He looked around and saw Bibiana. She was striding through the crowd, which parted for her, swept out of her way, the laughter dying in the throats of those she passed. He could smell her perfume, the dark, ethereal, haunting scent she wore. It was bewitching. Men turned, looked after her with lust in their eyes, but she didn’t stop. Her eyes were fixed on one thing, one woman.
Laire was a dozen long strides away, and Iain’s way was blocked by the crowd. He began to shoulder through the crush, desperate to reach Laire before Bibiana did. Men objected, cursed him, women screamed, and angry hands tore at his clothing. He shook them all off, and rushed on.
Too slow.
Bibiana was nearly upon her . . .
“Laire!” he screamed. A punch glanced off his cheek, and he ignored it. Laire was laughing, her head thrown back. She hadn’t noticed her stepmother, couldn’t hear him calling her name.
He opened his throat and bellowed like a Highland warrior charging an enemy in battle. Men flinched, cowered. Ladies screamed and fainted, but at last Laire’s head came up, and she scanned the crowd for him, her smile fading.
He was almost there . . .
But it was too late.
He felt a foot curl around his ankle, felt himself falling. He turned to look as he went down and saw Rafael. “Touché, sealgair.” He caught Iain’s elbow, hauled him up, and pointed. “Look there. Oh, this could not have worked out better. Bibiana will be very pleased. Very pleased indeed.” Iain tried to jerk free, but Rafael held him. “Now watch the girl die.”
Iain watched in horror as Bibiana arrived behind Laire. Her eyes met Iain’s, and her malice was a living, breathing thing that slammed into his chest.
She smiled coldly and reached for Laire.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Laire felt warm and light and happy. If Iain were here, she would most certainly tell him how marvelous it was to drink wine after all . . .
She heard a shout, a Highland battle cry, screamed out above the sounds of the crowd. She scanned the crowd until she found him.
Iain.
He was pushing through the crowd toward her. She felt a thrill rush through her at the sight of him.
And oh—he was wearing a Lindsay plaid and bonnet with a jeweled brooch at his shoulder. He was unmasked. Her heart rose, danced. Her lover, her Iain, her heart’s only prize . . .
But he wasn’t smiling. His gray eyes were wide with panic, and he was shoving desperately through the crowd. His lips were moving, but she couldn’t hear him. He tripped, rose, and she felt her smile fading. Rafael was here . . .
Iain wasn’t looking at her.
He was staring at someone behind her.
Laire felt a chill run up her spine, ice in the heat of the crowded room.
She spun.
“Hello, my dear,” Bibiana said, smiling coldly. “We’ve missed you at home.”
Laire turned to look at Iain. He was a few feet away, his face anguished, his hand outstretched to her. She felt a sob gather in her throat, and she raised her arm, reached for him.
But Bibiana’s hand closed on her shoulder. “Too late,” she said in a singsong voice. “Too late.”
Laire felt a sharp pinch on her neck, like the sting of a wasp. She gasped and clasped her hand to the spot when Bibiana released her. She felt blood between her fingers, stared at it. The room began to waver, and dark spots bloomed in her vision.
She felt Iain’s arms come around her as her knees buckled. He caught her, held her, and she reached up to touch his cheek. “My love,” she whispered.
But the world went black.
Iain stared down into Laire’s face. He watched the light dim in her eyes, felt her body go limp in his arms. Anguish rushed through him, immobilized him. His throat closed.
He felt the brush of feathers as Bibiana bent close to his ear. “You have blood on your face, sealgair,” she purred, and was gone.
Blood. He looked at the small wound on Laire’s neck, the smear of ruby blood on white skin. Her pulse still beat at her throat like a trapped bird. The area around the wee wound was turning blue . . .
Poison . . . Iain bent and put his mouth to the puncture mark and sucked hard, spat, and sucked again, drawing out the poison, praying that this time he wasn’t too late to save the woman he loved . . .
Hands caught him, pulled him away from her. Sir Hamish bent over his niece, put his fingers on Laire’s neck, feeling for a pulse, crying her name. He looked at Iain, horror blooming in his eyes. “You did this,” he said. Iain shook his head. Laire’s uncle bunched his fist and punched him hard in the face. Iain barely felt it.
