by Diane Darcy
With a wet a handkerchief, I gently wipe the blood from Beth’s hands, the foam from the corners of her mouth, the drool puddled on the floor. Thus, I restore her dignity. Such a worthy friend am I.
I check that no one is outside the door, and pull Beth into the hallway. It’s a simple matter to set her hand to her chest as if she’d clutched her heart as she died.
I set everything to rights again, leave the keep, and wait for Beth to be discovered.
All that remains is to wait for Himself to return home.
~~~
It was almost full dark when they finished setting up camp. Brecken still hadn’t arrived and Ian had to admit he worried for the lad. Not that he could do anything about it at the moment. Even if it were morning he wouldn’t split his men and risk the crown to go after him. They’d return home first, then deal with Brecken’s situation. The young man was most likely waylaid at Stirling, where girls and entertainments abounded. If Ian sent men and they found such, Brecken’s life would surely be forfeit. Well, mayhap not forfeit, but certainly his face bashed up a bit. ’Twas better to worry for the lad and naught more.
Ian approached the pair of men on first watch. “Stay sharp. ’Tis likely we are followed. I want no surprises this night.”
Next he found Dugald, deeper in the trees, as was usual. “I’ll take first watch.”
Dugald’s eyes narrowed. “You never take first watch.”
Ian glowered at him, glanced at the tent where Samantha was bundled for the night, and thought about the soft looks she’d sent his way throughout the day. Staying outside was for the best. “I’ll take it tonight.”
Dugald shrugged, unwrapped the blanket from around his shoulders, and handed it to Ian before heading to the tent to try and get a few hours’ sleep.
Ian moved silently through the trees. He listened closely, but heard nothing more than the usual shifting, stirring, and murmuring of men. Most had settled for the night. Besides the two other guards, a few still spoke softly around the dying fire.
In truth, he didn’t trust himself alone with Samantha. His emotions ran too high around her and, after traveling for the day, he couldn’t be alone with her and not pull her into his arms. He heard her laugh and realized she must be talking with Dugald.
Yearning tightened his chest—he should be with her—earning her smiles and laughter, hearing her funny stories and interests. Turning, he prowled further into the trees. It unnerved him that leaving her with Dugald, his most trusted friend, didn’t set well with him.
He admitted it. He had feelings for the girl. Strong ones.
His jaw tightened and his fingers clenched on the blanket. Blast it. What was it about her? Why was her pull so strong? What was she doing to him? He’d never felt this way about another. Her beauty was captivating, surely, but he’d seen better at both the English and Scottish courts.
He sighed. Nay, he had not.
And it wasn’t just her beauty. It was everything. The sound of her voice, her laugh, her amber eyes when they lit with teasing or merriment. Her inquisitiveness and love of stories, past, present, and future. Even her silly berry hair. Would that he truly did believe her a witch. Then he could blame witchcraft for this spell she seemed to have effortlessly cast upon him.
Which reminded him—he desired acceptance and respect from his people, and had worked hard toward that goal. An accused witch was the last lady he should take to wife. Especially one who was easily kidnapped, told stories about the future, and knew of things she should not.
He sighed. Wife?
He wrapped the blanket about his shoulders and settled back against a tree. He truly did have it bad.
Chapter Nineteen
Jerry tensed as he saw a line of horses snaking into the village, Mad Malcolm returning home with his entourage of men. Things had been much better with him gone. Everyone had been more relaxed, kinder, the food more generous.
Jerry scrambled behind a barrel and noticed he wasn’t the only searching for a hiding spot. Men, women, and children ducked into doorways, behind buildings, and ran for the keep. Lady, his new shadow, came to investigate, pressing her nose into his neck, whimpering slightly, and he shushed her and pulled her close. For long minutes he watched from his hiding spot against the brewery wall as Mad Malcolm rode across the courtyard and finally dismounted. The man paced, and immediately started the ranting thing again like a man unhinged. In the 21st century, the guy would have been locked in a psych ward years ago.
Clutching Lady close, he peered around the barrel, sensing something was about to happen. Dread simmered in his gut.
