by Laura Landon
Marjorie’s smile broadened. “Oh, aye, mistress. You and the laird will be the first to know. But he has na yet spoken to me. I am trying to be patient until he works up the courage to ask for my hand, but it is difficult at times.”
Janet laughed. “It must be the same with both brothers. I did na think Lochlan would ever say the words.”
An intrigued expression covered Marjorie’s face. “How did you get him to ask?”
“I pretended to show interest in young Cormac MacMillan one spring night. The next evening, Lochlan said the words.”
That brought a burst of laughter from all of them.
Màiri reached into her pocket for a handkerchief she had there and when she pulled out her hand, the bracelet of green stones fell to the floor.
Both women stared at the bracelet with wide-eyed looks that resembled fear and horror. “Oh, mistress,” Janet said, unable to lift her gaze from the trinket on the floor. “Where did you get that?”
Màiri snatched it up, wanting to thank Iain for it the minute he returned. “I found it. Please, do na tell anyone you saw it.”
Marjorie and Janet both exchanged terrified looks, looks Màiri could not understand. “Is something wrong?” she asked, noting how both women stepped away from the bracelet in her hand.
“Nay,” Janet answered hesitantly. “But I would na show anyone you found the bracelet.”
Màiri put the polished green stones back in her pocket. “I don’t intend to.”
Both exchanged wary looks, then Marjorie backed away even further. “I must go,” she said. “’Tis getting late and I must help me mither start the evening meal.”
“Good bye, Marjorie,” Màiri and Janet called after her. They soon followed her down the long stone corridor.
Màiri stopped to peer out one of the long slit windows overlooking the bailey. “I do na see if the laird has returned,” she said looking down to the courtyard.”
“Do na worry,” Janet answered in a comforting voice, “it will na be long. ’Tis almost time for the evening meal. Our laird and my Lochlan would na intentionally miss a meal. Especially Lochlan. He knows we’re to have fresh salmon and brown bread with honey.”
Màiri forced a smile, then glanced again out the next narrow window they passed on their way to her rooms and sighed. She thought the men would be back long before now. The sun was not so very low in the sky that she needed to worry yet, but it would be soon. She ignored the interruption of her gift, wishing it would be as silent as it had been when she’d first come. If only it would lie dormant like it had the first months after she’d married Iain. If only it would not warn her of so many tragedies about to happen: Granny. The Cochrans. Roderick. Iain. She was suddenly very tired.
“Would you like to rest a while before it’s time for the evening meal?” Janet asked.
It did not take Màiri long to make her decision. “Aye. ’Tis silly of me to be so lazy, but I would rather go to my room than start something new at this hour.”
Janet opened the door and smiled as if she knew the secret reason Màiri needed to rest.
“Mistress,” Janet said before leaving. “Do na forget to put the bracelet away. It is best if no one sees it.”
“Why, Janet?”
“No reason. It would just be best.”
After Janet walked away, Màiri went into her room and closed the door behind her. Her hand automatically touched the stones that had caused such a reaction, then moved to her stomach. The instinct to protect the babe growing in her womb was as fierce as the instinct to protect her husband from a danger he would not admit was real. The love she felt for both was that intense.
Chapter 17
Màiri sat at her place at the head table, waiting for Iain to arrive. Over and over she lifted her gaze to the empty doorway in hopes he would walk into the room. She needed to see him standing before her to make sure he was safe. Her gift had issued a strange warning the moment she’d sat down at her place beside his empty seat.
But perhaps that was because Rodrick was already seated not far away.
Soon after she sat, Old Ferquhar rushed forward with a goblet and set it in front of her, then filled it with the ale from his pitcher. Part of the liquid sloshed over the rim as the ale made its way into the goblet, but the old man did not seem to notice. He was already far into his cups.
Ferquhar usually only helped with the noontime meal, and only with platters of meat or trays of warm bread. Never with the ale. Iain had given strict orders to keep all strong drink from his reach, yet somehow he always managed to have a flagon of ale hidden somewhere.
