“I’m sorry, m’laird.”
Ranald made an anguished sound and stepped back from the bed, his eyes dark with grief. Merry longed to go to him, sensing this Duncan had been very special to him. Yet she dared not. She simply gazed on, silently and helplessly, as Ranald turned and stalked out of the room.
Chapter Seventeen
RAN DID NOT WASTE any time. He immediately ordered a search of the entire keep, top to bottom, plus every outbuilding within his demesne. Even as he did so, he was bitterly aware of the slim odds in catching Duncan’s killer.
He burned with frustration, knowing Duncan must have seen his attacker, and yet could not tell them anything now. Any final words from the old man must have been muttered before Ran entered the room, which meant only Merry or Nell had heard them. He bitterly wondered if Merry would feel the same triumph as Wickham from withholding that information.
Then he remembered his first reaction, how he’d first felt, watching Merry working so feverishly to save Duncan’s life. She’d been covered with blood, the sleeves of her fine gown ruined, but she’d never flinched once, never hesitated in her frantic attempt to save Duncan’s life. Auchmull’s stable master was a stranger to her, yet her unflinching service in a crisis was not something Ran could easily set aside. She had great pluck, for a court-bred Sassenach lady.
Ran relegated the enigma of Merry to the back of his mind while he organized a search party to ride out a short distance in the snow in an attempt to track Duncan’s killer. Though the main gate had been closed, a single man would have found it easy enough to climb and vault over the barricade, especially under cover of darkness.
Ran was also aware of a number of ancient, underground tunnels beneath Auchmull which his ancestors had used to access the outside world during sieges. Most of these he had ordered destroyed or sealed off, realizing they presented an equal danger for present-day invasion, but he suspected there were still a handful in existence that he did not know about.
Ofttimes, servants were better informed than their masters. He set several of the staff to searching the keep for secret passages. Though the attack had occurred in the stables, the murderer might find it convenient to slip inside the castle and hide in the labyrinth below until the search was over.
It occurred to Ran that Duncan’s killer, like the man who tried to snuff out his own life, was remarkably well informed about Auchmull’s layout. He considered for a moment the possibility of one of his own people being disloyal. Such troubles had not plagued the clan before the incident at Badanloch. The logical assumption was that the Macleans or Wickham were somehow connected to it all. Cullen had come here and addressed Ran with his customary insolence, not missing a chance to remark upon Blair’s death and imply Ran was wholly responsible.
Ran remembered the emotions which swept over him when he had found a jeweled dirk stuck in his own pillow. Incredulous disbelief, outrage, and later a cold, icy fury had gripped him like a northern wind, shattered what little faith he had left in humanity. That the woman he had loved beyond anything on earth was gone … the pain of that realization would live with him forever, without Cullen’s reminders. The thought, however fleeting, that one of his own … a Lindsay … should betray the clan was beyond comprehension.
There were no answers to be found in emotions run rampant, Ran realized. He wanted to lash out at someone for Duncan’s death, strike back, and wound another as he had been wounded. Merry was the logical outlet. An injured wolf turning on the one who cornered it.
Remembering the genuine anguish in her beautiful gray-green eyes when Nell Downie had quietly announced Duncan’s death, Ranald found he could not direct the rage festering in his heart and soul at Merry. It simply trickled away, like water dribbling through a bairn’s cupped hands; no matter how hard he tried, it was impossible to keep hold of it. As Ran prepared to ride out with his men, seeking the killer, he found himself hoping with every ounce of his being that Merry’s was the first face he saw when he returned.
* * *
AS THE HOURS PASSED, and the fruitless search continued, Dearg shifted restlessly under Ran’s control, pawing the ground whenever he relaxed his guard. Few except Duncan knew the blood bay was the spawn of the horse who had killed his father. Even Ran himself didn’t know what he had hoped to prove by taming and mastering Dearg, except it gave him a feeling of control over his life. Control he had been lacking ever since Blair’s death.
He felt a fresh pang of loss when they returned and he glanced over at the stables, now bristling with his men-at-arms searching every stall and haystack. He expected Duncan to come out blustering into the yard at any second, so possessive and protective had the old man been of “his” livery and all the Auchmull mounts. Ran’s hand gripped the leather pommel and he swung himself down, his knuckles white with tension. Dearg snorted and pranced, sensing his master’s dark mood.
