Chapter 21
“Yer wasting valuable time sitting here.” Roland Lardiner paced back and forth, his eyes darting around the large guest bedchamber at Castle MacGahan as if following the flight of birds.
“As I tried to tell you before you even entered the gates, you should no be here. You’d be better served by going out to retrieve the lass this very night.
I’ll send my own men along to assist you in finding her. ”
“You’ll do that for me, will you?” Malcolm MacDowylt leaned back in the big wooden chair, lifting his booted feet to the small table in front of him. He tired of toying with this deceitful dog. “And why would you want to help me secure the means to take over the MacGahan holdings?”
More bluster from the idiot as he continued his frantic pacing.
Nothing of any worth spewing from his mouth.
There was little of any value this deceitful dog had to offer.
A few well-placed silvers on Malcolm’s last visit here had guaranteed him loyal spies within the household.
He knew all that he needed to for the moment and had no reason to pay attention until the fool uttered the words he’d expected from the beginning.
“As the MacGahan’s tanist, I can assure you . . .”
“Yer no that.” Malcolm interrupted. “So dinna try to waste my time with that blether. The MacGahan named no tanist, only a succession order.”
That stopped the fool’s prancing about. Left him with his eyes bulged and his mouth opening and closing like that of a trout lying on the bank.
“Yes, Lardiner, I ken the whole of it. All that went on here. Yer daughter’s marriage and the babe she carries. The babe that inherits only should it be a male child.”
“But, but . . .” Roland sputtered.
“Yer absolutely right about one thing. Until I’ve decided exactly what I plan to do here I’ve no intent to let this Isabella slip through my fingers, either. While I’m inclined to have her brought here to me, I’ll think on yer offer, Lardiner. And we’ll talk on it tomorrow.”
“But the longer you wait . . .”
“Leave me!” Malcolm shouted, watching in satisfaction as the annoying man scurried from his bedchamber.
“I wouldna trust that slime of a man as far as I could toss him.”
Malcolm nodded his agreement as his brother stepped from behind the massive draperies hanging around the bed.
“There’s something no right about his urging you to go after the crazed lass.”
“My thoughts exactly, Paddy. And exactly why yer here with me.” He offered the tankard of ale, setting it back on the table when his brother shook his head in refusal. “Tomorrow I’ll have the rat and his men bring the woman here to me.”
“As you say,” his brother acknowledged. “Do you think it might be wise for me and some of the boys to follow along? At a proper distance, of course.”
“I do at that.” Malcolm agreed.
Therein lay the beauty of naming his own brother as his tanist. They’d worked together so well and so long, it was as if Patrick anticipated his thoughts.
Malcolm pulled his dirk from the strap on his boot and cut a slice of cheese off the hunk on the table, tossing it to Patrick. His brother grinned and snatched up a piece of the bread as well, dropping down into the chair across from him.
Though they’d need to stay on their toes, Malcolm felt confident the MacGahan holdings would soon be his, made all the sweeter by the fact that he wouldn’t have to raise his sword against anyone in the process.
“Agneys? Agneys! I order you to open this door at once!”
Agneys dropped into her chair, clutching the polished silver mirror to her breast. She had absolutely no intention of opening that door to her father. Not this night or any other.
She’d known the instant she’d seen the MacDowylt enter through the big gates this afternoon that her father would end up in a crazed frenzy of anger. MacDowylt at the castle was not what he had planned, and he detested having his plans go awry.
Nonetheless, Agneys had plans of her own and too much to accomplish this night to subject herself to Roland’s madness.
With the MacDowylt only two doors away in the castle’s best guest chamber, her father would be unwilling to raise too much of a fuss and risk drawing the man’s attention. At least she hoped that would be the case.
Events had reached a point where her father had become a serious danger. If all went well, MacDowylt would eliminate that danger for her. And if not?
She knew of a potion or two that would do the trick. And wouldn’t poison be an ironic death for her father? Perhaps she would use the very one he’d used to rid himself of her mother.
“You dinna think I ken what you did, do you, Father?” she whispered in the direction of the door.