“I did na see you did na have some ale, milady,” he slurred, flashing her a toothless grin as he wove back and forth in front of her.
Màiri focused on the server. “Your laird will na be pleased if he thinks you have found too much ale,” she said, knowing her warning would do no good. Ferquhar was drunk with ale far more than he was sober.
Ferquhar waved a shaky finger in the air. “A body should never be without some ale. Is that na right?”
Màiri looked at the old man and smiled. She did not think she’d ever seen Ferquhar before he’d had at least a pint or more. Yet he was a kindly sort you could not help but like, drunk or sober.
“Take care, Ferquhar.”
“Oh, aye. Aye.” The man bobbed his head in a disjointed manner and clutched the pitcher to him as if he held in his grasp the most precious treasure in all the world.
“Here,” Roderick said, grinning up at the old man. He held out his goblet while trying to hide his laughter. “Fill this before you sneak off to drink what’s left in your pitcher.”
“Oh, nay, milord. Old Ferquhar would never sneak off with the laird’s ale.”
Roderick laughed out loud, then helped steady the pitcher while Ferquhar poured. “You would drink the cream the cook set down for the cats if you thought it was laced with ale, old man,” he joked.
“Ah, Roderick. You’re always teasing old Ferquhar.” Ferquhar gave Roderick a lopsided grin, then hugged the pitcher to him again before he staggered off.
“Ferquhar will never change,” Roderick said, leaning back in his chair. He wore a relaxed look of contentment. He looked as if he did not have a care in the world.
She studied his calm expression, wondering if he was the slightest concerned that Iain might find something in his search that would incriminate him. She could not tell if he had given it even a second thought.
Could the warning from her gift be wrong?
Màiri opened herself to her gift, searching for an answer to her doubts as well as something that would explain her apprehension. The earlier warning came back in full measure.
The pressure in her chest tightened and she glanced again at the empty doorway. She just wanted Iain to come back to her safe and well. She turned her attention back to Roderick. He was watching her, the smile on his face warm and open.
“You are na hungry, Màiri?” he said, lifting a piece of fowl from the platter in front of him and putting it in his mouth. “Our laird would na like it if he knew you could na eat when he was gone.”
Màiri picked up the fork beside her plate and moved the little she’d taken around on her platter. “I thought to wait a little longer. I am sure Iain will be here shortly.”
Roderick smiled in agreement and lifted his goblet of wine to her. “As you wish, milady. I am surprised our laird is so late, but do na worry. I’m certain nothing is amiss. He is na doubt still looking for a clue as to where the Cochrans have hidden the cattle they claim were stolen.”
She stared at the relaxed look on Roderick’s face and fought the confusion she battled between what her gift told her and what she saw with her own eyes. “Claim? Are you accusing the Cochrans of stealing their own cattle?”
Roderick leaned forward to pick up a warm piece of bread and spread it with honey. “Surely you don’t believe the MacAlisters are responsible for the missing cattle?”
“I think it st
range that the Cochrans would burn their own fields and steal their own cattle as an excuse to start a war they do na want.”
“That is an excellent point, milady. It will be interesting to find out what really happened to the Cochran’s cattle. Perhaps their disappearance is connected to all the troubles.”
She stared at him in disbelief. His words and behavior disavowed him from any connection to the terrible things that had happened, yet her gift gave her an undeniable warning to beware. She studied him carefully and sensed how deeply the evil was buried inside him. What a master he was at hiding from the outside the hatred and jealousy he harbored on the inside. Her gift warned her that he was a greater threat than she’d ever imagined.
The look of innocence on his face glowed as brightly as a ray of warm sunshine. She fought to keep from being drawn in by his friendliness and welcoming overtures. She reached for the wine in front of her and raised it to her lips. The goblet froze halfway to her mouth. Iain stood in the doorway, safe and unharmed.
