Highland Wrath

by Madeline Martin

  Sylvi’s shadow in front of Ian lifted her hand and ran graceful fingers along the walls, her entire form limned in the distant daylight. “Amazing,” she said. Her long neck arched as she looked up, and Ian knew she was noting the trap doors in the smooth stone overhead.

  “Dunstaffnage is one of the most highly defensible castles in Scotland.” Sylvi returned to Donald’s side, and he immediately folded her good hand in his arm once more.

  “Aye, ye’ll be safe here, lass.”

  “I don’t need protection.”

  “Well, in that case,” Donald said, “ye’re welcome here all the same. As family.” He led them into the open center of Dunstaffnage. The sun shone so brilliant, it left Ian momentarily blind.

  Ian blinked, and the world he’d left a year prior came rushing back with a flood of memories. The bustle of guards and nobles alike in the courtyard, the new house to the right, the West Tower at the far rear of the castle. And none of it changed.

  Somehow he’d expected his mother’s absence and Simon’s loss to have left a more definitive mark, a crater of some kind at the center of the hall. And yet it looked exactly as he’d left it.

  Donald spoke at length in front of him, going over the finer aspects of the castle’s defenses while Sylvi listened, rapt. Ian knew everything said. He knew every arrow slit, every advantage and detail.

  Donald’s voice prattled on and on, carried on the wings of pride and glee at a ready pupil, all of it grating against Ian’s ravaged nerves.

  “Da, Sylvi’s no’ had much sleep,” Ian said abruptly.

  Donald stopped speaking and turned to him. “Aye, son, I imagine she hasna.” He winked. “Verra well, but I hope ye’re planning to stay.” He leaned in close and said in a secretive voice loud enough for Sylvi to hear, “I like this lass.”

  “I do too.” Ian had meant it as a jest, but it came out sounding petulant. Everything inside him was tender as a raw wound. He wanted the solace of a quiet room and Sylvi’s embrace and counsel. If she’d found Reginald after seventeen years, she might know how to help him identify if it was indeed Reginald who had killed his mother.

  The thought of his mother’s death sliced fresh into him with a pain so radiant, it rendered breathing difficult. He would need to see her room, but not now. Not yet.

  “Ye’ll be staying in the West Tower. Ye can see Sylvi there.” Donald’s voice interrupted Ian’s thoughts—a welcome interruption to be sure. “But I want ye back to go over what ye’ve missed since ye’ve been gone.”

  Perhaps not so welcome an interruption after all.

  Donald clasped his arm over Ian’s shoulders and affectionately shook him. “I’ve no’ ever named an heir after ye left. I knew ye’d be home again.”

  The burden of Ian’s birthright fell over his heart like a boulder. He nodded. “Later, Da. After I’ve rested.”

  Donald paused, and the skin around his eyes tightened. After a long moment, a congenial smile blossomed on his face. “Of course, son. Do what ye need. I’ll be here when ye’re ready.”

  Ian nodded and murmured his thanks, not giving voice to the resounding thought in his head; that he’d never be ready. Instead he took Sylvi’s good arm as his father had and led her to the West Tower. She followed in silence but squeezed his elbow with her hand.

  And God knew he needed her support for what he faced with his return home.

  They did not speak. Not until they were up in the guest room she’d be staying in, with its lush red velvet and polished wood furnishings. Though they had only recently arrived, the room had been swept clean, and a fire burned warmly in the hearth. Her bags lay piled beside the bed, slumped over one another. He knew his would be in his own room, laid out similarly.

  He’d carried the bag of jewelry and now set the weight of it gently on the floor. Not that he didn’t trust his father’s servants not to steal, but he didn’t trust those servants not to talk. And he couldn’t have his father know about the attack on Reginald and his men. Not until he discovered how his father had been involved, and how his mother’s death factored into everything.

  Sylvi closed the door and locked it before striding toward him. He braced himself for questions. She asked none. Instead, she widened her uninjured arm and caught him against her breast in an embrace.