Brodie Scott stepped forward to take charge of his steed, the lad’s freckled face scoured with seriousness. He filled Duncan’s duties in his absence but would never fill the void, and he knew it. His gaze soberly met Ran’s.
“Lord and Lady Deuchar just arrived; Lady Darra an’ Mistress Merry crack thegither from the go.”
Ran felt a sudden headache coming on, The last thing he needed was his sister meddling in events now, but his terse message to Edzell must have stirred the hornet’s nest.
“By Jesu, lad, we might as well hold Yule tidings now, everyone’s here.” Ran chuckled grimly, glancing up as a man strode out of the darkness to join him. It was his brother-in-law, Kinross Deuchar, Ran’s second cousin on his father’s side. Ross had ridden in on the distinctive pure white mare Brodie now led off with Dearg. The animal was Ross’s own pride and joy, much as Uar was Ranald’s.
Though distant cousins, the two men looked nothing alike. Kinross’s coloring was fair, and he usually wore his pale hair loose, though he was known to don a wig on occasion at court. He was clad in mulberry velvet with a matching cloak. His face was thin, his nose a trifle long, and he rather reminded Ran of a ferret. A kindly disposed ferret, though for some reason, Ran had been never felt entirely comfortable with Ross. Perhaps because Lord Deuchar was another one for court politics, and he himself was not particularly impressed with titles.
Nevertheless, he could not deny Ross was an excellent husband and father. He had never ill-treated Darra, and both Jesu and Ran knew her high-spirited nature would drive even a priest to drink. It was Ran’s good fortune Ross had taken a brief hiatus from his duties, and could stay on at Auchmull for a time. He would put the man’s expertise to use now.
“Ross,” he said, nodding shortly in acknowledgment. “I hear you’ve a man who’s a passable tracker. Can you lead another foray in the morn?”
“Certainly. Thank you for sending word to Edzell, by the way. I see Wickham is here. Does he intend to aid us in the search for Duncan’s killer?”
Ran smiled wryly. “Nay. He’s never been partial to horses, nor they to him. I’ve set him and his men to searching the castle sewers.”
Ross’s eyes widened, and then he gave a chortle of laughter. “Truly, you’re not an enemy to have, Ran. I hear rumor Wickham pushed the border with his betrothed, as well.”
“And has pink-cheek trophy to show for it,” Ranald said, though not without a faint chuckle. “I doubt he’ll try to fondle her again.”
“Is she truly as ornery as I hear tale?”
Ran’s smile broadened. “Och, even more so.”
“Then you’d best steal the bonny lass from Wickham while you can, Ran. She’d throw strong lads for the House of Lindsay.”
A tic of annoyance tugged Ran’s mouth into a scowl. Usually he appreciated Ross’s wicked sense of humor, but not today. “I’m not interested. Neither is she.”
“How do you know? Have you bothered to ask her?”
Ranald frowned and pivoted on his heel toward the keep, effectively ending their conversation. Kinross just grinned after his brother-in-law. He
knew full well what was on Ran’s mind. The vibrant redhead obviously rattled The Wolf’s infamous icy control.
Chapter Eighteen
UNAWARE RANALD AND HIS men had returned, Merry continued her polite conversation with Lady Deuchar in Auchmull’s northern tower room. She and Ranald’s sister had hit it off at once; each quickly recognized a kindred spirit and a fellow source of fascinating courtly gossip. They had been chattering for the better part of an hour, and already Darra insisted they converse with Christian names, rather than titles. Merry did not demur. It had been so long since she had visited with another woman who had similar interests; her own twin, Kat, was as different from her as night from day.
Darra told her all the latest Stuart gossip. It seemed King James had recently published a treatise called “Basilikon Doron,” the follow-up to the year’s previous dry “Trew Law of Free Monarchies.” In this, he again expressed his opinion that rebellion against a king was unlawful and blasphemous. Darra’s eyes twinkled when she added his timing was poor as ever; the greater nobility were even less amused by James’s demand that guests at courtly receptions were asked to bring their own food. While he waited on his tentative inheritance, tied to Tudor court strings, James had lapsed into a sullen, wary, withdrawn monarch.