He saw Hoolet kneel beside Laire, and Bear, and Dux. Dux put his fingers to her neck as Iain watched—long, delicate fingers, bronze against Laire’s white skin, checking for a pulse. Dux caught Sir Hamish’s arm, looked at Iain. “She lives,” he said. “She lives.”
“Get her away,” Iain said, the bitter, numbing tingle of the poison slick on his tongue.
“Look,” Hoolet pointed. Bibiana stood on the staircase, her black cloak shimmering, her eyes filled with triumph. Then she turned and strode up the steps without looking back. Hoolet gripped Iain’s arm. “Is that—?” Hoolet breathed.
Iain looked at Sir Hamish. “Aye. Bibiana. The witch, Laire’s stepmother.” He watched the botanist’s jaw drop, saw his eyes widen as he watched Bibiana disappear. He looked down at his niece again, sobbing.
“I didn’t believe her,” he said, taking her limp hand in his own. “And now she’s—”
“No,” Iain said desperately. “No, she’s not.” He pushed Hamish aside and scooped Laire into his arms. He looked for the nearest way out—the French doors that led to the garden—and moved toward them. People stepped aside, made space, their smiles fading to shock.
“Drunk,” he heard, “Fainted.” They hadn’t seen . . .
The garden was dark, but he strode through it, moving between the winter trees and arbors in search of a back gate. “I’ll find my coachman, take her home,” Hamish said, hurrying after him. Hoolet, Dux, and Bear followed. Iain ignored them all.
“No. The witch will know to look there,” Hoolet said. “She needs somewhere safe.”
“Lindsay House?” Hamish panted.
“The tunnels?” Bear asked.
Iain stopped walking. He looked at the three young thieves. “I need a diversion. Bibiana has a servant. He’ll be following to see if the job’s done.” Laire’s face was pale in the dark. He wrapped his plaid around her. He stood in the shadows, scanning the dark for signs of Rafael.
Hoolet turned to Bear. “Pick me up and carry me,” she said. “Like Iain is carrying Laire . . .”
Bear picked her up, and she lay limply in his arms. “Now run.”
Iain watched as they set off across the garden. He saw Rafael slip out of the shadows and follow them, a blade in his hand. The Frenchman would be no match for the Clan of Thieves. He’d find himself lost, chasing the air, while the young thieves slipped away.
Iain knocked on the back door of the Pearl. “Fetch Mistress Fairly,” he said, pushing past the manservant who opened the door. He climbed the back steps to the familiar room at the front of the house, and laid her on the bed. Hamish took her pulse again, and Dux lifted her eyelids, checked her pupils. Iain held his breath and waited. She was so still . . .
“She’s alive,” Hamish said. Tears poured over his cheeks, and his hands shook.
Iain felt relief rush through him like a wave. He sat down heavily in the chair and buried his face in his hands.
“She’s been poisoned,” Sir Hamish pronounced unnecessarily. “But with what, I don’t know.”
The door opened and Janet Fairly entered the room. She stopped in her tracks, her jaw dropping. Hamish MacEwan looked up. “Janet?”
She blinked. “Aye, Hamish. It’s been a long time. Welcome to the Pearl.” With a glance, she took in the lass on the bed, and Iain.
“Your bonny lass?” she asked Iain softly. “What happened?”
>
Iain began to speak, to do what he should have done weeks ago, explaining to Hamish that what Laire had told him about her new stepmother was true. He kept talking, describing what he knew about Bibiana’s victims, the ones long dead, and the ones at Glen Iolair, in hopes that there was a way to save them all. Laire most of all.
Sir Hamish listened grimly. “This is my fault.” He took Laire’s limp hand in his and blinked away tears. “Laire came to me for help, but I wouldn’t listen. God help me, I even wrote to her father, telling him she was here with me. I led the witch right to her—she is a witch, isn’t she? I am a man of science. I don’t believe in superstition and magic.” He looked at Laire’s still form. “At least I didn’t until now.”
“Can you save her, save her family?” Dux asked.
Hamish frowned. “I don’t know. If I knew what the poison was, perhaps. I’d need sample of the potion.” He took her pulse again, and laid her limp hand gently on the coverlet.
