by Tarah Scott
what she means?”
“He knows,” Aurari interjected, pointing at Glen.
All looked in his direction.
“I have no notion what the witch means,” he sneered.
Iain stared at Glen for a moment, then was struck with memory of something Jillian had said. “T’would be hard to lose a brother, and he did have the devil in his eyes.”
Iain faced her. “Jillian, what was it you said about
Jonathan’s brother?”
The girl colored and a pang of regret shot through him at the abrupt way he had brought up memories better left for a more private time.
Bran’s forehead furrowed in a deep frown. “What does he speak of, Jillian?” She shook her head.
Iain’s soft, “Lass,” was followed by Bran’s firmer,
“Jillian.”
“They found me there,” she began, “over Jonathan’s body. They thought I was the one who had killed him. Simon was there when they…”
“Sweet God in heaven.” Bran closed his eyes and Iain knew the boy struggled to gain control. With a heavy breath, Bran opened his eyes and nodded for Jillian to go on. When she said, “That is all,” he regarded her with the stern look born of brotherly familiarity. “That is not the whole of it, Sister.”
“I do not understand what this has to do with her.” Jillian pointed at Aurari.
Bran sent a questioning look at Iain.
“Perhaps it is different in your clan,” Iain replied, “but a MacPherson man would not so easily take his brother’s woman.”
Bran’s lips thinned, and he turned his attention to Aurari. “You started this, mistress. What have you to say?”
“Those who live in darkness, do so to hide.”
Bran’s jaw tightened, but he said in an even tone, “You will have to speak plainer than that, if you want a simple man such as myself to understand.”
“Betrayal,” Aurari replied, her mouth in grim lines, “is one such deed that thrives in the darkness.” “Betrayal?” Iain and Bran echoed.
“Beware. Those closest to you have the greatest power to harm you.”
Bran looked at Iain, his expression saying he didn’t comprehend why Aurari stated the obvious.
“Bran,” Iain said. “Have you any idea who wanted Jonathan dead?”
“Nay. He had enemies. We all do.” The corners of his mouth dipped downward. “But not among his own people.”
“But he did,” Aurari interjected, her eyes still on Glen. “Ask him.” She pointed a slim finger at him.
“Ask about the Stewarts.”
“What the devil?” Glen burst out.
“We have been feuding with the Stewarts for years,” Bran cut in. “’Tis no secret.”
“Then why did he meet with them?” Aurari asked.
Glen swore, and Bran’s resounding “What?” rang out above the commotion the question incited.
Glen’s hand went to his sword.
Victoria gave a small cry and clutched Iain’s arm.
“Iain!” Thomas yelled, but Iain was already stepping forward, his hand outstretched to still Evan as Evan slid his sword from the sheath.
“No one move,” Iain boomed, halting his own men as they drew their weapons. He swept the room with his gaze. “Is there any guest here who thinks they can draw a sword within these walls and live?
“Good,” he said, when the room quieted. “Bran, perhaps it is best to question your cousin concerning this.” Iain faced Glen. “What have you to say?”
Glen snorted. “Jesu, man, what should I say?” He looked from Iain to Bran, his expression incredulous.
“Surely you do not believe the witch?” “I see no reason for her to lie,” Iain said.
“There was something.” The unexpected sound of Jillian’s soft voice silenced the room.
Iain faced her. “Something?”
Jillian nodded. “Jonathan tried to tell me something when I found him. At the time I thought it nothing, the mutterings of a man who knew—” She sat straighter, her face drawn. “It sounded as though he were trying to say something about our marriage.
But I remember…” She paused for a long silence.
Liam’s “Lass,” came too late to stop Victoria as she stepped forward, but Iain caught her arm and pulled her back while shaking his head.
“It sounded strange,” Jillian went on.
