A lie if ever one passed her lips.
Hearts didn’t lie and she felt in the depths of hers that he was in mortal danger.
Her heart also told her who had to be informed first—even if she knew waking his da with such news would only distress him.
It couldn’t be helped.
But as soon as she opened the door and stepped into the dimly lit passage a low, keening wail reached her ears.
Munro’s wail.
And coming from the stair tower.
Hitching up her skirts, Aveline ran down the corridor, Cuillin trotting at her heels. She nearly collided with Munro in the gloom for he stood teetering in the shadows at the top of the turnpike stair, one hand pressed to his heart, his stricken gaze on a tall, plaid-draped figure slowly mounting the stairs toward him.
A figure Aveline recognized at once, her shock so great she could only stare in horror.
Cuillin growled.
The figure smiled.
Then she nodded at Aveline, looking so pleased Aveline knew before her sister opened her mouth what she’d have to say.
“Jamie is dead,” Sorcha told her, confirming it. “I pushed him into the Garbh Uisge—just as I had done with his nine vainglorious brothers.”
Chapter Sixteen
Sorcha!” Aveline stared at her sister, disbelief clamping ice-cold talons around her heart. “What have you done?” she cried, the stairwell tilting crazily, the whole world seeming to spin around her. “You’ve run mad!”
“O-o-oh, with surety,” Sorcha agreed, smiling. “Full mad and with the best of reasons!”
Aveline shook her head, shock laming her.
Her sister was mad.
The best of reasons?
Chills swept down Aveline’s spine. There could be no reason for what Sorcha claimed she’d done.
Nor for her appearance in the stair tower. Her blood-curdling appearance, dressed as she was in her long-flowing hooded cloak, with a Macpherson great plaid slung around her shoulders.
She stood a little more than halfway up the spiraling, corkscrew steps, not far from a well-burning wall torch. The smoking, hissing flames threw a wash of light across her from above, casting her face in dark and eerie shadow while showing the wild, unnatural glint in her eyes.
Looking at her, Aveline shivered, denial pounding through her. Her heart was splitting, such tight, blinding terror winding around her that she couldn’t breathe.
Jamie couldn’t be dead, he just couldn’t.
And her e’er quiet and unassuming sister couldn’t possibly be the crazed woman standing before her, with such scorn and hatred blazing in her eyes, her lips twisted with malice.
But the figure was her sister and what she’d said ripped Aveline’s soul, rending to shreds every precious, tenuous bit of joy she’d found and relished in Jamie’s arms. A loss that slammed through her, spilling her heart’s blood and condemning her to an existence in which every indrawn breath would pain her.
Each exhale reminded her of what could have been.
Yet could ne’er be, save in her dreams.
Her memories.
And all her hopes for a future filled with kith, kin, and happiness.
Aveline pressed a hand against her breast. Panic welled inside her, each sickening wave making her stomach clench and hot bile rise in her throat, its bitterness choking her.
She bit her lip, trying to concentrate, to think what to do, but a cold emptiness was spreading through her and an even colder dread pressed heavily on her shoulders. A weight so great she feared she’d soon crumple to her knees.
Shuddering, she reached for Munro’s hand, holding tight to his shaking fingers, fearing that he, too, might slump to his feet any moment.
Watching her, Sorcha laughed. “Hold on to him all you wish. You canna help that one,” she sneered, her lip curling. “The bogle has already scared him into his grave. His wits are gone.”
“’Tis you who’ve lost your wits.” Aveline’s heart raced, her mind reeled. “Munro knew all along you weren’t a ghost,” she blurted, lying to save the old man’s pride if nothing else could be salvaged.
She squeezed his hand, hoped he’d heed her warning.
“You ne’er frightened anyone,” she continued, scrambling for words. “Munro only pretended to be afeared so you’d feel secure and expose yourself. And now you have!”
“Hah!” Sorcha snorted. “Pretended did he? Did he tell you he sent to Devorgilla of Doon, asking for powdered toadstone and other fool folderol? Charms against bogles?”
She laughed again, the sound echoing in the stair tower. “He wanted the spelling goods because his red-ribboned rowan couldn’t keep me away.”