Iain rose. “I’ll go and fetch a sample of the potion from Glen Iolair, bring it back.”
“I’ll go with ye,” Dux said fiercely. “And Bear and Hoolet will want to come.”
“And I believe I must go,” Sir Hamish said. “It will save time.” He looked at Iain. “Will the witch be at Iolair?”
Iain nodded grimly. “She’ll be waiting for me. She knows I’ll come.” He looked down at Laire’s still face, felt the desire for revenge rise in his breast. “Bibiana and I have a debt to settle.” He took Laire’s hand in his, held her cold fingers and rubbed her knuckles with his thumb. He stared at her still face, memorized it, made a silent promise to her. He looked at Janet. “Can she stay here?”
“As long as you wish,” Janet said.
Laire’s fingers twitched against his, and Iain looked down at her. Her eyes were glittering slits, fixed on his face.
“You’ll not go without me, Iain Lindsay” she said, her voice thick and slow. “I won’t let her hurt anyone else I love.”
CHAPTER FORTY
“You let them escape?” Bibiana raged at Rafael.
“I lost them,” he admitted, trembling. “One moment they were there—the sealgair had her in his arms, a dozen strides away from me on a street with no way out.” He made a fist. “I had them. There was no escape, and then—” He opened his fist in the air. “They were gone without a trace. Like magic.” Black magic, he thought. Surely Bibiana of all people would understand that. “I saw Laire MacLeod at the ball. She wasn’t moving. Surely she’s dead . . .”
Bibiana glared at him, magnificent in her rage. She began to pace, the long feathered cloak whispering over the floor behind her. “Surely the poison—” Raphael began again, but she stifled him with a look of pure malice. He shivered and cowered back. “He’d be here if she was dead. He’d come for revenge. Did you not see his face?” Her red mouth twisted. “He’s in love with her.”
She opened a trunk in the corner and took out a ragged blue square of cloth. It was soiled and tattered, the velvet worn to a shred. Rafael frowned. It seemed a strange souvenir for Bibiana . . . she kept nothing, hadn’t a sentimental bone in her body. She tossed it at him, and he caught it. He stared at the dark bloodstain that marred the corner.
“Take this to Lindsay House.”
Rafael frowned, curious. “Is there a message?”
She turned away, unclasped the raven cloak and let it fall. “Tell him I’ll be waiting for him.”
Janet shook Iain awake as the sun rose. He looked at Laire. Her eyes were closed, her face still pale. “She’s sleeping,” Janet said. “Go home. Eat, bathe, change your clothes. Hamish and I will watch over her.” Iain looked at the long dark lashes resting on her pale cheeks, at the red lips, the blue mark on her neck. Her hand was still clasped in his. He kissed her fingers and tucked her hand under the covers. He looked up to find Hamish watching him.
The botanist said nothing, simply nodded.
Iain walked the long way round to Lindsay house, across half of Edinburgh, keeping his eyes open for signs of Rafael, needing the fresh air and time to think. When he climbed the steps of Lindsay House at last, Hoolet and Bear were waiting for him, and the three little ones were up as well.
“Is she . . . ?” Hoolet asked, her eyes bleak.
“She’s alive. She woke, spoke, and Sir Hamish is watching her,” Iain said. Wee Kipper was staring at him, his green eyes wide. Iain ruffled the boy’s hair.
“A man brought this while ye were out, Laird,” Bear said, and handed Iain a scrap of cloth.
Iain’s heart stopped. He stared at it in horror. He knew what it meant. He closed his hand on the worn fabric. “What did he say?”
“He said to tell ye that she’d be waiting,” Bear said. “That was all. What does it mean?”
Iain felt his stomach rise into his throat. He swallowed hard and looked at the faces of the clan, thought of Laire. He’d put them all in terrible danger. Bibiana would take everything he had left, everyone he loved . . . he’d tried to cheat, and she’d caught him. Now she’d make him pay in full. He stared at the ragged scrap in his hand and remembered the last time he’d seen it.
“It’s a reminder of an old debt,” Iain muttered. He set the blue cloth on a table and stepped back from it.
He should have plunged a dirk into Bibiana’s black heart seven years ago, but he’d been a fool, blamed himself. He’d given her everything—well almost. He’d been foolish enough to imagine his secret was safe.