Queen Anne could, on occasion, be both bright and witty, but her Danish heritage made her an outsider and she had never been fully embraced by the Stuart assembly. Public approval, however, had bounded upward upon the birth of Prince Henry, now five, and the Court collectively held their breath awaiting the next heir apparent. Elizabeth Tudor was no longer young; a reign of over forty years was a rare thing. If James intended to hold on to the whole of Scotland and England in the wake of her encroaching death, he needed more sons, and quickly.
Yet the proposed union of the countries after years of strife was exciting. At best, Scotland and England had been cautious allies, and Merry warmed to the thought of being able to visit both courts without criticism. Now she had made the acquaintance of Lady Deuchar, who obviously held influence with the Stuarts, her position was all the more secure. The only detail marring the picture was Sir Jasper Wickham. Suddenly the thought of the cold, fishy-pale Englishman introducing her as his wife was not a pleasant one. Her heart beat much faster when she envisioned Ranald in his stead, imagined the envious stares and whispers of the other ladies as a rugged, brooding Scot clad in kilt and breccan escorted her before the throne.
She shivered and Darra paused and regarded her curiously. “Is something amiss, Merry?”
“Nay.” Merry took a sip of the mulled cider from the mug she cradled in her hands. “I was just wondering if the men had found the culprit yet.”
“I doubt they will. Duncan’s killer was long gone by the time they bothered to search.”
Merry nodded, troubled.
“’Tis late, m’dear,” Darra offered kindly, “and I have kept you up . You look weary, perhaps a good rest would restore your spirits.”
Merry shook her head and set the cider aside on a small table. “Faith, I can’t. I have to see Lord Lindsay. I have to tell him …” She hesitated. She didn’t know what she planned saying to Ranald. That she was sorry? That she felt bad because she hadn’t helped Duncan in time? Did he even want to see her face again? What if he blamed her for the old man’s death?
Darra sensed her upset. “There’s naught you can do tonight, Merry,” she said soothingly, “except get some rest. Poor Duncan is beyond help.”
“I know. But Ranald—Lord Lindsay—seemed so fond of him.”
“Oh, aye. As a lad, Ran nearly lived in the stables, learning about horses from the best. Duncan was like a father to Ran after Father’s death.” She sighed. “’Twill be too quiet around the stables now.”
“Who will take Duncan’s place?”
“Grady, perhaps, or if Brodie Scott stays on, I think he would be very good with the animals.”
Merry nodded agreement. “I met Lady Fiona at Goldielands. She mentioned you fondly.”
Darra laughed. “Aye, dear Fi … I still chuckle over our mischievous days, long past. I confess I miss her terribly. She was a feckless child, but everyone adored her. I was sorry to hear of her recent travail, though I received word she did not lose the babe.”
“I am glad.” Merry was silent a moment, running her fingers over the vivid plaid pattern of the blanket draped across her lap. Red and black, Lindsay colors. She wondered if she should feel like a traitor wearing it. She wondered, too, why she didn’t.
“Darra,” she asked softly, “who do you think killed Duncan? And why?”
Ran’s sister frowned. Even so, the dark-haired woman was attractive, her half-mourning a flattering hue of deepest plum, trimmed with black lace. Her cork-heeled shoes tapped an absent rhythm on the braided wool rug, her expression thoughtful.
“I’m not sure,” she said at last. “But whoever ’twas, I believe it to be a deliberately calculated strike at Ran. Or an attempt to provoke another flare-up like the incident at Badanloch.”
“Tell me more about that, please. I want to understand everything, but my head gets so muddled from trying to figure it all out. There appears to be bad blood between Macleans and Lindsays.”
“Aye. It goes way back, Merry, beyond Ran and Blair. Centuries ago, one of our ancestors, William de Lindsay, was Baron of Luffness and Laird of Crawford. His eye fell upon a likely lass, Caitlin Maclean, whom he resolved to make his own. She was betrothed to another …” It seemed Darra hesitated here a trifle awkwardly, or perhaps it was Merry’s own guilt that gave pause.