“‘Remember marry,’” he said. She swiped at a tear on her cheek. “I thought he was telling me to remember that we were to wed.” A tremulous smile shook the corners of her mouth. “Only, he didna’ say the word quite right. I thought he could not say it, what with…he slurred the first part of the word and drew the last of it out. Not quite marry, but—”
“What babble is this?” Glen nearly shouted. “First this one,” he pointed to Aurari, “tries to cast a spell on us, and now your own sister. For Christ’s sake, Bran.” His voice had taken on an ugly tone. “How
long must we—”
“Silence!” Bran shot Glen a dangerous look, then to Iain, “If he speaks so much as another word, you have my leave to stop him any way you please.” Bran exchanged a glance with Iain before seeming satisfied his meaning was understood. “Out with it, Jillian.”
It was obvious the girl was unperturbed by her brother’s outburst when she forged on without hesitation. “It came out more like murae. Remember muurae.”
“Think carefully,” Bran said, his voice reflecting caution, “could it have been—Murray? As in a name,
love. Remember Murray?”
Jillian frowned. “Aye,” she answered slowly. “That is the word. It sounded just so.”
“Sweet mother of God,” Bran whispered. “’Tis not possible.”
“What is it?” Iain demanded.
Bran waved his hand in a small arc as if to brush away a feather that had floated into his line of sight. “Murray Stewart, we met him in battle not four months ago—or I should say, we were waylaid by him.”
“They lay in ambush for you?”
“Aye,” Bran replied. “We learned the Stewarts were planning an attack on one of our villages to the north. We went there to wait for them, but they never came. I was down south at the time. Odd, but, on the trip home our men were attacked by a company half again in number. Many good men were lost.” Bran paused. “The survivors returned home to find that while waiting in the north, Troquin House had been raided.”
“I remember,” Iain said. “They tried to raze the castle.”
Bran nodded. “Damaged near a quarter of it. We thought it very bad luck so many of our men had been away. Bad luck,” he repeated. “Nothing more.” His gaze moved to Glen.
The astonished look on Glen’s face was replaced by a shrewd light that told Iain betrayal had, indeed, been deep in the heart of Bran’s own bosom.
“Why?” Bran asked. “Your own clan.”
Glen shook his head. “Do you believe I could betray you, my own kin?”
“I would not have thought so,” Bran replied.
“Then why now?”
“Because, Cousin,” Bran’s resigned expression fixed on Glen, “I see it in your eyes.”
Glen looked around the room, his expression a mixture of disbelief and astonishment. “Jesu, man. You are letting the words of that witch turn your brains to oatmeal. You can no more see betrayal in a man’s eyes than you can—” He stopped, his palms moving in front of him as he made an effort to find the right words.
“Loyalty?” Bran offered. Glen shook his head and started to open his mouth, but Bran cut him off.
“Jonathan found out and you had to stop him.”
“I was with you the whole time, Bran. How could
I have stopped him?”
Bran’s mouth twisted into a sardonic twist. “You were not there, but you might as well have been. Who did it, Glen?”
“Bran, Cousin.” Glen gave him a beseeching look. “I am not a man given to fright, but you give me reason to believe I need be afraid. Ca
n you find it in your heart to believe the magic of a witch and the memory of a woman who lost her man? Her mind is not right, Bran.”
Bran growled as an animal enraged and drew his sword.
Iain’s guards reacted in kind. “Nay!” he yelled to his men, motioning them back.
Glen retreated, clearly afraid to draw his own weapon, and Bran backed him against the wall with the point of his broadsword. “You bloody bastard,” he snarled. “She is my sister. How could you do that to her?”
“It was a mistake,” Glen blurted. “No one knew she would be there. I swear to you, I would never harm a hair on the lass’s head. That idiot,” he said, half under his breath. “That bloody idiot, Simon, reasoned she would be the perfect scapegoat.”
Bran’s long reach allowed him to wrap a hand around Glen’s throat while keeping his sword steady. “You know what they did to her.” The words weren’t a question, and though spoken low, his deep voice carried through the room. Bran’s broadsword never wavered as his hand began to tighten around his cousin’s neck. “I willna’ give you the privilege of dying by the sword. The last thing you will remember is the feel of my fingers squeezing the life from your body.”