“Jerry!” Mad Malcolm called his name with that weird pronunciation and Jerry pressed his back against the wall, hid his face in the curve of the barrel, and didn’t move—like a wild animal, hunted, instinctively knowing movement could bring death. “I wish for my seer! Now!”
Seriously? Jerry cringed behind the barrel as Lady licked his chin. The moment the guy returned home he wanted to see him? Shouldn’t he want a nap? Something to eat to take the edge off his temper?
Frankly, he didn’t dare disobey. If he did, it would only get worse for him. It would be better to come out of hiding himself than to have someone point him out and drag him from his hiding spot. Taking a deep breath, he shooed Lady away, forced himself from behind the barrel, scrambled awkwardly to his feet, and then hurried forward. “Here I am.” The words came out weaker than he’d intended. “I’m here.”
When he reached the laird, he threw himself to his knees and looked at the ground before someone had the chance to force him to do both.
When Mad Malcolm didn’t say a word, Jerry felt sweat break out under his newly grown beard. Finally, he shot a quick glance upward to see Mad Malcolm studying him, his weird eyes focused intently. Jerry quickly lowered his gaze and his chest constricted.
“Laird MacGregor had a lady with him,” Mad Malcolm finally spoke. “She’d hair the color of elderberry wine. Answer me truly. Who is she?”
Could it be Samantha? Jerry had no idea what color elderberry wine was, but if the girl’s hair was worth noting, couldn’t it be her? And she was alive? A cautious relief started to bloom in his chest, allowing him to breathe again. He glanced up, then quickly down. “What did she look like?”
“Tall for a woman, wi’ hair that glowed in the sunlight. She spoke much as you do.”
Relief gripped him so strongly that hot tears rushed to his eyes and a sob burst from his chest.
“You know this girl?”
Jerry, realizing he’d given himself away, flinched. He wouldn’t wish this man on his most hated enemy, and while he and Samantha had their differences, hers was the face he’d most like to see in the world at that moment. But surely she was safe or this madman would have stolen her away. Cautiously, he nodded.
“Who is she?”
Jerry tried to think of something that would dispel Malcolm’s interest. Or at least frighten the superstitious git. “She’s a wise woman, much-feared among those in the know.”
Quick as a snake, Malcolm grasped Jerry’s chin and forced him to meet his gaze. “And you are my seer, are you not? A male, bigger and stronger.”
“Yes.” Jerry grimaced—he didn’t sound bigger and stronger—he sounded weak. “But the lady is strong too.”
“I sense you havna told me all.”
“I have. I swear it.”
“Why did you not warn me a wise woman would be at Stirling? That Laird MacGregor had possession of one? Why did my powerful seer not advise me of such?”
Jerry desperately wanted to jerk his chin away. “She is powerful.” He swallowed. “She is able to hide herself from me.”
Malcolm released Jerry’s chin and turned and walked a few paces away. “You compel my hand. If you doona tell me what I wish to know, then I must force the issue.”
Force? Jerry’s heart pounded. Did he mean torture? Sweat broke out on his back, under his arms, and his neck heated. “No.” Jerry swallowed repeat
edly. “Please, don’t.” The rack, thumbscrews, chair of torture, and worse sprang to mind. The shakes came on strong.
Mad Malcolm turned back. “I wish more from my seer. I want predictions, foretellings, tidings against MacGregor. Or I am compelled to make you scream.” He pointed his index finger in Jerry’s face. “You make me do this.”
Jerry was so scared he could barely think. “I...” He swallowed. “I...I...have conjured something in your absence. But...it’s so powerful, I fear to give it to you.”
Mad Malcolm’s eyes seemed to light from within. “Powerful, you say? A weapon?”
“Y...yes...I...stole the knowledge from the lady.” If he thought Samantha was strong, he might leave her alone.
“Give it to me.”
Jerry dug the little laser he’d been holding back from his pocket. Still gasping, trying to get enough air, he opened his palm to reveal the toy.
Mad Malcolm’s face lit with glee and he reached for it.
