by Aileen Adams
Fergus gave him a quick nod outside her line of sight. Padraig did not know whether he ought to be pleased or frustrated with Fergus for guessing he wished to prove himself in front of her. Perhaps furious. The lass meant nothing.
Why did it bother him so for her to be there, then? She could easily watch their training from the window of his study—and it occurred to him then that she more than likely did. He had half a mind to tell her to do just that, and to have dinner waiting for him when he returned.
Yet that would make him a common brute. No better than Alan, whom he’d vowed years earlier never to follow in either speech or manner.
“Come on, then,” Padraig grunted, hoping Fergus would at least pretend to put up a show of force.
And he did. In fact, he attacked Padraig with greater zeal than ever.
Instinct took over. While he did what he could to control his movements, it seemed that the heightened stakes gave him added skill. All of it was in his mind, like as not, but little difference did it make when he was doing so well.
“That’s right,” Fergus muttered between swings of the sword. “Watch where my eyes move. Most men shall tell ye without words what they plan to do.”
Padraig did this, eyes moving between Fergus’s and the sword in his hand.
Margaret cleared her throat rather loudly. Pointedly.
Padraig held up a hand, stopping Fergus, and turned to her. “Did ye have something to say, lass?”
She shrugged, biting her lip. It was clear she did, indeed, bear an opinion of what she’d witnessed to that point. Yet she shook her head, still silent.
“All right then, and if ye must watch here, out of doors, ye might do well to be silent and still to avoid distracting us,” he instructed.
“I would not wish to distract you,” she murmured with a dip of her head. Och, but she already had, and the lass more than likely knew it. Lasses had to know the effect they had on men, especially those of exceeding loveliness such as herself.
It was then Fergus’s turn to clear his throat. “Might we continue?” he asked, and Padraig made a point of ignoring the chuckle his friend was unable to suppress.
The house was quiet in the evening, after supper was finished and the cleaning up nothing but a memory. This was when Padraig got a great deal of his work done, when there were fewer distractions.
Would that his mind might cease distracting him, then.
Fergus likely believed he had his sights set on the lass. How unfortunate. For Fergus might share this belief with Moira, and there was no telling how far the news would spread or how quickly.
He shook his head with a groan. No, there was telling how quickly it would spread. As quick as it took to blink an eye. Within a morning, if not merely an hour or two, word would reach every corner of the keep and the stables and likely the lands beyond. His tenants to the north and west would know of it before they sat down to their dinner, no matter that they’d not set eyes upon the lass in question.
It simply could not be borne.
Especially if he intended to secure a wife from among the clans.
“Pardon me?”
His head snapped up from where he’d been staring blindly at the parchment before him, the words losing meaning the longer his eyes lingered. There she stood, just behind the door, a tentative smile tugging at the corners of her mouth. The long, thick braid of her lustrous hair hung over her arm, making him long to stroke it and unwind it…
“Aye?” he grunted. Och, but he’d been too long without a woman.
“I wished to ask whether you’ll be needing anything else from me this evening.”
He shook his head. “Nay, lass. There is no need for ye to stay up through the night simply because I work best when the rest of the house is abed.”
Would that he’d chosen better words, for they brought to mind the image of her staying up with him—not for the sake of working. He needed a woman badly.
Rather than disappearing, as he wished she would do no matter how pleasant her presence, she stepped into the room. “I had intended to ask you of the scroll you received today. The one I brought to you.”
“What did you wish to ask?” And why?
“It appeared as though the message pleased you,” she observed. “You smiled, or seemed to.”
He chuckled, his eye falling upon the scroll which he’d placed on top of his other correspondence as a reminder to reply straight away. “Aye, a good friend is expecting a wee bairn. He and his wife, Fenella, were wed only three months ago. Or was it four? I’ve lost track of the time, as I tend to do.”
“Ah, that is good news,” she smiled. “They do not believe in taking their time, then.”
Her openness surprised him into laughing. “A fine way of putting it.”
When she blushed, she was more bonny than ever.
“Dinna be embarrassed,” he added, waving his hands. “So long as we’re being honest, I appreciate anyone who speaks their mind. Man or woman.”
“I’m glad to hear it, as I tend to do just that. There are times when I forget myself, to be certain. I would not wish to offend you.”
“Ye could not, I’m certain.”
This was improper, to be sure, but he could not stop himself. Something in him, some instinct which had up to then been silent, drew him to her like a moth to a flame.
When he took notice of the scroll before him, however, it was easy to remember why there could be nothing between them. He’d been looking it over, hesitating over sending it. Knowing what needed to be done and possessing the strength to do it when one did not wish to do so were entirely different things.
Especially when one could not keep their thoughts away from a newcomer.
She was not even a Highlander, and a union with her would bring nothing to the clan.
He required a high-born lass, someone who would unite his clan with one at least as powerful—if not more so.
She took note of the direction which his attention followed, observant as ever. “Written in your hand,” she murmured.
“Ye know my hand?”
