Chapter 15 #2
Crossing the bridge, Rory anticipated the moment when he would see the crooked manor house. Darkness was almost fully upon him when he viewed Tyemorn Manor. He grinned, thinking that perhaps Abigail would greet him with some favor. After all, he was a messenger of some importance.
He dismounted in front of the barn and led his horse inside.
Ned was there, currying one of the plow horses.
“It’s about time you’ve returned,” he said gruffly. “A certain young lady has been asking every day if I’ve seen a sign of you.”
“Really?” Rory asked, pleased.
Suddenly there was commotion at the front of the barn. He heard a soft squeal and then Abigail came into sight, running so quickly that her feet were a blur beneath her. She skidded to a halt in the middle of the doorway, clasping her hands in front of her.
“Oh,” she said, as if she were surprised by his presence, “it’s you, Rory. I had no idea you’d returned so quickly.”
Rory grinned in response. “I’m back,” he said. And glad he was of it. “I wanted to make sure I was here for Lethson. I want that dance you promised me, Abigail. Or have you forgotten?”
She smiled at him, and he realized he would have traveled across Scotland to see one of Abigail’s smiles.
“No, I haven’t forgotten, Rory MacRae. And have you remembered how to work your feet?”
That question was a little too close to the mark. He might well have forgotten but for the fact that he’d been practicing the steps in his mind.
She giggled at his silence. “Never mind, a few minutes with me and you’ll remember it all again.”
She disappeared as quickly as she’d arrived. Ned cleared his throat and took the reins of his horse from him.
“Go and find James, lad,” he said kindly, “and I’ll take care of your horse.”
He entered the house by the kitchen door and headed for the stairs. Riona, who was reading in the parlor, looked up as his booted foot touched the first step.
She saw him and greeted him with a smile.
“Rory! You’re back. How was your journey?”
He turned and walked into the room. “Not a bit of trouble, miss. Not a squirrel out of place or a sparrow. Nor did I see any sign of Drummond.”
“And everyone is fine at Gilmuir?” She closed the book, using her finger to mark the place.
He had a letter for James entrusted to him by Alisdair, but he told her the contents of it now.
“James has a niece,” he said. “A plump little thing with a red face and a cry that can be heard throughout Gilmuir. They’ve named her Aislin Patricia MacRae.”
“Have Fergus and Leah married?” she asked.
“They have,” he said. “I was there when they recited their vows.”
“A happy day,” Riona said. “Fergus must be overjoyed.”
Rory nodded. “He looked the part,” he agreed.
“I’ve brought greetings from all of them for James.
Along with a dozen or so requests for his return from the women of the village,” he added, grinning.
“Half of them imagine themselves in love with him. The other half swear he loves them as well. But that’s James. A conquest everywhere he walks.”
“Oh?” Riona said softly.
“He’s very well thought of by the ladies,” Rory said. He began slapping at the dust on his shoulders. “I need to wash the dirt of the road off me.”
“It’s so good to have you back,” she said, smiling.
He nodded, thinking that he had had other homecomings before, but this one seemed special somehow. As if this place nestled in its protective valley was truly home.
Tyemorn’s sole inn was a tidy little place with three rooms up the narrow stairs and a common area now crowded with men.
For days Thomas had lain abed, struggling with fever, only the kindness of the tavern maid keeping him in water and clean cloths.
He had given her most of his money to ensure her silence and her assistance, and now had only enough coins for another meal, or a tankard or two.
He settled on the tankard, hoping that the whiskey would dull the worst of the pain.
MacRae had killed him.
There wasn’t any doubt of it. If he could have ignored the agony in his side, there was still the stench. The edges of the wound had grayed, red streaks now radiating outward from where he’d been knifed. The smell of death, sickly sweet and cloying, was with him always.
He could barely summon the strength to sit here. But before he expired of putrefaction, Thomas was determined that MacRae would die. The score wouldn’t be settled, but he was beyond finding justice for the Drummond clan now. All he wanted was to avenge his own death.
Pressing some clean cloths against the wound had diminished the smell somewhat, enough that he felt comfortable among the group of men in the tavern.
“So, you’re here for the fair, then?” one man asked him and he nodded into his whiskey, the effort of pretending to be a peddler beyond him at the moment.
“We used to be renowned for our horse fair,” he said, “but it’s not the sort of thing it used to be. Once upon a time the world traveled to Ayleshire for our horses.”
He continued to mull over the past, staring into his tankard. “Why, they came for days on end they did, so thick over the hills. Nothing but horses, lines and lines of the beauties.”
“Sounds impressive,” he managed to say.
“Aye, that it was,” the old man replied.
“Nowadays, however, we spend more time with Lethson.” He wearily shook his head over his ale.
“Pagan bit of nonsense, that’s what it is.
An excuse for the girls to act like slatterns and the boys to revel in it.
” He sighed heavily. “I’ve a daughter with a daughter, all because of Lethson.
And a weak, puling husband she’s found for herself, too. ”
“What’s this ceremony, this Lethson?”
The old man looked over at him with a sour expression.
“A bit of tomfoolery. Bonfires and dancing, singing and gathering at the well. Foolish stuff, man, that you’d be better off ignoring.
You should find yourself far from here before that night.
The good folks of Ayleshire lose their minds and behave like idiots beneath the moon. ”
Thomas motioned to the barmaid. He ordered another tankard and gave her his last coin.
“Even the manor folk are participating this year.”
“How, exactly?” Thomas asked, leaning both elbows on the table in front of him. Nausea rolled over him, and he could feel himself grow chilled, even as beads of perspiration dotted his forehead.
Just let me live long enough to kill him. A strange entreaty, but one fervently prayed.