Lucy, Betty, and Heming’s new bride, Brona, had taken to each other at once. The three women had talked and laughed up a storm during the few days they’d stayed at Rosscurrach. Tearlach had originally intended to stop there to rest only for the night, but had lengthened the duration of the stay when he saw how well the women had got along. It had pleased him to see Lucy so happy. Heming had seemed pleased as well and had assured him he would soon bring Brona to visit at Blytheswood.
It seemed soon had come, Tearlach thought as he reached the foot of the steps leading to the keep. He paused there and glanced up when one of the double doors suddenly swung open, a smile curving his lips when he saw Lucy rushing out, Betty on her heels.
Spying him at the foot of the stairs, Lucy grabbed up her skirts and hurtled down the steps toward him. “Tearlach! Betty and I were in the solar and we saw riders approaching. I think it’s Brona and Heming!”
Rather than answer, Tearlach braced himself and opened his arms as Lucy hurled herself at his chest. Catching her with a grunt, he closed his arms around her with a smile, pleased with the exuberance and affection she so freely displayed. It too had helped her people accept his presence at her side.
“Why did you not tell me Brona and Heming were coming?” Lucy asked, slipping her own arms around his neck as he held her close.
“Because I didnae ken,” he admitted and then gave in to the temptation to kiss her. He’d meant it to be a quick peck, but when his sweet wife opened her mouth beneath his, Tearlach couldn’t resist deepening the kiss. The familiar desire immediately stirred to life between them, urging his hands to slide over her body as she moaned and arched into his embrace.
“There was no message sent ahead. You do not suppose there is something wrong?”
Lucy blinked her eyes open as Betty’s words penetrated her passion-dazed mind. Pulling away from Tearlach, she turned to the other woman, noting the worried frown she wore as she awaited William’s answer.
The fact that the man didn’t at first answer, but instead exchanged a glance with Tearlach, was not reassuring. Turning back to her husband, Lucy frowned. “Tearlach?”
“We willnae ken until they get here, will we?” he said patiently. It wasn’t a very satisfactory answer to her mind, but she knew it was also true. They wouldn’t know until the party arrived. Fortunately, for her peace of mind, they didn’t have long to wait; even then a shout came from the wall and the bailey was filled with the clang and squeal of the drawbridge lowering.
Lucy was eager enough that she would have crossed the bailey to meet the riders, but Tearlach settled his arm around her shoulders and held her at his side. She scowled at him for it and when he merely smiled with amusement in reaction, she tsked and rolled her eyes and turned back to watch the small party cross the bailey. They approached at a sedate cantor that didn’t suggest trouble may be behind this visit, she noted with relief, her eyes sliding over the foursome. Heming and Brona were accompanied by Peter and Fergus, she noted and then smiled widely as the large grey dog who had entered beside his mistress’s mare spotted them and suddenly lunged forward, rushing across the bailey in front of the others to greet them.
“Hello, Thor.” Lucy beamed at the well-behaved beast when he sat down directly in front of her and whined what to her sounded like a plea for petting. Kneeling, she caught his great furry head in her hands and ruffled the fur by his ears as she murmured a greeting and told him how good he was for not jumping up on her dress.
“They do not look as if they bring bad news,” William commented.
Lucy glanced toward the riders again as her husband grunted his agreement. Her gaze slid over the faces, seeing no sign of trouble there.
“They look a little travel weary, though,” Betty said, and then tsked. “No doubt they’ll be parched after their journey. I should go warn Cook. And a room must be prepared. I’ll take care of it, my lady.”
“Thank you, Betty,” Lucy called after the woman now rushing back into the keep. Giving Thor one last pet, Lucy straightened as the riders drew to a halt before them and began to dismount. She beamed at Brona and stepped forward at once to hug the other woman.
“Lucy.” Brona hugged her tightly and then began apologizing at once. “‘Tis sorry I am we didnae warn ye o’ our coming, but this visit was a sudden one. We had to bring ye the news.”
