Chapter 2 #2
"Aye, destroy the thing," Alistair said carelessly. Murdoch wanted to scream. "Now—"
"Wait, Father," Ian drawled. He hadn't moved from his seat, but when Murdoch looked, he saw that Ian's eyes were on him, reading him a little too closely. "What say ye, Murdoch? Shall we turn the mount intae dog meat?"
Doing his best to return the calm to his expression, Murdoch carefully avoided meeting Ian's eyes.
"I—she's a good horse. Nae as big or strong as the male warhorses, but fast as a whip and intelligent, too.
If she takes against an enemy, her hooves can be deadly, and she's never been anythin' but loyal tae me.
If it's all the same, I'd keep her. Tae better serve the clan. "
Ian smirked slightly. "Tae serve the clan, aye," he repeated. "Father, let him keep his pet. His argument makes sense."
Alistair shrugged. "As ye will. Now go."
Relief, gratitude, and confusion flooded through Murdoch as he allowed himself to be led off by the guards.
They took him to a small, private room and laid out a meal of fresh meat and boiled vegetables, but while it smelled divine, it tasted like ash in Murdoch's mouth.
They led him to the bathhouse next, and they supplied him with maids to clean him and tend to his journey wounds.
The women, giggling as they washed his hair and tended his skin with soap and oil and washcloths, were young and beautiful, but Murdoch barely noticed them, his mind on the cold anger on Morag Caindach's face and on the final glimpse of the Kincaid pin on the bookshelf what felt like a lifetime ago.
He muttered thanks to the women as he dried off and dressed in the freshly laundered clothes that had been left for him.
When he rejoined the guards in the corridor, he laughed good-naturedly along with their ribaldry and teasing about the bath, though he didn't actually notice anything that was being said.
At long last they showed him to his quarters and left him inside, indicating that someone would come and fetch him to show him around tomorrow. When he was alone, he slid the bolt to lock the door, then leaned his forehead against it, counting down from ten. Then he turned back to survey the room.
After a moment, he walked over to the bed and lay down fully clothed on top of the sheets, staring at the canopy above. Beatha was housed and safe. He had successfully made his way into the Campbell stronghold. And he had been believed.
Truly alone, Murdoch let out a long, shaky breath. As he did, the mask of Murdoch slipped away and Christopher returned, allowing his torn heart to burst forth from its ice prison at last.
Christopher didn't cry, but he closed his eyes as he allowed the sorrow and anxiety to flow over him, tempered by the relief that his plan so far had worked.
Tomorrow, he'd have to let Murdoch take him over again, but for tonight, he could allow himself to think of what he'd left behind.
He might not hear anyone call him Christopher again for a long, long time, but if losing himself in Murdoch was what it took, then it was a risk he was willing to take.
Tomorrow, he'd move on to the next stage, and Murdoch Campbell would rise. But tonight, Christopher fell into an uneasy sleep, filled with memories he didn't know if he'd ever fully understand.
Morag dismissed her maid, preferring to perform her nighttime ritual and prepare for sleep alone.
She dressed in a soft rose-blush nightdress and sat at her looking glass, loosening her braids and running her fingers through each strand to separate the tangles before running her brush through her hair.
It was her greatest pride, and she spent hours tending to her tresses, which she wore longer than most women.
She'd taken its deep black color from her mother, and she still remembered the few times that Lady Caindach had shown her softness were when she was brushing Morag's hair.
Lost in those memories, Morag was startled as the door opened without even a knock.
She yelped and jumped to grab her robe to cover her nightdress, horrified that anyone might see her in such a state.
To her relief, surprise, and fear all at once, Robert Caindach stood framed in the doorway.
He walked in and closed the door, then stormed over to her.
"Tendin' tae yer vanity as usual," Caindach scoffed, gesturing to the hairbrush still in her hand. "Never mind. It might be worthwhile ye usin' yer beauty. Yer mother did well tae pass it ontae ye, even if ‘tis a gift ye've squandered so far."
Morag's throat tightened and she couldn't have spoken even if she'd tried.
Her father technically had the right to enter her rooms whenever he liked—she was unmarried and therefore his property—but it still sent a shock along her nerves that she would have no privacy even here.
He had always allowed her at least her own bedroom, but it seemed that she'd lost even that privilege thanks to her failure with Rolland Murray.
Caindach crooked a finger under her chin and tilted her head up so she looked right at him.
He sighed. "Yer mother was a bonny woman, Morag.
A demon sent tae torment me, but bonny. That's how she won me over when I was so determined that I wouldnae marry and how she trapped me intae marriage after leadin' me tae her bed.
I hated her, aye, and she hated me, but we respected each other.
She kent where her power as a woman truly lay—and kent how tae use it.
She'd still be with us if she hadnae so foolishly let her guard down at the end. "
Morag swallowed, ignoring the stabbing pain that always accompanied the mention of her mother.
It had been ten years, far past the time that her father would accept grief from her in that regard.
Though she had loved her mother, she had never experienced the same softness from her that she'd seen Flora Murray show to Rolland.
But her mother had always promised her that one day they'd take back their power.
That promise had all been broken the day that the young Lady Caindach's pale body had washed up on the shore of Loch Glais, leaving nothing behind but a mystery and a daughter alone.
"What would ye have me do, Father?" she asked at last, finally able to force out the words as she commanded her mind to close off the thoughts of her mother.
"The lad is young. Ye are bonny. What do ye think?" Caindach snorted. "Perhaps if ye do well, Ian will take ye as a lover. Ye'll never be a wife now, but ye could do worse than being his mistress. If ye do well, perhaps that will wait for ye."
Morag clenched her fist around the hairbrush, hiding her horror at that thought. "I dinnae understand."
Her father shook his head. "Get close tae this Murdoch, lass.
Use whatever means ye must. I wasted enough money on yer education that ye should be able tae think of what tae do next.
Find out his lies, if they are indeed lies, and make sure that he isnae here tae ruin our plans or take advantage of our benefactor. "
It was hard to think of anything that Morag wanted less. She didn't feel suited to such a job. After all, she had failed to keep Rolland Murray's attention, and while she knew she was beautiful, something in Murdoch's gaze had told her that would be far from enough to manipulate him in any way.
"Father—"
Caindach moved suddenly, grabbing a thick handful of her hair and yanking it painfully. "Hear me, daughter. I will nae tolerate failure from ye. Nae again."
Hiding the pained tears that sprang to her eyes, Morag nodded. "Aye, Father," she swore, because she knew everything she had depended on it. "I swear it to ye. I willnae let ye down."
It didn't matter what she thought or felt, and the hurt he was causing her now and the implicit and explicit threats were a stark reminder of that.
No matter what, her father was everything that Morag had, and she must show him her loyalty, at least until the day she could take back her own power—if she ever discovered what that really meant.
"Good," Caindach replied. He let go of her hair. "Sleep well, Morag. Tomorrow will be a busy day."