Without even thinking, Jerry closed his fingers and jerked his hand back. “Careful,” he said, desperate to convince the man it was a dangerous weapon, and anxious to distract him from thoughts of torture.
Malcolm’s head jerked up and, face conflicted, he studied Jerry again. “What is it?” he whispered. “What does it do?”
Jerry took a breath to steady himself. Appearing weak wouldn’t help his cause. Hand clenching around the tiny cylinder, he stood. If he could just distract the man, turn his thoughts, maybe he could get away. Now he knew Samantha was alive and well with Clan MacGregor, he’d take his chances and try to get back to her. He’d hide out, look for a trail, even getting lost in the woods would be better than torture.
“It’s called the...the Laser of Doom.” Jerry said the last in an ominous tone, hoping to impress the man, hoping he didn’t just sound silly.
“The Laser of Doom?”
Jerry nodded, feeling less foolish than he’d have thought. “You must be very careful with it.” His voice strengthened. “It’s dangerous. I...it took a lot out of me to make it. It weakened me.” Jerry didn’t want the guy demanding more from him before he could get away.
Malcolm waved a hand dismissively. “Aye, yes. What does it do?”
Jerry curled it into his palm, wondering how much battery was left and how long it would last, regretting every single time he’d casually used it. “You have to be cautious. It can weaken with overuse.”
“Aye, yes. I understand. Use it sparingly. But what does it do? You must demonstrate.”
Jerry’s thumb hovered over the button on the top. “It won’t hurt its master, but it can harm your men. It will kill a true enemy.”
“Show me.”
Jerry glanced up at the sunny sky. It would dull the laser, and make the demonstration less dramatic. “We need to go inside.” He glanced around. “There are too many watching out here.” There weren’t actually that many people milling about as everyone tended to hide when Malcolm entered an area, but after a quick look around, Malcolm nodded his agreement. “Come.”
Inside the hall, Malcolm and his men dismissed several servants then Malcolm turned to Jerry and gestured impatiently. “Demonstrate.”
Jerry maneuvered the small laser in his curled hand, took a breath, and pushed the button on top of the cylinder with his thumb. The red laser-beam burst from the bottom of his clenched hand, a brilliant patch of red circling on the floor, the beam a red thread in the darkness of the hall.
Everyone gasped and Mad Malcolm stumbled backward, as did several of his men, crossing themselves.
After a few seconds, happy with the reactions, he lifted his thumb and the light went out.
Malcolm stared at Jerry, a new respect in his gaze. “You truly are a wizard.” He came forward. “Do it again.”
Again Jerry pushed the button, and, once more, the red beam appeared, brilliant in the darkening hall.
Mad Malcolm laughed. He did a little dance and held out his hand. “Give it to me.”
Reluctantly, Jerry handed it over, afraid Mad Malcolm would quickly discover it was useless as a weapon before he could escape. “Don’t overuse it,” he cautioned again. “It’s powerful, but will weaken with use. I cannot make another.”
Mad Malcolm took it and studied it, rolling the silver toy with his fingers.
“Careful. Don’t point it toward yourself.”
Malcolm, wide-eyed, held it in his palm, pushed the button with his thumb, and the laser lit the floor once more. He let up, laughed with glee, and jumped up and down. He pressed the button again. Red light on. Red light off. More laughter. The man was like a three year old. He glanced at his men, smiled, and turned the beam onto them, the red light going from man to man as they screamed, and ran from the hall.
Jerry, seeing his chance, turned and ran too.
Behind him Mad Malcolm laughed like a...well, like a madman.
~~~
They were almost home, everyone exhausted by the hurried to-and-fro trip.
Especially Samantha. She’d dozed off, and he’d finally let her ride on his lap so she could sleep. He’d considered telling Dugald to take her, but couldn’t stand the thought of another man’s arms about her. She was limp, soft, and warm, her head against his chest, and he could easily breathe in the wonderful scent of her hair, her skin. Nay, she’d ride with him and no other.
He snorted and shook his head. It wouldn’t have made a difference to her. She slept like the dead, and his arms, already sore from the fight with Marshal, felt like logs. Still, he’d not give her up. At any rate, they were close to home now.