“Nay, Bran,” Glen’s words were strangled, “you must understand, I did it for you.”
Bran halted, and Iain felt his own rage flicker in response.
“For me?” Bran repeated.
“If you remember,” Glen said, “William was wounded that night.”
Bran released Glen and staggered back. “You helped the Stewarts try to murder our laird?”
There was a low, “Mon Dieu,” from Thomas, and even Iain couldn’t repress a muttered, “Christ.”
Bran shook his head violently from side to side, almost as if to shake the very words from his ears.
“You were meant to rule, Bran,” Glen said.
“What in the name of God are you talking about?” Bran demanded.
“With William gone you would have been chosen.”
“To rule in William’s stead?” Bran looked horrified. “Are you daft, man? The seat would fall to David.” He stopped, and the silence in the room grew even more deadly as he said, “But you knew that, did you not, Cousin?”
Bran’s features drew into a twisted grimace, and Iain wondered how a man dealt with learning in one fell sweep the duplicity a trusted friend was capable of. He shot a look in Thomas’s direction. The even gaze that met Iain’s brought relief. Thomas was as he had always been: friend, brother, ally.
Iain’s attention was forced back to Bran when Bran said, “David Robertson was a part of this all along.” Bran glanced at Jillian as if to say it was all his fault. “Connall,” Bran addressed his other companion. “Fetch some rope and bring half a dozen men with you.”
“You would have taken David’s place,” Glen pleaded, as if the admission somehow shed light on something Bran had missed.
Bran looked at Glen. “You can run if you like. I will not kill you.”
His cousin appeared relieved until Bran added, “I am taking you back to William. I do not care what condition you are in when we arrive, just so long as you still breathe.”
Glen’s hands went limp at his side, and Bran slid his sword back into the scabbard.
The unexpected creak of the postern door sounded, and the occupants of the room turned as Edwin stepped through the doorway. Iain heard the scrape of steel and lunged forward, knowing Glen’s intention even before Glen swung his sword in Bran’s direction.
“Bran!” Iain yelled, throwing himself against Glen’s side.
The force of his weight sent them skidding toward the postern door. Swords whipped from sheaths as MacPherson men leapt to his aid.
Iain recognized desperation in the mighty push Glen gave him. Landing on his back, Iain looked up to find Glen standing over him, sword descending in a fatal strike. Iain raised his arm to protect his face when an Italian rapier crossed in front of him, blocking the broadsword.
Iain rolled away and was yanked to his feet by MacPherson men as Hockley’s rapier beat Glen’s sword back in a few quick strokes. The sword slashed through the air, slicing Glen’s arm from shoulder to elbow. Glen fell to his knees with a shriek of pain.
“Sweet Jesu,” Victoria’s voice came from Iain’s side.
He glanced down at her ashen face, then back at Hockley, who now stared at the two of them.
A movement behind Edwin brought shouts, but Iain’s “Hockley!” came too late. Glen was on his feet, his sword piercing Edwin’s side.
MacPherson men fell upon Glen before his sword left Edwin’s body. Iain caught Edwin, lowering him to the floor.
Victoria fell to her knees in Edwin’s blood beside him. “Edwin!”
Iain looked up and found Thomas staring down at him. Iain shook his head at the question in his cousin’s eyes, but Thomas shouted for a healer nonetheless.
Bran held Glen face down on the floor while another man tied a ruthless knot around his wrists. A moment too late, Iain thought, as he looked back down at Hockley.
Victoria placed an ear to Edwin’s mouth, then turned frantic eyes on Iain. “Sweet Jesu.”
“Why did you do it, Hockley?” Iain asked.
A faint smile twisted the Englishman’s mouth. “It would seem I am not like my brother, after all.”
Iain recalled the warmth of Victoria’s blood on his hands, the weight of her body as she fell dying into his arms. The memory vanished. In its place, he faced the reality of the fading light in Edwin’s eyes.