“Anyhow, the Gallant Laird, for that is what William was called, charmed Caitlin into betraying her family’s choice, and great with his child, she appeared at the wedding feast. Her family forced her to heel, William was killed, and the bad blood and lost love spawned from that dark day seem to have spiraled down through the years, Macleans and Lindsays have been dancing around one another, ever since.”
Darra sighed. “I do not need to tell you, perhaps, Ran’s choice of wife was unsettling to the lot of us, for not only was Blair a Maclean, the enemy, but I personally found her sly and deceitful.”
“Deceitful?”
Merry looked at Darra, surprised. She detected a crisp tone beneath the soft, refined speech of her Scottish contemporary.
“Lord Lindsay appears to hold her … above reproach.”
Darra nodded. “In Ran’s eyes, she was, and still is, above reproach, a flawless little angel.”
Merry nodded ruefully. “Aye, that much is obvious.” She clasped her hands before her, silent for a moment as she pondered the comparison. Nay, she would never be the sweet, circumspect, demure woman Ranald obviously preferred; after all, she was certain his beloved Blair would never have slapped Sir Jasper, but rather blushed and stammered in confusion, feigning ignorance about the man’s crude intentions. Yet Darra apparently did not see the same Blair as Lord Lindsay, and Merry found this most interesting.
“I confess I am most curious. In what way was Lady Lindsay deceitful, Darra?”
“I caught Blair lying several times to Ranald about seeing certain people who were accounted Lindsay enemies, most notably Cullen after the troubles at Badanloch.”
“But he is her brother. I do not find that unseemly.”
Darra nodded, her expression as inscrutable for a moment as Ran’s. “Perhaps. Yet when she wed my brother, she took the Lindsay title. She failed or perhaps did not wish to realize divided loyalties are dangerous … to us all.”
Merry looked at Darra, nodding thoughtfully in turn. “Troubled times, aye, and the wanton destruction that so oft accompanies it.”
She then indicated the tower room where they were sitting. “Lady Blair’s retreat?” Merry asked, though it was obvious enough from the fine tapestries and delicately woven shawl draped over the back of Darra’s chair.
Merry had not moved anything out of respect, and memory of Ranald’s reaction to her tidying the great hall still stung. He
had reacted so harshly when she intended nothing more than a general restoration of order. And warmth. How cold the hall had been, how drafty the corners without even a blazing hearth to combat the encroaching winter.
“Aye, Ran had Rose Tower added as a wedding gift to Blair. Her favorite flowers were roses.”
“Mine as well.” Merry’s gaze swept over the small, yet cozy tower room with its muted feminine decoration and coloring, and she could not help but wish, for a moment, it was hers. She knew, instinctively, Sir Jasper would never build anything like this for his lady wife. As soon as the thought crossed her mind, a movement in the doorway caught her attention. She glanced over, eyes widening as Ran’s figure loomed there.
Darra heard her swift intake of breath and pivoted also in her chair, dark brows winging upward. “Ran. Did you find the criminal yet?”
He shook his head, gaze lingering on Merry as he advanced, with seeming hesitation, into the Rose Tower. Merry realized he had probably not been there for months, which explained the air of neglect and layers of dust coating everything when she first discovered the place in her restless roaming. A few hours of studious cleaning made it livable again, but she was glad now she had not moved anything. Ran seemed to be searching for something, and she assumed it must be another reason to find fault with her.
She swallowed when his dark gaze refocused on her. “There were no clues at all?”
“None. The culprit seems to have vanished into thin air. Which means, ’twas someone here … someone still here …”
“Aye, I tend to agree,” Darra said. “But don’t jump to conclusions, Ran. Right now, there is nothing to be done but try and divert further trouble. ’Twould not hurt if we address the issue of Gilbert as well.”
Ranald glanced at his sister with obvious exasperation. He looked weary and dispirited. “I am glad you and Ross came, but I don’t have time to deal with petty family matters at present. Gil acted very foolishly, aye, and I shall hold him fully accountable for his actions, once this matter with Wickham is settled.”
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