  Ian wrapped his arms around her lean frame and breathed in the rosemary and leather scent of her. “I couldna tell ye about my mum,” he said finally.

  “Because then it would be real.” She spoke softly, her lips next to his ear in their embrace.

  He drew in a pained breath and nodded. “Kyle told me. He was traveling with Reginald in an attempt to find me so I could help him seek out our mother’s killer. He said my da had given up trying to find who did it.”

  She pulled back and regarded Ian with the fierce, determined expression only Sylvi could give. “We’ll find the men who killed her. We won’t leave until we do.”

  “Kyle thinks it was Reginald and his men.”

  Sylvi’s body tensed. “Why?”

  “I dinna know.” He shook his head. “I want to find out while Percy heals, while we research the jewelry we found, and then I want to leave. I dinna want us here longer than we need to stay.”

  Chapter 30

  Ian shifted on the hard wooden bench beside his father, same as he’d done for the entire week since their arrival. His repeated attempts at telling Donald he was uninterested in the lairdship had fallen on deaf ears. Donald had insisted on Ian at least reviewing the accounts of Dunstaffnage.

  While Ian saw through his father’s ruse—a flimsy attempt to get Ian interested in the lairdship—he still agreed to meet with his father for an hour a day. If nothing else, that hour had been compromise enough to still his da’s constant badgering.

  They were currently poring over rents, and Ian noticed Donald’s careful avoidance of discussing the penalties for not paying rent. In fact, his da had not once mentioned Simon or Simon’s father.

  Ian flipped through the pages and tried not to think of his friend and how those very rents had destroyed their lives.

  Several figures appeared on the following pages, lined neatly in the far right column.

  “What are these from?” Ian asked and pointed to the tallied amounts. The sum was considerable.

  “A wise man has more than one source of income.” Donald closed the book. “But I dinna want to get into all that just yet.” A sparkle showed in his eyes. “It’s … complicated.”

  The mystery and suggestion of its implied difficulty snagged Ian’s interest despite himself.

  Complicated.

  A challenge.

  Fascinating.

  “Ye did well today, lad. Thank ye for indulging an old man.” Donald patted his cheek, an affectionate gesture he’d done since Ian was a lad. “And I like that lass of yers quite a bit.”

  “Ye dinna give me much of a choice.” Ian smirked. “I thought ye’d like her. She thinks like ye.”

  In truth, they did appear to get on well. Donald and Sylvi could discuss fortifications and army strategy at length. Despite Sylvi’s stoic demeanor and air of skepticism, Donald appeared to have won her over. A feat not easily done.

  “I like her all the more then.” Donald grinned. “I know she doesna have a dowry, but ye should marry her.”

  Ian stared at Donald. His father had never been the one pressing him toward marriage as his ma always had. “Ye sound like Mum.”

  Donald Campbell scoffed. “Ach, just an old man who kens his time is limited. I’ve a mind to see some grandchildren scampering about my feet. And Sylvi would give ye strong bairns.”

  An image of Sylvi flashed in his mind, her head bent over their child. The idea warmed him, even if he found it unlikely. Not that Sylvi wouldn’t be a good mother. God knew she’d protect their bairns like a lioness. But the confinement would drive her to madness.

  The idea of her as his wife, however, curled in his heart li
ke a band of gold. He’d thought of it before, though he was sure he’d have a beast of a time convincing her to say yes. She didn’t seem the marrying sort any more than she appeared the maternal sort. But, aye, he could see her as his wife, by his side, as powerful as she was beautiful.

  “I’ll think on it,” Ian said.

  Donald caught his eye and gave a knowing smile. “Aye, ye do that.”

  Ian got to his feet and made his way to the large door of the solar. He reached for the handle and paused. “Have ye found any more on mum’s death?”

  Several papers rustled behind him. “No’ anything on my last report,” his father answered.

  The answer did not surprise Ian. It had taken some bartering to get Donald to resume the search for Ian’s mum’s killer. Even though the laird had finally acquiesced, Ian wondered at the thoroughness.