He’d been fool enough to believe that Laire had redeemed him, saved him, made him clean again.
He had too many secrets, too many sins, and the devil wanted her due.
Janet Fairly set a tray beside Hamish. “Eat. You said yourself she’ll sleep for hours yet.” She sat down, poured him a cup of coffee and pressed it into his hands. He stared at her.
“Ye look fine, Janet. I never thought I’d see ye again.”
“Nor I you.” She glanced at Laire. “Your niece is a bonny lass, and a lucky one.”
His face crumpled and he set the cup down untouched. “Not so lucky. I didn’t listen, didn’t think.”
She smiled faintly. “A failing of yours, if I might say.”
He regarded her sadly. “I’ve regretted losing you all these years. How did ye come to be—here?”
She patted her hair. “Needs must. I had to earn a living. I gave up being Janet Fairly a long time ago and became Arabella.” She raised her chin. “I couldn’t bear to marry again. I shouldn’t have the first time. I did it to make you mad, because you left me.”
“I went to seek my fortune. I was poor as a church mouse and twice as threadbare when I met ye.”
“I like church mice. And I loved you. I didn’t care about your fortune.”
He scanned her face. “I wanted to keep ye in style. I was too proud to ask ye—” he rubbed his tired eyes with his fingers. “And then it was too late. I wish . . .”
He was the same dear, distracted Hamish she’d always known, the man who thought with his head and forgot to feel with his heart. She took his hand, squeezed it.
“I know what you wish. I’ve wished the same every day for nearly twenty years.”
“It’s not too late?” he asked.
“I’m single again, and so are you . . . Who’s to say it’s too late?” she said. “Now eat your breakfast and sleep for a while. I’ll be here when ye wake up.”
Hamish smiled at his niece as he took her pulse, checked her for signs of fever, made her drink a tonic to purge her body of the poison. It had been nearly three weeks and the blue ring still stood out on her neck. “You’re doing very well, lass, considering.” His smile faded. “I was foolish. If it wasn’t for Iain Lindsay, you’d be—” His chin wobbled. “Forgive me. I’ll make this right if I can, I promise.”
“Uncle, where is Iain?” Her heart churned with longing. She’d looked for him every day, but he hadn’t come. Bear and Hoolet and Dux came, and brought loving messages from the little ones, but said not
hing about Iain. Like Hamish, they avoided her question.
“He’s . . .” Hamish hesitated, looked away.
Laire pushed back the coverlet and forced herself to sit up. Her head felt full of air, and her limbs were heavy and slow.
“Ye can’t get up,” Hamish objected. “You’re still recovering.”
“If no one will tell me where Iain is, I’ll go find him myself,” she said, and reached for her robe.
“Get back into that bed!” he tried ordering, but she stuffed her feet into slippers and stood up. She needed her boots and a cloak—his cloak—and a dirk. She clung to the bedpost for a moment. Uncle Hamish fluttered around her. “Please—ye’ll do yourself harm, lass.”
She let go of the bed, stood on her own, her spine stiff. “Then tell me the truth.”
Hamish scanned her face, his lips sealed, but she held his eyes and waited. “He’s gone,” he said at last.
Laire felt shock rush through her. Her uncle put a hand around her waist so she wouldn’t fall or faint.
But she was stronger than that. “Gone?”
“He left four days ago, warned us not to tell you, told us to keep you away from Iolair . . .”
The breath left her lungs. “Iolair? He’s gone back to Iolair?”
“He said he had unfinished business.”
Laire felt dread uncurl along her spine, turn it to jelly. “And me? Did he leave any word for me?”
But Hamish shook his head.
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
Early February
Angus Mor Sinclair stood on the deck of the Virgin and regarded his chief’s young sister-in-law with a slight frown. “So as I understand it, ye want me to lend ye a ship, Mistress Laire, but ye don’t want Fia or Dair to hear of it. Do I have the right of it?”
She smiled at him and nodded. Like her sister Fia, Laire MacLeod was a winsome creature. “I need a very fast ship. Is this ship fast?”
Angus straightened his shoulders. “The Virgin is the fastest ship in the Sinclair fleet. Might I ask where ye wish to go?”
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