She did a quick glance of his body, from the top of his head to the tips of his toes, to assure herself that he was all right. The warnings had been so urgent. The unease so intense. She’d been so certain they’d been directed at Iain. But perhaps they had not.
Even though his clothes showed the dirt of a long, tiring day atop a horse and the bronzed skin of his jaw was shadowed by thick, dark stubble, there was still something magnificent in the way he surveyed his keep. In the way he commanded an entire room without saying a word.
She wanted to run to him and wrap her arms around him to hold him. She wanted to show him she’d found the gift he’d left on her pillow and thank him for it. She wanted to feel the weight of his arm across her shoulder and his hands upon her.
A slow tremor shook her to the very core of her being then burned a fiery path to the pit of her stomach and lower. She forced herself to sit in her seat and wait for him to come to her.
From across the room, she watched him rake his fingers through his thick, wind-blown hair, then walk across the hall with all the dignity of a laird.
“Iain,” Roderick said, taking another swallow of his ale. “It is about time you returned. Your wife has na been able to eat a bite worrying about you.”
She saw the teasing look in Roderick’s eyes that told her Roderick was not even concerned whether or not Iain had found any incriminating evidence. He showed no nervousness or even the slightest twinge of apprehension. Was he that sure Iain would find nothing? Or was there truly nothing to find?
Roderick pointed to Iain’s empty chair. “Sit down and tell us what you found. There is a cup of ale waiting to ease your thirst.”
Iain sank into the chair beside her, and placed his hand on her thigh in a very possessive and personal manner. As soon as he touched her, another wave of unease washed over her, warning her. Màiri looked into his face in search of the cause of her unease. His expression remained closed. She opened her gift to him, but as usual, it returned to her empty.
“Was I na right?” Roderick said, the sincere expression on his face as focused as the concern in his eyes. “Did I na tell you none of us were to blame for the stolen cattle?”
Iain looked at Roderick and nodded. “Did you follow the tracks made by the cattle after they were taken from Cochran land, Roderick?”
“Of course. ’Tis impossible to cover tracks left by that many cattle. We followed the tracks across our border onto our land, then back onto Cochran land. The Cochrans tried to cover the tracks when they took them back home, but they did na do a very good job. The tracks were still there to read. Surely you saw them?”
“Aye, I saw them.”
“I know you want to believe the Cochrans are innocent, Iain, but the proof is there.”
Iain sat forward and reached for the ale sitting on the table in front of him.
The minute he touched the goblet, a jolt as painful as a knife plunging into her chest stole the air from her body. “Nay!”
Without thinking, she grabbed the goblet from Iain’s hand and took it away from him. She stared at the liquid sloshing in the cup then to the puzzled look on Iain’s face, and finally to Roderick’s look of shock and surprise.
The cup held the touch of death.
Roderick stared at her in disbelief. His gaze focused first on the goblet in her hand, then back to focus on her eyes.
No matter how hard she tried, she could not disguise the terror she felt. Something amiss with the ale.
At first Roderick did not react, then his face darkened with a questioning look that told her he wanted to know how she knew. Her breathing came in harsh ragged gasps. She could not believe the cool, calculated way Roderick sat there, calmly waiting to watch his brother die.
Iain reached for her. “What is it, Màiri?”
“Nothing,” she said, her hand trembling as she held the cup further away from him. “Here.” She moved her goblet toward him. “Ferquhar!” she yelled and Ferquhar rushed over to their table. “Pour your laird some fresh ale.”
She made sure Ferquhar used her goblet.
“Is something wrong, milady?” Roderick questioned. “Is there something wrong with the ale?”
Màiri lifted her gaze. She could not help but stare at him in astonished horror. What had he done? She wanted to accuse him in front of Iain, but when she looked at the confusion on Iain’s face, she knew she could not.
What if he didn’t believe her? Roderick would most likely deny having anything to do with the ale in the cup. What would she do if Iain took Roderick’s word over hers? She remembered Iain’s reaction the last time she’d tried to warn him of Roderick. Without proof, how could she make Iain believe her now?