  In the meantime, Ian and Sylvi had been working with Liv on the pieces of jewelry in an attempt to locate some of the families who might be involved the way Sylvi’s family had been. Kyle had assisted, but between the search for their mother’s killer and caring for Percy, his time had been insufficient to be of use.

  Thus far they’d gotten nowhere.

  Ian stepped from the solar and into the coolness of the hall outside. His mother’s room was down the far left corridor. On any ordinary day, he would turn right. But today was no ordinary day.

  Kyle had done a search of their mother’s room and had found nothing amiss. He’d asked Ian to do a thorough search to possibly identify something he might have missed. Ian had put it off for two days, dreading the rush of the painful ache of his mother’s loss.

  Yet he knew he needed to go into his mother’s room, to face the memories as she had left them. He knew well enough by now running from problems only brought more. It was time to stop.

  Ian turned left, his stride determined, and did not stop until he was in front of her door. He pushed on the latch. It rattled and stayed in place.

  Locked.

  He glanced at the framed portrait of his grandmother, whose pinched expression did not match the beautiful blue eyes of his mother staring out from the face. Careful to not knock it from its place on the wall, he reached behind it and extracted the key his mother had kept there. At least no one had removed it from its hiding place. Likely no one even knew it was there.

  He inserted the key in the lock, twisted, and took a long, deep breath before pushing into his mother’s room.

  The sweet lavender scent of her hit him like a kick to the chest. His heart crumpled at the fragrance and the flood of memories it brought. Her soothing voice, the love shining from her gaze, the gentle kisses on his brow. Too much. He near staggered beneath the force of it.

  He held tight to the door for a long moment before finally releasing it and stepping into the room. It looked as he remembered, the large bed with the curtains pulled back and ready for an occupant to sleep on its purple velvet. New candles perched in sconces freed of all dust from the servants’ cleaning, ready to be needed and lit. Kindling and wood were piled in the hearth, ready for a roaring blaze.

  All of it as if his mother had never died. As if she were expected home that evening.

  Pain drove deep into Ian’s heart. His mother would not be coming home. The scent of her, initially so powerful, was growing more faint with every breath. Ian pulled in a great, greedy inhale and held it until his chest burned, savoring the last tendrils of her perfume.

  He released the breath, and an ache settled in his throat.

  Her hands were always so warm, and Ian’s father had said it was because her heart was bigger than everyone else’s. Indeed it was. Filled with kindness and love and everything good.

  Her sewing lay on the table beside the bed. The gold thread angel at its center dissolved to nothing from the waist down, where his mother would never finish the rest of it. She’d always enjoyed sewing.

  An image jabbed at his heart, one of her sitting beside the fire while he played as a boy, her needle popping in and out of the fabric. Between stitches, she would gaze affectionately at him and Kyle, as if she had to constantly reassure herself they were near.

  Ian’s heart was weighed down with regret. He’d never been able to say goodbye. His impulsive decision to leave Dunstaffnage the year prior had come with a high price.

  He pulled open one of the drawers to her dressing table, and a small pomander rolled toward the front. The metal ball just barely was tall enough to rattle freely through the otherwise empty drawer.

  He lifted it to his nose and breathed in, but was met only with the tinny scent of metal. Apparently the item was as yet unused. And never would be.

  After searching through the remainder of her drawers and finding nothing save for the simple items of face creams and combs, Ian sat before the mirror of the dressing table. Something was amiss in the drawers, but he couldn’t quite place it.

  He opened each in turn, noticing again how the pomander ball rolled forward. Something nipped at the back of his mind. He opened the matching drawer on the other side and placed the small pomander inside. The ball sat high enough on the velvet-trimmed bottom that the drawer would not close.

  Ian ran his finger along the fine fabric base and discovered a corner of ribbon the same deep blue as the velvet lining. He caught the edge of his blunt fingernail against the ribbon and pulled upward.

  The bottom of the drawer lifted up to reveal a hidden compartment beneath made of plain wood. A gold ring stared up at him.