But she did know. She’d learned the herbs from her grandmother when the woman had come on a visit from France after her mother’s death. She knew the signs, and she remembered what her mother’s face had looked like when she’d found her that morning.
Agneys had no intention of ending up as her mother had.
Long, tense moments passed before the sound of retreating footsteps reached her ears.
Finally.
She let out the breath she had held and strode to her bed, propping the small mirror against the covers so that she might have one last look at herself.
The nightdress she wore had belonged to the laird’s first wife, making it inappropriately snug across her ample breasts and around the curves of her hips.
Inappropriate, but perfect for her needs.
“Oh!”
She’d almost forgotten about her hair.
“Wearing yer hair loose is something only for unmarried lassies. Especially now, to show respect for the laird’s memory, you must be seen as the lady.” Her old witch of a maid had made the annoying claim this very morning as she’d pulled Agneys’ hair into the uncomfortably tight and ugly braids.
Agneys removed the bindings and worked her fingers through her hair, fluffing the golden locks over her shoulders and around her face.
She smiled as she considered the humor of her situation. In light of how she had dressed for tonight, an inappropriate hairstyle hardly mattered.
With one last admiring look into the mirror—and one last adjustment of her breasts to ensure they were displayed to their best advantage—she tossed her cloak around her and peeked out her door before slipping into the darkened hallway.
Two doors down, she stopped. She could do this. She could do anything to save her own life. And if she didn’t free herself from her father, it would eventually mean her life, she had no doubt.
One deep breath to settle her nerves and she rapped her knuckles lightly against the heavy wooden door, putting her plan into action.
* * *
When the knock sounded on Malcolm’s door, he looked up from his tankard, his gaze locking with his brother’s.
“You dinna think the fool is back to have another go at changing yer mind, do you?” Patrick shook his head, mirroring the disbelief Malcolm felt.
With a shrug of his shoulders, Malcolm stood. “Only one way to find out. Let’s invite our guest in.” He motioned toward the entryway, waiting as Patrick crossed the room and threw open the door.
“Looks as though we were wrong, Colm.” Patrick’s grin when he stepped aside to reveal their visitor said it all. “I’m guessing this might be a good time for me to go check on our men, aye?”
Malcolm nodded his agreement, his gaze fixed on his lovely visitor. “Dinna forget to close the door on yer way out.”
He’d seen this one before, perched on the dais next to the MacGahan laird.
“Would it be the MacGahan’s widow herself I have the honor of hosting in my bedchamber?”
“It is,” the beauty murmured, seeming to float across the room to stand in front of him. “I’ve a proposition for you, MacDowylt.”
With a flick of her wrist, the ties of her cloak came loose and the garment fell to the floor at her feet.
Little wonder the old laird would wed something as desirable as this. His body responded to her immediately, but even in his surprise he had the good sense to keep his weapon between his own legs until a time of his choosing.
“I’m sure you do.” He gave her his best leer, attempting to put her on the defensive. “And I must say, yer a fine-looking piece for a woman who’s rumored to be with child.”
“Rumored,” she repeated. “Aye, that’s the key here, MacDowylt. And the proposition I have for you is no exactly what yer thinking. It’s business. Though”—here she trailed a delicate finger carelessly around the low-cut neck of the nightdress she wore—“it has the potential to be more. Much more.”
Malcolm took a step back, holding out the chair his brother had earlier vacated for his beautiful guest. “Have a seat, my lady, and we’ll discuss this . . . business of yers.”
He returned to his own chair, leaning forward as he sat to disguise his obvious response to this woman.
No point in letting her know of his physical interest in her. Not yet anyway. She was, after all, the daughter of Lardiner. And as much as he distrusted that man, he trusted this woman even less.
Roland, his world a red-hot haze of fury, kicked the tinder basket off the hearth in the laird’s solar, scattering bits of wood and wool as it tumbled across the floor.
Where the hell was Shaw anyway? He’d sent that deformed idiot lad to fetch the man. How was he to function as laird if his second in command didn’t come when he was called?