“I sent for no such foolery!” Munro denied, his fingers tightening on Aveline’s, the angry quiver in his voice letting her know he’d sent to the Hebridean wise woman indeed.
“Ahhh, but you did,” Sorcha corrected him, looking amused.
She ascended a step or two as she spoke, coming steadily closer. “Your plea ne’er reached the great Devorgilla. See you, your courier called at Fairmaiden on his way and was e’er so pleased when I told him that one of my father’s Pabay men had business on Doon and would deliver your missive with gladness.”
Munro spluttered and took a step toward her, his hand going to his sword hilt—until he realized he was wearing naught but his bedrobe. “Murderess!” he roared all the same. “I’ve ne’er laid a hand to a woman, but … you! You—” he broke off, his face contorting and would surely have lunged at her if Aveline didn’t seize him.
Livid or no, he was no match for Sorcha.
Not weakened and confused as he was these days. Aveline also caught the flash of steel at her sister’s waist, knew how deftly she wielded a dagger. Their father’s men of Pabay had taught her, as they’d instructed all the Fairmaiden lasses, claiming a woman ought know how to defend herself.
So Aveline kept a firm grip on Munro.
But she couldn’t stop Cuillin.
Barking furiously, he plunged down the steps, making straight for Sorcha but brushing past her at the last moment, bounding down the stairs as fast as his stiff legs would carry him, clearly fleeing what he still viewed as a phantom.
“See?” Sorcha glanced after him, her mouth quirking. “Even he thinks I am a bogle,” she mocked, lifting her arms and flapping them.
Tall and large-boned as she was, and costumed so oddly, she did look like a ghost.
Even so, Aveline would have recognized her anywhere.
That she hadn’t noticed how disturbed her eldest sister must be and that her oversight had cost Jamie his life was a horror that would haunt her beyond forever.
“You are mad, is what you are,” she said again, tightening her fingers on Munro’s uninjured arm and slipping around him, placing herself between him and her sister.
The old laird was standing taller now, and no longer trembling. Leastways not with anything that resembled fear. But he was still injured, his wounded arm not yet healed.
And Sorcha had proved herself dangerous. Ruthless and without conscience.
Worse, she was advancing on them again. Her eyes shone with an even wilder glint, her stare seemingly turning inward, unfocused and chillingly blank even as she looked right at them.
Pausing, she whipped out her dirk and flourished it, glancing down and smiling as she turned the blade to catch the light of a flickering wall torch.
Then her head snapped up with frightening speed and her eyes were perfectly clear again, her face flushed with fury. “I ne’er miss with a dagger,” she said, pinning Munro with a hate-filled stare. “The fool MacKenzies distracted me when I fired the crossbow at you, but I’ll gut you in one slash with my dirk, ridding the world of you just as easily as I had done with your sons.”
“But you loved Neill,” Aveline reminded her, trying to remain calm, to say something that would stall Sorcha’s menacing approach.
Neither she nor Munro had a weapon. And crying out mig
ht cause Sorcha to hurl herself at them, her blade sinking home before the first alerted guardsman could reach them.
Aveline drew a breath, relying on her wits. “I know you loved Neill,” she said again. “We could all see it, how you bloomed when you spoke of him.”
“How I bloomed!” Sorcha scoffed, her voice dripping contempt. “Och, I loved him, aye. Neill the beautiful. Neill the betrayer. The breaker of promises.”
She’d spat the words and now she stopped on the curving stairs, her eyes narrowing to furious slits.
“I loved him dearly, aye. And I would have followed him into the deepest pit of hell and back,” she said, a tear suddenly trickling down her cheek.
Swiping at it, she raised the dagger again, stabbing the air to emphasize her every word. “I loved him right up to the hour he told me he was calling off our wedding. The day he vowed he didn’t care how many of his da’s alliances ran afoul, he’d rather pick winkels on the farthest Hebridean shore than turn his back on the woman he loved! Some light-skirted Ulster female he met on a journey to Ireland.”
