met Hoolet’s in the mirror, and they froze.
“Someone’s here,” Hoolet whispered.
They waited, holding their breath, as someone walked along the corridor.
Then they heard the sound of footsteps coming up the stairs.
The key was hidden in the usual place, and Iain stared at it in his palm for a moment before he inserted it into the lock. He pushed the door open, his gut tight, his foot hovering over the doorstep for a moment before he entered. He felt like a thief in his own house.
He looked around the foyer. Nothing had changed, save for the fact that much of the furniture had been removed to storage, and what was left stood draped and ghostly in white sheets.
He closed the door behind him and walked along the hall to the library. His books were still here. He breathed in the familiar smell of the leather bindings and old wood, overlaid by dust. The rugs were rolled against the wall, the furniture pushed to one side. Dust crouched thickly in the corners. He pulled down the drape that protected the portrait of his grandfather over the fireplace. The old chieftain glowered down at him with the familiar mix of iron pride and deep disapproval.
Iain turned his back on the old man and wandered through the other rooms. They stood just as empty, just as dusty. He went back to the foyer and stared up the long flights of steps to the skylight. He looked behind him at the front door, considered turning around and leaving.
No, not yet. He gritted his teeth and began to climb.
The footsteps were climbing the stairs, measured and heavy.
“That isn’t the old woman,” Hoolet whispered in a panic. “She shuffles, mumbles to herself. We’ll have to run for it.”
“There isn’t time,” Laire whispered back, clutching the hairbrush tight. We’ll have to hide, and hope—” she couldn’t say it.
Hoolet spun, looking for a place to conceal herself. The blue gown rustled, the faint sound loud as a shout. The doors of the bedchamber stood wide open to the hall. Anyone passing would see them inside the room.
They dove into the dressing room. Laire moved to close the door, but the hinges squealed, crying out for oil. It would have to stay open. They hid behind the door, pressed against the wall.
The slow, deliberate footsteps paused at the top of the steps. Hoolet drew a sobbing breath. “They’ll hang us!” she hissed, holding Laire’s arm so hard it hurt. Laire felt an icy trickle of sweat creep down her spine.
The floorboards creaked under the intruder’s feet as he came closer. Laire held her breath, willed him to pass by the open doors of the bedchamber. But he stopped. Hoolet clasped a hand over her mouth in terror. Laire peered through the crack between the hinges and waited. She had no weapon save for the hairbrush, no explanation for why she was inside this house . . .
Then he stepped into the room. Laire’s bones turned to water, and she sagged against Hoolet in horror. The sealgair stood in the middle of the room. His gaze flicked over the bed, the dresser, the writing table. It stopped on the vase and the dead flowers, and rose to the portrait. He stared at the pale painted face, and Laire held her breath and waited for him to turn and draw a dirk, stalk toward the dressing room with deadly intent. This time she couldn’t fight him. Not with a hairbrush, not with Hoolet to defend . . . But he didn’t come. He stood where he was, mesmerized by the portrait.
He looked different, clean-shaven, his hair well-trimmed, though he still wore his black garb. He didn’t belong here. He was too tall, too dark. He took up all the space in the delicate room, all the air. Laire couldn’t breathe, and her heart was hammering against her ribs so hard she was sure he’d hear it, but he stood where he was, staring at the portrait and frowning. She saw his throat bob as he swallowed. Every line of his body was tense, as if he feared this room, and that painting.
He reached up a hand, brushed his fingertips over the painted cheek. He knew her. Laire frowned.
Then he dropped his hand and turned away from the painting, looked toward the dressing room. Laire held her breath, felt a scream gather in her throat. Hoolet was trembling, her hand clamped over her mouth, her eyes huge in her pale face. Laire stared at the sealgair, at the shadowed plains of his face, the fine bones of his jaw—but that jaw was tight, his expression grim. He looked—afraid.
Instead of walking into the dressing room, he backed away, moving toward the door. He stepped out of the room and pulled the doors shut behind him, and Laire heard his footsteps retreating, hurrying down the stairs.
Surprise coursed through her. He’d been afraid, vulnerable, human. Her grip on the hairbrush slackened. That was the man she’d met in the wood, the one who’d swiped a drop of blood from her cheek, the man who’d rescued her, aided her. He wasn’t the terrifying sealgair who told her he meant to hunt her down and kill her.
When the front door shut below, Hoolet let out a terrified squeak of breath. She began to undo the laces of the blue gown, her fingers shaking.