How many chances did a man get?
Victoria gave a cry, and both men looked at her.
Iain with clear eyes. Edwin, for the last time.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
For two nights, Iain had lain awake knowing Victoria didn’t sleep. Yet watching her now sitting between him and Aurari at the table in the great hall as the evening meal was in preparation, Hockley’s death two days before seemed a lifetime ago.
Iain hadn’t asked, but he knew she wouldn’t leave him. Where would she go, after all? But he knew the answer. Though present in body, she could do what his mother had done: fade away in spirit.
“My lord?”
“What?” Iain was shaken from his thoughts by Victoria’s address.
“Will it be necessary to speak with William?”
Iain smiled gently. “Do not worry, love. Bran assured me he will explain everything to William. William will likely canonize Aurari and her kin for killing David Robertson.”
Victoria smiled, then turned back to Aurari. “Just as I said.”
“That you did,” Aurari said. “I am pleased to find your prediction so promising.”
Evan sat across from Aurari and lifted his mug in salute. “And we are even more pleased you were right.” His statement elicited enthusiastic agreement and raised goblets from the other Gypsies seated beside him.
“At last,” Aurari murmured.
Victoria’s head tilted in a bemused fashion. “At last, what?”
“There is much light.”
“Aye,” Victoria agreed. “There is no need to hide in darkness.”
“Love has a strange way of bringing that about, does it not?”
Iain jerked his attention onto his wife. She flushed and angled her head in graceful assent to Aurari’s statement, and he realized she was aware of his scrutiny.
“’Tis the finest reason of all,” she said without looking at him.
“Reason?” Iain repeated.
“Aye,” she murmured. “The reason we do everything.”
As unexpected as a bolt of lightning, Iain remembered the question he had asked when they were reunited, “What did you hope to accomplish by putting yourself in such jeopardy?” Christ, what a fool he’d been.
“Why did you do it?” he asked.
“Because I love you,” she answered as if having read his mind.
“What?” His near shout quieted the din of conversation.
Victoria met his g
aze. “Had you expected something else, my lord?” She rose and headed for the postern door.
Iain shot to his feet, sending his chair clattering to the floor. He stared at her for a long moment before shaking from the shock and started after her.
“Did you say you loved me?”
Victoria glanced over her shoulder as she pulled open the postern door. “I did.”
Iain halted and someone bumped into his back. He glanced back and scowled to find the occupants of the great hall lined up behind him. The impulse to command them to disperse was forgotten when the door slammed shut.
Iain dashed forward. He reached the door, yanked it open, and stepped outside in time to see his wife making her way across the compound.
“Victoria,” he called, but to no avail. “Stop her!” Iain yelled at a man about to pass her.
The man looked startled, then confused, as Iain ran to catch up to her. Shouts behind Iain urged the man to do his laird’s bidding, and the man stepped in front of Victoria, but she nimbly evaded his grasp.
“For Christ’s sake, man,” Iain yelled, “grab her.”
The man hurried in Victoria’s wake. She didn’t struggle when he barred her way. Still, his relief was evident when Iain reached her side. The man fell back into the crowd that had followed Iain outside.
“Did no one ever tell you a wife is to obey her husband?” Iain asked, more than a little exasperated.
Victoria smiled so sweetly, he wondered if she hadn’t spent too much time with Maude. “Do not think to give me that innocent look, my lass,” he said. “It did not fool me when Maude tried it, and it holds no more charm on you.” The words were a lie, but Iain prayed his cunning wife hadn’t yet come to know him that well.
“Maude?” she said with such purity he wanted to throttle her.
“Aye, love,” He leaned into her. “Do you think I did not know she knew your name?”
“Served you right,” Victoria retorted.
Her answer, given so unexpectedly and with such obvious relish, stopped him cold. He threw his head back and laughed. “Aye, love, I suppose it did.” His mirth vanished. “It would also have served me right had you had not returned. You would have been rid of me, and as free as a bird. Thomas,” Iain called,