And Agneys! His ungrateful bitch of a daughter would pay for her disobedience tonight. The bruise she wore on her cheek was nothing compared to what he’d leave her with next time. As soon as he had this annoying MacDowylt out of the way, he’d see to her punishment personally, laird’s widow or no.
Conspiracy! He could see it clearly now. They all conspired against him, just to make his life more difficult than necessary.
They’d pay. “They’ll all pay,” he vowed, looking for something to throw to vent his anger.
“I’ve brought him for you.” Jamie stood in the doorway ahead of Shaw, with that pathetic half smile of his.
“Get out of here, you misshapen whelp!” he yelled, coming as close as he had all evening to happiness at the fear in the lad’s eyes.
The child’s voice grated on his sensitive nerves. The burn-scarred deformity of his face disgusted Roland. Looking on the whoreson made him think of . . .
“It’s no my conscience,” he muttered aloud. That bitch, Jone, had brought it on herself by sleeping with the laird in the first place. Her brat should have died in that fire with her.
“I beg yer pardon, Lardiner . . . er . . . my laird.” Shaw stumbled over his words, his eyes darting to the door as if he thought of escape. “Were you speaking to me?”
“No!” Roland yelled before catching himself. He needed this man to follow his commands flawlessly. Angering the fool would not serve his purpose at the moment. “No,” he repeated, quietly this time.
“You sent for me, aye?”
Roland felt much calmer now. In complete control of his emotions. “I did. On the morrow, MacDowylt will, I am sure, accede to my wishes and go after the MacGahan half-wit. As we discussed, you’ve picked the men you can trust to go along with you when you accompany him?”
“I have indeed. The most generous payment you offered was incentive enough to recruit them.”
“Good.” Roland rubbed his hands together. At last his plans were coming together. “You’ll make sure they understand, aye? Neither Isabella nor the MacDowylt are to make it back to the castle alive.”
As Shaw nodded his agreement, a noise outside the door caught Roland’s attention. An odd scraping sound.
“Go,” Roland ordered his man as he flew to the door, throwing it open and lurching outside. Down the hallway, his pathetic limp having slowed his escape, Jamie cowered against the wall.
In a fury, Roland reached the child, grabbing a handful of his filthy hair and dragging him up off his feet.
“You dare to spy on me? Yer laird?”
“Yer no my laird,” the boy cried. “You killed my laird. I saw you on the stairs after you’d pushed him down.”
The red haze filled Roland again, and he flung the boy into the wall, fighting to catch his breath as the small body crumpled into the corner.
“You’ll regret those words,” Roland said, kicking his foot into the soft little mound hunkering in front of him.
Ignoring the child’s screams, he had drawn back his foot to kick again when a weight landed on his shoulder, pulling him back and off balance.
“Here now, what’s this?”
A large man, much larger than himself, moved in between him and the object of his fury.
“This is none of yer business, whoever you are. Be on yer way.” He’d deal with the intruder later.
“Oh, I dinna think so. My business or no, I’m no going to let a full-grown man bully a wee bit of child.”
Roland’s whole body shook with his fury as he attempted to push past the man only to find himself flipped around, his face ground into the stone wall with his arm wrenched up behind him.
“You have no idea who yer dealing with. I’ll have yer name,” he sputtered. “And on the morrow, I’ll have yer head mounted in the courtyard.”
The interloper had the nerve to laugh—laugh!—as he let go of Roland’s arm, allowing him at last to turn around.
“Patrick MacDowylt, at yer service, Lardiner. Yes, I ken who you are, and I’ll tell you honestly, it’s no my head I’d be concerned about if I were you.”
A second MacDowylt? Roland watched as the man strolled away, realizing only after he was out of sight that the child had managed to sneak away as well.
Roland smoothed his shirt and plaid back into place as he returned to the laird’s solar. His solar now.
It didn’t matter. None of it mattered. They’d all be dead within days. The MacDowylts and that rotten child, too. Dead. He’d see to it if he had to slice them apart himself.
No one would take from him what he’d worked for years to achieve.
He was the MacGahan now.