“I thought he had us sure! D’ye think he’s a watchman? I’ve got to warn Chieftain and Fussle . . . what if he catches the lad in the library?”
Laire swallowed, her throat rough. “He wasn’t here for you, Hoolet. It’s
me he wants.”
Hoolet’s brow furrowed, but Laire didn’t offer a deeper explanation, couldn’t. Laire grabbed her arm. “Come on, we’d better go afore he comes back.”
As they fled the room, Laire glanced back at the smiling woman in the portrait. She was pretty, her hair strawberry red, her skin as pale and perfect as new cream.
He knew this beauty. She was sure of it . . .
She hurried after Hoolet and wondered just who the sealgair really was.
Iain strode through the streets of Edinburgh, walking fast, not noticing or caring where he was going, just anywhere away from Lindsay House.
He’d made it as far as Mairi’s chamber. Her portrait had stopped him—that lovely face, the soft smile that had always stirred his heart. He felt regret and deep sorrow. The anger was gone, as dead as Mairi herself, but the guilt, soul searing and raw, remained. He’d never be free of it.
One thing had struck him when he looked at Mairi’s portrait. He’d loved her, but as a prize, as someone he’d known all his life. He’d married her because it was expected of him, and because his half brother tried to take her from him. Iain had won—or thought he had. His belly clenched with the familiar ache. She’d been in love with David, the way a woman loves a man, not a lad she’d grown up with and wed out of duty. But neither brother had loved her as she deserved.
Only one woman had affected him the way a man should be affected by a woman. He remembered the shock that had run through him when his eyes met Laire’s in her father’s hall, the sudden punch to the gut, the surge of interest, the recognition that this woman was different. And desire. There was desire as well . . . He curled his hands against his sides, realized he’d stopped in the middle of the street, and walked on. He’d denied the meaning of that look, but he recognized it now. He’d never felt that when he looked at Mairi.
He couldn’t kill Laire MacLeod.
Nor could he continue to serve Bibiana, not even for the last few months of their agreed-upon contract. He could not endure any more blood or death.
He regretted going to Lindsay House, opening the past and all the pain he’d locked away. He needed clothes, something fine and fitting for calling on the merchants and gentleman who knew Donal MacLeod, for his search for Laire. His chamber at Lindsay House was full of all the fine clothes he’d left behind.
He’d found the door to Mairi’s chamber open and made the mistake of going into the room. It led to his own apartments, connected through adjoining dressing rooms. The armoire still blocked the way, and he remembered when she’d ordered it moved to keep him out, afraid of what he’d do when he discovered the secret she was keeping . . .
He paused again, leaned against the wall of a house, and scanned the street around him. He was miles from Lindsay House. He ran a hand over his face.
He had to find Laire MacLeod.
Not to kill her, but to save her.
CHAPTER TWENTY
“So you see why I must find my uncle,” Laire said, pacing the floor of the cellar. Chieftain frowned. Hoolet was holding back tears. Fussle was on watch at the steps that led up to the scullery, and Bear stood by the back door, ready to open it so they could flee if the sealgair found his way into the clan’s lair. Magpie was blinking back tears, and Wee Kipper had a large spoon clutched in his fist and looked ready to fight. Dux was out on an errand.
“Witches and poison,” Chieftain murmured, rubbing his chin.
“And Highlanders with dirks,” Bear said.
“He was huge and all black,” Hoolet said, her eyes wide. “I’m still shaking.”
“Ye shouldn’t have done it,” Chieftain said angrily. “Ye shouldn’t have gone upstairs at all. Ye went up for spices. Did ye get them?”
Hoolet looked at him as if he were daft.
He pointed at Laire. “She’s put us all in danger. She should have told us some bastard was hunting her. And now he’s found her, he’s found us. I say she goes, now, tonight.”
“We have to have a vote, and Dux isn’t here,” Bear said.
“A vote?” Chieftain said. “He’ll murder us all. Highlanders are heartless killers at the best of times, and when their ire’s up—”
“I vote we keep her,” Magpie chirped.
“You’re too young to vote,” Chieftain told her. “As leader of the clan, I vote for ye.”
“The little ‘uns go on missions the same as the rest of us. They should have a say,” Bear argued.
Chieftain looked at Hoolet. “How do you vote?”
Hoolet looked at Laire. “She stays.”
“Aye, that goes for me too,” Bear said.
“And me,” Magpie said. “And Wee Kipper, too.”
“Fussle? Chieftain said.
“What?” Fussle said, staring at the door at the top of the steps.