“Do not be silly,” Lucy assured her as they separated and then asked, “what news?”
Brona hesitated and glanced to her husband. When he merely smiled and gave a slight nod, she turned back and said solemnly, “Wymon is dead.”
Lucy sucked in a breath at this news, unsure how to react to it. In truth, she was pleased at the news. The man had killed her brother, and kidnapped both her and Tearlach and tortured him horribly. He’d also planned to force her to marry him, or kill her if she wouldn’t. Lucy was glad he was dead, and felt it was the end the villain deserved. Still, she felt almost guilty for the relief and satisfaction she was experiencing.
“Well,” she said finally, “thank you for coming all this way to tell us. Now, you must be thirsty after your travels. Come. We shall find you something to eat and drink while a room is prepared. You are staying?” she asked as they started up the stairs.
“Aye.” Brona grinned. “We will pass a night or twae ere returning, if ye’ll have us?”
“We certainly will,” Lucy assured her firmly.
“She didnae e’en ask how he died,” Heming commented as they watched the two women disappear into the keep with Thor on their heels.
“Nay, she didnae,” Tearlach murmured and then turned back to his cousin. “How did he die?”
“Verra quickly, from what I hear,” Heming said with a grin, and then explained, “it seems French food didnae settle well with ‘im. He landed on the coast last week. He was apparently trying to make his way back to Carbonnel, hoping his brother would help him appeal to the king for mercy. Howbeit, he had the misfortune to land in a village where one of our scout parties was nosing around, and he was daft enough to give his real name to the serving wench in the inn where they all stopped to eat.”
“Wymon always did let his arrogance outrun his common sense,” William muttered with disgust, reminding them of his presence.
“Aye, well, his arrogance got him killed this time,” Heming said, sounding amused. “One o’ the men took him on in a fair fight when he left the inn.”
“Fair?” William asked with disbelief.
“As fair as a fight can be between an Outsider and one o’ our own,” Heming said with a shrug and then pointed out, “at least they gave him a chance and didnae jest kill him outright.”
“Aye. I suppose it was more than he deserved,” William said with a shrug and then turned his attention to the horses. Taking the reins of Brona and Heming’s mount in hand, he left Peter and Fergus to lead their own horses and led them to the stables, the three men laughing and chattering as they went.
“This only happened last week?” Tearlach asked, turning now to lead the way up the keep steps. “I’m surprised the news reached ye so quickly.”
“Oh, weel, they sent a mon back to MacAdie with the news, but he stopped to rest a night at Rosscurrach on the way. Ere he left to continue his journey, I told him to tell yer father I’d bring the news to ye meself so he needn’t send a messenger.”
“And I thank ye,” Tearlach assured him as he pulled the keep door open for the other two to precede him inside.
“Doonae thank me, I was happy to do it. Brona has been pestering me about coming to visit yer wee wife almost since the day ye left Rosscurrach,” Heming informed him as he stepped past him into the keep. “She took a shine to Lucy.”
“‘Tis a shine that’s returned,” Tearlach assured him as he followed.
A burst of laughter made both men pause just inside the door and peer toward the chairs by the fireplace where Lucy and Brona sat, heads close together, hands on chests as they laughed over something.
“We are
lucky men, Tearlach,” Heming murmured solemnly as his eyes slid over his wife.
“Aye,” Tearlach agreed and then gave a half laugh and a shake of the head. “Ye’d ha’e been hard pressed to convince me when I woke in Carbonnel’s dungeons, and e’en harder pressed to do so when Wymon was torturin’ me, but I see now that the day we were taken at the inn was the luckiest day o’ me life.”
“And o’ mine,” Heming assured him and then commented, “it makes ye wonder if there’s no’ a grand plan to things, does it no’?”
“That it does, Cousin. That it does,” Tearlach said as the two men moved to join the women who had saved their lives, and become their futures.
Please turn the page for an exciting sneak peek of
Hannah Howell’s newest historical romance,
HIGHLAND SINNER,
coming in December 2008!