Jabbing the dagger in Munro’s direction, she seethed, “You sent him there! To Lough Foyle where he said you’d hoped the Irish lords might prove eager cattle buyers. But instead of a taker for your stirks, he found his heart—or so he claimed!”
Aveline stared at her. “So you killed him?”
“All ten o’ my sons?” Munro’s rage filled the stair tower. “The fiend take you!” he shouted. “On my soul—you’ll suffer for this!”
“I had no choice,” Sorcha said, her eyes going queer again. “The shame would’ve been unbearable with all my other sisters wed and her” —she gestured with the dirk at Aveline—“fair as she is. Anyone would have taken her and I’d be left to wither alone, looking on as Neill flaunted his Irish bride.”
She raised her voice above the sudden clamor of barking dogs and cries rising up from the hall. “I ne’er meant to kill them all. Only Neill. ’Twas his wont to cross the footbridge more often than the others. And most times alone. I canna be faulted if they chose to join him that day.”
Flicking at the Macpherson plaid she’d donned, she glanced over her shoulder, peering down into the gloom behind her, clearly annoyed by the noise.
“After the deed, I knew why they all went to the Garbh Uisge that morn. ’Twas clear I was meant to have done with all of you,” she said, looking at Munro. “Neill for his perfidy, the others for their arrogance and pride, and you because you sent Neill to Lough Foyle! We’d be wed this night were it not for you and your meddling.”
“Sorcha, how could you?” Aveline’s heart twisted. “We all loved you,” she said, throwing a glance at Munro. “Even Laird Macpherson oft spoke of you with affection. He—”
“He caused all this!” Sorcha exploded, her face purpling. “These hills will be better served without him. Once he’s gone, our father as nearest neighbor and friend, can take over his lands and cattle. He’ll thank me, finally seeing how much more useful I am than you. He—”
Munro hooted. “Your da only wants to sit before his hearth fire and have his men drink his health!” he bellowed, glaring at her. “He’d sooner cut off his arms than burden himself with a second holding! ’Tis mad you are, full mad.”
“I am not the one who sees bogles,” Sorcha quipped, brandishing her dirk.
She lunged forward then, the tip of her blade catching Munro’s plaid—until her eyes flew wide and she flung up her arms, her terrified gaze fixed on something behind them, her dirk slipping from her hand and clattering down the stairs.
“Eeeeeeeee …” she cried, her eyes rounding even more as she swayed and staggered, tipping right off the steps into nothingness.
“God’s mercy!” Munro crossed himself.
“Dear saints,” Aveline gasped, clapping a hand to her cheek as her sister fell, Sorcha’s flailing arms and a flash of her long white legs, the last Aveline saw of her, the horrible bumps and thumpings as she rolled down the stairs, echoing loudly in the stairwell.
Of a sudden, an eerily silent stairwell.
But not quite as dark as it’d been for the warm golden light of one of the wall torches farther up the steps suddenly flared bright, illuminating the now-empty stairs.
A golden light far too luminous for any smoking pitch-pine torch.
“Iona!” Munro cried, staring up at the landing above them, the wonder in his voice leaving no doubt that he saw his wife standing there.
Or, as Aveline was certain, that she’d come to avert further tragedy.
Munro blinked and pressed a trembling hand to his mouth. “By all the living saints!”
Aveline saw only the shimmering light.
Perhaps, if she squinted and looked hard, the vague outline of a tall, shapely woman. Very feminine and loving in spirit, her tumbling, unbound hair a bright and fiery red-gold and gleaming where the torchlight played upon it.
But then the image was gone.
And with its disappearance, the shadows returned and the stair tower was cold and dark once more. The silence vanished, too, shattered by the chaos in the hall. Crashing, banging, and the sound of running feet, great bursts of shouting and cries, the shrill barking of the castle dogs.
Morag spluttering curses and calling out orders, her sharp voice rising above the din, a sure sign that Sorcha’s fall had been observed.
Her body discovered.
“Come!” Her emotions whirling, Aveline peered down into the mirk and saw nothing. She flashed a glance at Munro, then hitched up her skirts and raced down the steps to the hall.