Hoolet rolled her eyes. “We still have to wait for Dux.”
Laire regarded the clan. “You’ve all been very kind to me,” she said politely, and reached for her cloak. “Thank you for your hospitality, but I think it would be safer for all of you if I go.”
“Who’ll bake us tarts?” Magpie wailed.
Wee Kipper frowned and shook his head at Laire.
“Ye made me a promise,” Hoolet hissed.
Laire felt tears sting her eyes.
“I vote we make Laire part of the clan,” Magpie said.
“Och, aye? That’s a whole different vote,” Chieftain objected. “I still think . . .”
There was a knock on the door, three sharp raps, and they jumped nervously. “It’s just Dux,” Hoolet said. Bear opened it.
“Just in time. We’re having a vote,” Bear said.
But Dux unwound his scarf and grinned at Laire. “Never mind that—I have news. I found him, Laire. I found your uncle.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Iain prowled the streets, walking alone in the dangerous darkness. He couldn’t bear sitting in his room at the Pearl, listening to the sounds of sex. The idea of going back to Lindsay House had even less appeal, though he still needed clothes. Tomorrow, he’d call on whatever associates of Donal MacLeod’s he could find. He would announce himself as a friend of the family, though he was hardly that. Even if she’d had time to warn them to expect a sealgair, an assassin, they wouldn’t be expecting a gentleman, the laird of his clan, a wealthy, educated man in fine clothing.
He still had the problem of the alabaster box.
Bibiana would expect him back soon, with Laire’s heart in the wee casket. The longer he delayed, the worse her revenge would be. He looked over his shoulder even now. He had days left at best . . .
He had to find Laire and send her far away, somewhere Bibiana wouldn’t find her. He’d go to Craigmyle, do his best to make peace with his half brother, warn him . . .
And then?
His future stretched before him, bleak and lonely. He looked down at the dark water of the river, thick and cold and oily in the dark.
He heard the splash up ahead and saw the shimmer of ripples spreading outward from the bank in the pale moonlight. “Haul her out,” a gruff voice said, the sound echoing off the dark buildings that lined the bank.
“She’s heavy,” someone in the water said. He cursed, struggling. “She’s not been dead long, but her clothes are soaked.”
Iain’s belly tightened, and he drew his dirk, crept closer.
He stood in the shadows and watched two men wrestle with something in the water.
A body . . .
They hauled it up onto the bank, and water poured off it like silver paint in the moonlight. Iain saw a white limb fall away from the body—a lifeless hand—and a tangle of long, dark hair. His gut tightened. The man in the water struggled to peel the corpse’s clinging locks of hair away from his own flesh, grimacing. His teeth chattered as he climbed onto the bank.
Iain crept closer.
Two men leaned over the body, holding a lantern aloft, but the dead woman’s head was turned, her neck twisted unnaturally, and Iain coul
dn’t see her face.
The lantern bearer chuckled as he poked at the body. “Nice and fresh. Not more than a day or two in the water, I’d say.”
Iain felt his stomach drop to his feet. No. No, not like this . . .
The other man looked into the face of the corpse. “Pretty.”
“D’ye think the quacks care if they’re bonny or not?”
The wet man sleeked water off his face and shrugged. “Might pay a bit extra.” He lifted the corpse’s arm and checked the pulse, even though it was obvious the woman was dead. The lantern illuminated the drape of a lace cuff against the blue flesh of a delicate wrist.
Iain slipped silently up behind the cove with the lantern and slipped the dirk under the man’s chin. He grunted in surprise.
“Keep still,” Iain warned.
The man on the ground rose slowly, his hands spread wide. “We didn’t kill her, I swear. She was already dead. We just found her.”
“She’s ours,” The man in Iain’s grip growled.
“Turn her into the light. I want to see her face,” Iain said, and braced himself.
The man on the ground cupped her chin and turned her toward him. Her lips were blue, her face ash gray. It wasn’t Laire. Relief flooded through Iain, made him shut his eyes for an instant.
The man on the ground moved fast. Iain felt the blade slice into his thigh. The pain was instant, and he fell to one knee, his teeth gritted.
Then he felt a knife under his own chin.
“We don’t want no trouble. This body will fetch us a good price. We’re poor men just trying to make a living, and the surgeons at the medical school will pay a fortune for one this fresh.”
On his knees, Iain was inches from the dead lass. He looked into her sightless eyes, milky in the lamplight, and swallowed. She wasn’t Laire, but she had belonged to someone. Now, she was just a lass.
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