She handed Ferquhar the cup with the poisoned ale. “Throw this down the shaft in the garderobe, Ferquhar.”
“Ah, milady…”
“Throw it away!” she said in a voice she knew was too loud and strident. “I forbid you to take even one sip of it. Do you understand?”
Ferquhar shook his head sadly. “Aye, milady. But ’tis a waste of good—”
“I don’t care!” she hollered, then watched as Ferquhar set the pitcher on the table and staggered away with the goblet.
She clutched her hands in her lap and took one steadying breath after another. Dear God. What was she going to do? How could she protect Iain when Roderick’s attempts had turned so ruthless and blatant?
Iain touched her arm. “What is wrong with you, Màiri?”
She slowly raised her head, forcing herself to look into Iain’s questioning gaze. “It…” He would never take her word over Roderick’s. He would never believe her. “The ale had been there a long time. I wanted you to have fresh. Here,” she said, clasping her hand around the goblet Ferquhar had just filled. Her gift told her there was nothing wrong with the ale in this cup. “Drink this.”
Iain raised the goblet to his lips and drank. His gaze never left hers. She wiped the sheen of perspiration that dampened her forehead and fought the turmoil raging inside her.
She looked at the sinister smile on Roderick’s face. She understood the warning in his fixed stare. Her gift exposed it all, both his hatred for his brother and his plan to kill him.
And Roderick knew she knew.
. . .
Màiri raced across the drawbridge and down the path that led to Donald’s cottage. She’d left Iain alone with Roderick only long enough to tell Donald that Iain needed his protection. That would be difficult but not impossible. The impossibility would be in convincing him from whom Iain needed protection.
“Mistress?”
A voice from behind her stopped her short and Màiri turned to see Lochlan walking toward her at a fast pace.
“Where are you going, mistress? It is almost dark. Far too late to be beyond the castle walls.”
Màiri kept walking. She could not waste any time. “I need to speak with your father, Lochlan. It’s important.”
“Does our laird know you’ve come out wit
hout anyone to guard you? He would not be pleased.”
She kept her gaze focused on the path ahead and did not look at Lochlan. “Your laird is busy. He has much to discuss with his warriors.”
How could she tell Lochlan that Iain was still deep in conversation with Roderick, listening to his every opinion and weighing his suggestions without realizing Roderick intended to harm him? How could she tell him about the ale?
“You should na have come out alone. Walk with me. I will take you to my father.”
She nodded and led the way, ignoring the concern on Lochlan’s face as he walked to catch up with her. Her mind swirled in maddening confusion. There were so many important problems to worry about, such as how she could ask Donald to guard Iain without having to tell him why she feared for his laird’s safety.
When they were near enough to Donald’s cottage to be heard, Lochlan yelled out his father’s name. The door opened, silhouetting Donald’s broad shoulders and powerful stance against the soft candlelight glowing from within.
“Mistress, is that you?” Donald asked, the surprise evident by the frown deepening on his forehead.
“Aye. I have need to speak with you.”
Donald nodded once, then moved back so she could enter. “What is wrong?”
Màiri stopped just inside the door and barely cast a glance at Donald’s wife, Elsa, who stood before the hearth, stirring the stew in the kettle hanging from the hook. She kept her gaze focused as she prepared to say out loud words she knew Donald would find impossible to believe. “I am sorry to intrude so late. I know you have had a long day and are ready to sit down to your meal, but it is important.”
“I will wait outside,” Lochlan said, turning to leave.
“Nay, Lochlan,” Màiri said. “You should hear this too.”
Lochlan nodded, then walked across the room to stand by his father.
“Sit down, milady,” Donald offered, pulling out a bench from beneath the table. “Elsa, bring your mistress something cool to drink.”
“Thank you, Elsa,” she said when Donald’s wife set a cup of water in front of her. Elsa gave her a compassionate smile then walked back to her stew. Màiri took one swallow then braced her shoulders. “I have come for your help, Donald.”