Scotland, early summer 1478
What was that smell?
Tormand Murray struggled to wake up at least enough to move away from the odor assaulting his nose. He groaned as he started to turn on his side and the ache in his head became a piercing agony. Flopping onto his side, he cautiously ran his hand over his head and found the source of that pain. There was a very tender swelling at the back of his head. The damp matted hair around the swelling told him that it had bled but he could feel no continued blood flow. That indicated that he had been unconscious for more than a few minutes, possibly for even more than a few hours.
As he lay there trying to will away the pain in his head, Tormand tried to open his eyes. A sharp pinch halted his attempt and he cursed. He had definitely been unconscious for quite a while and something beside a knock on the head had been done to him for his eyes were crusted shut. He had a fleeting, hazy memory of something being thrown into his eyes before all went black, but it was not enough to give him any firm idea of what had happened to him. Although he ruefully admitted to himself that it was as much vanity as a reluctance to cause himself pain that caused him to fear he would tear out his eyelashes if he just forced his eyes open, Tormand proceeded very carefully. He gently brushed aside the crust on his eyes until he could open them, even if only enough to see if there was any water close at hand to wash his eyes with.
And, he hoped, enough water to wash himself if he proved to be the source of the stench. To his shame there had been a few times he had woken to find himself stinking, drunk, and a few stumbles into some foul muck upon the street being the cause. He had never been this foul before, he mused, as the smell began to turn his stomach.
Then his whole body tensed as he suddenly recognized the odor. It was death. Beneath the rank odor of an unclean garderobe was the scent of blood—a lot of blood. Far too much to have come from his own head wound.
The very next thing Tormand became aware of was that he was naked. For one brief moment panic seized him. Had he been thrown into some open grave with other bodies? He quickly shook aside that fear. It was not dirt or cold flesh he felt beneath him but the cool linen of a soft bed. Rousing from unconsciousness to that odor had obviously disordered his mind, he thought, disgusted with himself.
Easing his eyes open at last, he grunted in pain as the light stung his eyes and made his head throb even more. Everything was a little blurry, but he could make out enough to see that he was in a rather opulent bedchamber, one that looked vaguely familiar. His blood ran cold and he was suddenly even more reluctant to seek out the source of that smell. It certainly could not be from some battle if only because the part of the bedchamber he was looking at showed no signs of one.
If there is a dead body in this room, laddie, best ye learn about it quick. Ye might be needing to run, said a voice in his head that sounded remarkably like his squire, Walter, and Tormand had to agree with it. He forced down all the reluctance he felt and, since he could see no sign of the dead in the part of the room he studied, turned over to look in the other direction. The sight that greeted his watering eyes had him making a sound that all too closely resembled the one his niece Anna made whenever she saw a spider. Death shared his bed.
He scrambled away from the corpse so quickly he nearly fell out of the bed. Struggling for calm, he eased his way off the bed and then sought out some water to cleanse his eyes so that he could see more clearly. It took several awkward bathings of his eyes before the sting in them eased and the blurring faded. One of the first things he saw after he dried his face was his clothing folded neatly on a chair, as if he had come to this bedchamber as a guest, willingly. Tormand wasted no time in putting on his clothes and searching the room for any other signs of his presence, collecting up his weapons and his cloak.
Knowing he could not avoid looking at the body in the bed any longer, he stiffened his spine and walked back to the bed. Tormand felt the sting of bile in the back of his throat as he looked upon what had once been a beautiful woman. So mutilated was the body that it took him several moments to realize that he was looking at what was left of Lady Clara Sinclair. The ragged clumps of golden blond hair left upon her head and the wide, staring blue eyes told him that, as did the heart-shaped birthmark above the open wound where her left breast had been. The rest of the woman’s face was so badly cut up it would have been difficult for her own mother to recognize her without those few clues.