“I do,” she admitted. “I… have always had a talent for taking notice of small details such as that. Is it something of importance? Shall I take it into the village for you on the morrow?”
He shook his head, looking down at the scroll he’d taken such pains with. “Nay, this is of a more personal nature, and I must copy it down prior to sending it out.”
“What is it, if I might ask? Do you require assistance in writing copies?”
“I could,” he considered, stroking his beard. He glanced up. “Can ye keep a secret to yourself?”
“I have always been Highly skilled at keeping secrets.”
He nodded. “Fair enough, then. I have a letter I’ve written which I intend to send to five lairds, announcing that I intend to take a wife. These men have daughters of marriageable age. If we can arrive at an arrangement which benefits both clans, a wedding might be in order.”
Her expression did not change at first. He supposed she was taking this in, making sense of it. When she did, her brow creased in a frown. “That does not seem to be the beginning of a happy or successful marriage, though I know nothing of such matters. I admit this.”
He laughed. “Why question my plan, then?”
She shrugged. “I’ve heard the women talking. They love their husbands deeply. Even Caitlin, and she and Rodric have been married the longest of all.”
“The pair of them were in love with each other since childhood,” Padraig informed her. “And a man in his position could afford to wed for love. Men in my position cannot. It is as simple as that. An advantageous match is what I must look for, and I need an heir to secure the clan’s leadership. These are my responsibilities.”
She pursed her lips, nodding. “I suppose some would envy you your position in the clan. I do not.”
“Thank ye for your honesty,” he snorted. “Is there anything else ye feel ye must share so honestly?”
/> “There is.”
“Oh,” he replied, eyebrows lifting in surprise. He’d not expected her to take him seriously. “Please, go ahead, then.”
“I didn’t wish to mention it earlier, in front of Fergus, but it seemed as though you left your midsection unguarded several times during the training fight.” She winced. “I hope you don’t think of this as my speaking out of turn, but I would not wish to see you wounded.”
“Thank ye,” he replied, taken aback.
“I ought to retire for the evening,” she murmured with a slight nod, turning to leave. “Good evening to you, Padraig Anderson.”
“Good evening to ye as well,” he replied. Then, he thought back to what she’d said earlier in the day. “Ye told me were not witness to training or fighting before today. What makes ye so keen-eyed, then?”
She paused, turning her head slightly to the side before answering. “It seems to make sense to me, based upon what Fergus did and how he held himself. I know nothing about these matters.”
He wondered just how little she truly knew.
And why she would know at all.
8
It was dark. So dark. No moon, clouds covering it and the stars both.
Just as she needed it to be. Light meant detection, which meant failing in her assigned task. She could not fail. She never had.
The trousers she’d stolen from the now-dead guard were far too large, but the belt at her waist helped hold them up. Climbing in skirts had never been her favored method of gaining entrance to her victims’ bedchambers.
The man or woman who’d given information to Mother Cressida regarding the marquis marked for death had either been ignorant of the truth or had simply misspoken, for the seduction Margaret had planned and put into action was ill-advised at best. It had taken her less than a handful of minutes in the man’s presence to know she was not his preference.
His manservant, on the other hand…
It mattered not. If gaining entrance to the man’s bedchamber through the door was not possible, she would simply climb the stone wall beneath the room and enter through the window.
There was always another way.
Margaret awoke in a panic, cold sweat soaking through her chemise and into the blanket which covered her. She kicked it off, breathless and angry, still lost in her dream.
In her memory of the night she assassinated the marquis.
She covered her face with her hands, shoulders shaking. His shoulders shook, had they not? When she entered his room to find that the poison she’d emptied into the flagon of wine the manservant carried to his bedchamber had first been tasted by the manservant?
The Marquis’ heartbroken sobs echoed in her memory. She’d never forget them, no matter the fact that she’d ignored them at the time and slit his throat as he continued to sob over his lost companion.
At least they were together, if such a thing as life beyond death existed. She was uncertain whether such a thing was possible.
She’d been able to kill the man at the time, no matter his heartbreak, no matter the guilt she ought to have suffered. He’d died horribly, the manservant, froth still bubbling out of his mouth and onto the floor beneath him by the time the Marquis bled to death.
She left her bed—modest by any standards but still softer and more comfortable than that which she’d left behind at the abbey—and padded to the wash basin to splash her face. The water, chilled after sitting out so long, refreshed her and pushed the dream away.
But not the memory. It would always be there, along with memories of each assignment. Each assassination. There was a person behind each and every one—sometimes more than a single person, as guards and bystanders were often involved.
It was strange, the way the memories crowded in on her now that she was far from the abbey. She’d spent time away from it before, away from her sisters, but the memories had never been a bother then.
Perhaps because when she’d been away before, she’d been on assignments.
Now, she was no longer part of the Order. Mother Cressida could no longer instruct her. There was no telling her what to do, how to think, what to believe.
Hence the memories. The guilt.
The terrible, violent, blood-soaked dreams.