Munro hurried after her, surprisingly quick on his heels for an auld done man with tangled, sleep-mused hair, a bandaged arm, and a furred bed robe flapping about his naked legs.
But when they burst out of the stair tower and into the tumult, it wasn’t Sorcha’s broken body that caught their eye.
Dead beyond doubt, someone had already tossed a plaid over her and only her large booted feet and one out-thrust arm peeked from beneath it.
Aveline sucked in a breath, but glanced aside as quickly, scanning the throng for the true source of the ruckus if Sorcha’s fall had caused so little a ripple.
Something surely had for the hall bustled with raucous, jostling clansmen and the cacophony was deafening.
Pitch-pine torches blazed everywhere, their sputtering, smoking light casting a flickering reddish glow over the whole of the great cavernous area, while the pleasing, homey smells of wood smoke, ale, and roasting meats gave the deceptive impression that this was a day like any other.
As well it would have been save for the sad plaid-draped form lying just inside the shadows of the stair foot.
A pathetic figure, all but ignored for it was Beardie’s huge bear-like form that drew all eyes and attention.
Beardie, the aged, barking dog Cuillin running excited circles around him, and the plaid-hung, auburn-haired giant clutched so protectively in Beardie’s arms.
Jamie.
Bruised, disheveled, and dripping, but gloriously, wondrously alive.
Aveline stared, her jaw slipping. Her heart split wide.
“Dear saints,” she choked, tears burning her eyes. “He’s not dead! God be praised!”
A great sob escaped her and she started running, relief surging through her, giving her the strength to plow her way through the crowded hall, chasing after Beardie as he carried Jamie toward the dais.
“By the Rood! My son lives!” Munro shot past her with remarkable speed, elbowing his way through his kinsmen to arrive at the high table even as Beardie lowered Jamie onto the scarred wood of its cleared surface.
“What did that she-bitch do to you?” Munro demanded, his gruff tone belied by the wetness on his cheeks. His tears flowing, he smoothed back Jamie’s damp, tangled hair. “I’d pull her apart with my own hands had she no’ fell down the stairs!”
“She pushed him o’er the ledge.” Beardie stepped back from the table and shoved his own shock of red hair off his fa
ce now that he’d laid down his burden. “I saw it all,” he revealed, his great bushy beard jiggling as he looked around, clearly eager to share his tale. “She ran right at him, her arms stretched out before her like a lance and hit him full in the back. He ne’er had a chance, just went flying o’er the edge.”
Aveline’s heart lurched as she listened, the words making her tremble with shock and anger.
“O-o-oh, Jamie,” she cried, grabbing his face and raining kisses on his cheeks and brow, every inch of him that she could reach. “Oh, my heart. Why did you go there?” She blinked hard, dashed the tears from her eyes. “You were warned! Linnet MacKenzie sent word. You knew the danger—”
“I had to go.” He opened pain-glazed eyes to peer up at her. “Hughie Mac’s … the crummock,” he added, his thoughts running together in a confused jumble.
But he saw her brow knit and knew he wasn’t making any sense, so he swallowed hard and tried again. “I was on my way to Hughie’s and remembered Baldreagan’s old underground passages. How some ended near the Garbh Uisge. I thought that might be how the bogle gained entry, so I went to have a look and—”
“If you’d just asked me, I’d have told you those passages were made unusable years ago!” Munro barked, folding his arms and looking very lairdly despite his bed robe and bare feet. “Sakes, son, I swear if you were still a wee laddie, I’d take a hazel stick to you!”
“And so would I!” Aveline put in, frowning through her tears and looking anything but ferocious.
Truth was, she was the most beautiful sight Jamie had e’er seen. Even with mussed hair, streaming eyes, and a bright red nose.
Nay, especially with those things.
Looking at her, his own eyes began to burn so he grabbed her quickly, pulling her close for a kiss.
A hard and fast kiss because Munro was glaring at him, his bushy brows snapping together. “Aye, ’tis a good lashing with a hazel stick you need,” he vowed. “Giving us such a fright. If it weren’t for Beardie, we might have lost you.”
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