The cold calm he had sought now filling his body and mind, Tormand was able to look more closely. Despite the mutilation there was an expression visible upon poor Clara’s face, one that hinted she had been alive during at least some of the horrors inflicted upon her. A quick glance at her wrists and ankles revealed that she had once been bound and had fought those bindings, adding weight to Tormand’s dark suspicion. Either poor Clara had had some information someone had tried to torture out of her or she had met up with someone who hated her with a cold, murderous fury.
And someone who hated him as well, he suddenly thought, and tensed. Tormand knew he would not have come to Clara’s bedchamber for a night of sweaty bed play. Clara had once been his lover, but their affair had ended and he never returned to a woman once he had parted from her. He especially did not return to a woman who was now married and to a man as powerful and jealous as Sir Ranald Sinclair. That meant that someone had brought him here, someone who wanted him to see what had been done to a woman he had once bedded, and, mayhap, take the blame for this butchery.
That thought shook him free of the shock and sorrow he felt. “Poor, foolish Clara,” he murmured. “I pray ye didnae suffer this because of me. Ye may have been vain, a wee bit mean of spirit, witless, and lacking morals, but ye still didnae deserve this.”
He crossed himself and said a prayer over her. A glance at the windows told him that dawn was fast approaching and he knew he had to leave quickly. “I wish I could tend to ye now, lass, but I believe I am meant to take the blame for your death and I cannae; I willnae. But, I vow, I will find out who did this to ye and they will pay dearly for it.”
After one last careful check to be certain no sign of his presence remained in the bedchamber, Tormand slipped away. He had to be grateful that whoever had committed this heinous crime had done so in this house for he knew all the secretive ways in and out of it. His affair with Clara might have been short but it had been lively and he had slipped in and out of this house many, many times. Tormand doubted even Sir Ranald, who had claimed the fine house when he had married Clara, knew all of the stealthy approaches to his bride’s bedchamber.
Once outside, Tormand swiftly moved into the lingering shadows of early dawn. He leaned against the outside of the rough stonewall surrounding Clara’s house and wondered where he should go. A small part of him wanted to just go home and forget about it all, but he knew he would never heed it. Even if he had no real affection for Clara, one reason their lively affair had so quickly died, he could not simply forget that the woman had been brutally murdered. If he was right in suspecting that someone had wanted him to be found next to the body and be accused of Clara’s body, then he definitely could not simply forge
t the whole thing.
Despite that, Tormand decided the first place he would go was his house. He could still smell the stench of death on his clothing. It might be just his imagination, but he knew he needed a bath and clean clothes to help him forget that smell. As he began his stealthy way home Tormand thought it was a real shame that a bath could not also wash away the images of poor Clara’s butchered body.
“Are ye certain ye ought to say anything to anybody?”
Tormand nibbled on a thick piece of cheese as he studied his aging companion. Walter Burns had been his squire for twelve years and had no inclination to be anything more than a squire. His utter lack of ambition was why he had been handed over to Tormand by the man who had knighted him at the tender age of eighteen. It had been a glorious battle and Walter had proven his worth. The man had simply refused to be knighted. Fed up with his squire’s lack of interest in the glory, the honors, and the responsibility that went with knighthood Sir MacBain had sent the man to Tormand. Walter had continued to prove his worth, his courage, and his contentment in remaining a lowly squire. At the moment, however, the man was openly upset and his courage was a little weak-kneed.
“I need to find out who did this,” Tormand said and then sipped at his ale, hungry and thirsty but partaking of both food and drink cautiously for his stomach was still unsteady.
“Why?” Walter sat down at Tormand’s right and poured himself some ale. “Ye got away from it. ‘Tis near the middle of the day and no one has come here crying for vengeance so I be thinking ye got away clean, aye? Why let anyone e’en ken ye were near the woman? Are ye trying to put a rope about your neck? And, if I recall rightly, ye didnae find much to like about the woman once your lust dimmed so why fret o’er justice for her?”
“‘Tis sadly true that I didnae like her, but she didnae deserve to be butchered like that.”
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