It seemed at times as though a stranger had done the things about which she dreamed. A stranger who could not afford to devote thought to those she killed. Instead, the stranger with her face and her hands had committed her thoughts and devotion to the Order. To her sisters.
How had it ever seemed important? How had any of them?
Sleep was as far away as the abbey. There was simply no reason to slide beneath the blanket and stare out the window. She chose instead to pull on her kirtle—rather, the kirtle Sorcha had provided for her upon arriving at the house—and walk the corridors until she tired her body enough to sleep again.
The house was silent, her soft footsteps like the crack of a whip with no voices to drown them out. She proceeded down the stairs, her eyes adjusting quickly to the darkness. Walking in the dark had never proven difficult.
The kitchen was still quite warm from the fire which had been doused hours earlier, and the warmth was pleasant when compared to the chill night air. The end of a loaf of bread sat on one of the tables, which she picked up and gnawed on while opening the back door onto the garden.
Such peace, such stillness. Would that her heart could be so silent and still. The people of the house, sleeping all around her, suspecting nothing was amiss. Unaware of the assassin in their midst.
It mattered not who she pretended to be. She would not change, could not change. There would be no forgiveness for her.
Her trained ears brought noise to her attention, and she lifted her head from where she’d rested it against the doorframe. Another noise. A soft voice, perhaps.
She closed the door, securing the leather latch before reaching for the nearest chopping knife. Walking on the balls of her feet, she darted to the door which opened onto the downstairs corridor, close to the entry hall.
Holding her breath, raising the knife, she eased the door open just wide enough to peer out into the hall.
A small figure ran back and forth, one dressed in white. Soft laughter rang out as small feet flew over the stones.
Margaret’s shoulders fell, her hand loosening around the handle of the knife until she lowered the weapon to the nearest surface.
“Fiona?” she whispered as she crept out into the corridor, cursing herself for allowing the old ways to slip so easily back into her thoughts. The child was just that. A child. Not a threat of any sort.
Would the day ever come when she could simply rest? No longer be on her guard?
Fiona gasped, shocked to be discovered. She sat on the first stair, arms around her knees.
“I don’t know ye,” she whispered, eyes wide.
Taking care not to move quickly and startle the girl, Margaret crept slowly along the bare floor. The stone was cold beneath her, but cold was certainly something to which she’d become accustomed. The girl, on the other hand, shivered.
“My name is Margaret. I came to the house a week ago. Do you remember?” she whispered, taking one careful step at a time. “I… serve your uncle.”
“Uncle Pad?”
Margaret bit the inside of her cheek to hold back her laughter at this shortening of the laird’s proper name. “Yes. Uncle Pad. He would be unhappy to see you out of bed at this hour.”
Fiona’s bottom lip jutted out. “I don’t like sleeping here. This is not where I live.”
Margaret searched her memory, then recalled the house which she’d heard talk of. “Because the men are building you a grand, new house,” she murmured. By now, she was nearly beside the child, who seemed to have calmed somewhat. “Might I sit with you?”
Fiona nodded, but pressed herself against the wall when Margaret sat. Poor lamb.
“Can I tell you a secret?” Margaret whispered.
“A secret?” This s
parked interest in the child’s eyes.
“Yes. It’s something I have never told anyone, but I trust you.”
Fiona nodded, curls bouncing as she did. “What is it?”
“I have trouble sleeping sometimes. I have bad dreams which wake me, and I cannot fall asleep again afterward.”
“Ye have bad dreams, too?” What a marvel this seemed to be to the child. In her mind, most likely, adults had nothing to fear. No dark, frightening dreams.
“I did tonight. That is what woke me, what brought me out to you. I have another secret, I am glad I did, for it meant having a chance to sit with you and share my secret. I feel better.”
“This is a secret,” Fiona whispered. “Ma and Da, they do not know I wake in the night. When I return, they are still asleep.”
“I imagine they would not be pleased if they knew you were out in the house, running about in the dark,” Margaret murmured. She was careful not to chastise, as no child wished to be chastised—even she, who’d not known a mother’s love, knew this. Even so, the child needed to know the dangers of running about in the dark, all alone.
“The house is so quiet when everyone sleeps,” Fiona breathed. “I can run and dance and no one tells me to slow down, no one tells me to take care.”
Margaret bit back a smile. “It is not enjoyable, is it, when people tell you to take care?”
“Not at all.” She folded her arms with a sigh.
“It is terribly late,” Margaret whispered. “I am rather tired again. Are you?”
Fiona shrugged her small shoulders. “I miss my home.”
“You shall have a new home soon, and is it not some comfort, at least, to have your Ma and Da and sister with you?”
“It is. When Gavina is not crying.”
Margaret’s soft laughter echoed through the empty hall, up the stairs. “She does cry loudly, does she not? But she isn’t crying now.”
“That is true.” With that, the child let out a deep, wide-mouthed yawn. “Might I sit with ye?”
Margaret blinked, too surprised to speak at first. They were sitting together, were they not? Side by side. When Fiona stood, arms extended, and nudged herself into Margaret’s lap, all became clear.