He’d mulled over his options. They needed to have a frank discussion. He needed to know more about her. Lord Marshall’s reaction made him think he might need to listen to her wild tales. Not necessarily to believe them, of course. But perhaps to convince himself that, yes, even an intelligent man like Marshall could be duped.
If he could get her to trust him. If he could trust her. She actually seemed a straightforward kind of girl most of the time. Direct, passionate, honest. So where had she come from? How had she come into possession of the crown? What had she planned to do with it? How had she known of the secret places in the keep? It was time to talk of these things. Time for actual answers. This time, no interruptions, no halts, no fleeing her company.
Mayhap he ought to find the man she’d come with. See who he was to her. A lover? A husband? He immediately rejected the ideas. Surely she’d have said something if that were the case. Of course, she had been concerned with finding the man.
He pushed the thought aside. The unknown male was not her husband. She wore no ring, had no children. That he knew of a voice whispered inside his head. But he pushed it aside. She’d told him, in a heartfelt way, that she believed in fidelity. Her kisses suggested that man was not her husband.
He sighed. Once everything was cleared to his satisfaction, mayhap they could see if this...whatever it was...was mutual. If marriage was a possibility. His arms tightened around her. And if it wasn’t, then what? He might not let her go, anyway.
Daylight ebbed as they arrived home and headed up the road to the castle gate. No one was more glad than he that they’d arrived unmolested. He truly did not wish another fight, not when Samantha was with him, and was glad the Campbells had decided against following.
“Laird MacGregor?” They were halted by one of the guards at the gate as the man stepped forward. He looked upset. Uneasy. “Yer Lairdship?”
The hair on the back of Ian’s neck rose in warning, and his arms tightened around Samantha, waking her. She yawned. “What is it? Are we home?”
The guard, Ronald, put a fist to his mouth and cleared his throat. Another guard stood behind him in the gloom. “My laird, there’s been a death.”
Ian froze. “Who?”
The man took a breath and glanced at his companion, who stepped out of the shadows to join him. Ian clearly heard Ronald swallow. “’Tis Beth, the housekeeper. They’re saying ’tis her heart what
gave out.”
Ian’s mouth parted.
Samantha straightened. “Did you say Beth?” Her voice was a dazed whisper. “Her heart? But she couldn’t have even been forty.”
Shock and grief kept him silent. He didn’t wait to hear more. He touched his heels to his horse’s flanks as shaken whispers traveled the line behind him.
Beth, dead? She’d been constant, an ally in his home from the moment he’d arrived, the king's pledge in hand. He couldn’t imagine the place without her. Could the guard at the gate somehow have been ill-informed?
Dark suspicions of murder arose as they hurried into the inner courtyard. He pushed them aside.
Until he saw Beth, dead or alive, he’d not believe it.
~~~
Samantha, still in the grip of disbelief, followed Ian inside to find a crowd of people gathered in the hall. Beth’s body, wrapped in linen, was laid out on a table near the door, only her face visible. Tori, red-eyed, her countenance pinched from grief, stood near her mother with two girls at her side.
Ian found the first available man willing to look him in the eye. “What has transpired?”
The guard swung his head back and forth. “She died before bed last night. I was one of the first to see her. She clutched her heart in death.”
Sympathy surged through Samantha and she hurried forward to envelope Tori in an embrace. “I’m so sorry, honey.”
The girl nodded dully against Samantha’s shoulder.
Ian followed and put a hand on Tori’s back. “Lass—”
Tori jerked away from them both, rigid and rejecting. “We need a priest. The church is locked and there is no priest.”
Samantha looked around as others murmured agreement. Anger was growing on the faces of those in the room, and she wasn’t surprised. This was bound to happen.
Ian might have a policy against priests, but in this day and time, it was perfectly normal for the church to dictate most of their everyday lives and uphold all their traditions. Guiding, teaching, keeping them on the straight and narrow. Recording marriages, births, deaths. Someone dying would make the lack of mediation between God and man very real to them at this moment—no one to issue absolution and peace. The absence of clergy support at a time like this was bound to cause resentment and fear.