  Strange when, despite her high station, his mother seldom wore jewelry. He pinched the cool band between his fingertips and lifted it to see what memories it revealed.

  His blood went cold.

  The stone was round and blue with a flat band of gold securing it to the ring itself. He’d seen so many pieces almost identical to this, he could not help the word as it slipped from his mouth. “Square.”

  With shaking fingers, he flipped the ring over and found the goldsmith’s mark beside the backside of the stone, pressed into the soft gold. A square.

  Just like so many others in the sack hidden in his room.

  Ian’s heartbeat roared in his ears.

  He carefully replaced the false bottom back in the drawer and slipped the ring into his pocket. It would appear Kyle had been right, Reginald most likely did have something to do with their mother’s death. And Kyle’s flippant assistance with the search for the goldsmiths would be increasing in earnest.

  Once they uncovered the secrets within the bag of jewelry, Ian had a strong feeling they would uncover the secrets about their mother’s murder.

  •••

  Sylvi wore the ring with the blue stone on her good hand alongside her father’s bracelet. It had taken over three weeks to get enough information on goldsmiths in the surrounding area for the square marker to be identified.

  And, finally, it had. Not only did they learn the location of the shop, they found a daughter had survived.

  The small goldsmith’s shop was located in Glenuig, a village four hours northwest of Dunstaffnage. In order to arrive, Sylvi and Ian had to ride over land and ferry over sea. Kyle had remained at Dunstaffnage with Percy, whose wounds had begun to heal nicely.

  Liv, whose wounds had been minor, had healed within two weeks of their arrival and had found a place within the ranks of warriors in Dunstaffnage. The position had been hardwon and well deserved.

  The briny ocean air whipped Sylvi’s hair around her face, and the humidity left a salty wetness against her skin. At long last, the thatched roofs of a village came into view, and Sylvi straightened in her saddle. Nervous energy rioted through her and made her heart beat as though she were preparing for battle rather than meeting the remaining daughter of a dead goldsmith.

  “It was easier to keep up with ye when yer arm was in a brace.” Ian appeared beside her on his horse.

  Only then did she realize she was practically racing the poor beast. She pulled back
on the reins slowly and let her horse come to a frustratingly slow trot. Once they finally arrived, they found the village small and quaint, with only a blacksmith’s shop, a bakery, and several other undiscernible shops, as well as a handful of fish peddlers in the center of town.

  Which is exactly where the small white cottage stood that had once been a goldsmith’s shop. Sylvi cast Ian an anxious glance and rapped on the door, the sound almost muted beneath the calling of vendors behind her.

  Hette Schmidt had written a letter accepting their request to speak with her, though the length of time between their missive and hers had indicated her trepidation. The door in front of Sylvi did not open.

  “This is the correct day, aye?” Ian asked.

  Sylvi shot him a stern look. “Of course it is.”

  He shrugged, nonplussed. She raised her fist to knock once more when the door finally creaked open. A woman with dull brown hair and bright blue eyes appeared. She waved them in and cast an anxious glance about.

  The door slammed shut behind Sylvi and Ian, followed by the clinks and thunks of several various locking mechanisms being twisted into place.

  The heat inside the home was stifling, almost suffocating, when compared to the nipping coastal winds outside. Piles of items were stacked around the small interior of the home. Various pieces of clothing cluttered the floor around an unmade bed, pamphlets were stacked on one end of the home’s one table beside bits of wilting vegetables, and a distinct odor of rot permeated the air. Sylvi swallowed and kept her face indifferent.

  “Thank you for having us,” she said. “We have been eager to speak with you.”

  Hette stared at Sylvi’s hand, the one with Hette’s father’s ring. “Yes. Yes. Please, come sit.” There was a foreign staccato to her words. Prussian, most likely.

  Her anxious gaze flitted up to Sylvi, then to Ian, and back again before she backed up and nudged at a fat tabby lounging on one of the two seats at the table. Sylvi settled onto the seat, still hot from the cat’s generous body. Sweat prickled at her palms and brow.

  Hette glanced apologetically to Ian. “I have only two seats.”