Chapter 22 #3
’Twas a sad tale, and one close to Rhona’s heart, but when she inquired about the girls’ well-being that day, she learned they had eaten well.
Still, she felt it necessary to check on them herself.
Edwina was fast asleep, breathing softly through parted lips.
Crossing the hall, Rhona found that Catherine’s room remained unlocked.
A spark of hope lit her heart. Hanging her lantern in the hall, she opened the door and pattered quietly to the girl’s bedside.
Catherine lay on her side, her lean face shadowed, her eyes closed, looking small and pale and lonely.
Strange emotions twined through Rhona, feelings she was not accustomed to, feelings she had no place for. Nay, not she, for she had deeds to do and little enough time to do them.
Who had written the letters to the marquis?
What did they mean? Was evil truly bent on Evermyst, and if so, from what quarter?
Were the fierce Munros involved? And how did the king figure into things?
She was certain Lord Robert harbored some sympathy for King Henry of England, but was he bold enough to plan King James ill?
Her mind in a jumble, Rhona crossed the chamber and shut the door quietly behind her. At least she had done some little good here, she thought, for the girls looked undisturbed.
Her own room was empty and quiet. Stripping off her gown and undergarments, she slipped into her night rail and crawled into bed. Despite everything, she soon found sleep.
Laughter filled the lofty hall. Even Grandmother seemed content this night, for there were no whisperings, no drafts, only a feeling of contentment. Before the huge, open hearth, a wispy lass played chess with her uncle. Her hair gleamed red gold in the firelight.
“Check and mate,” said the Highlander.
Her tiny mouth fell open. Her solemn eyes were wide. “You cheat!” she said, and he laughed as he left his stool and scooped her high into the air.
“Not I,” he argued. “I would never. Ask your father.”
“Da, your brother cheats,” she accused.
Lachlan’s eyes gleamed and his lips lingered on Rhona’s for just a second longer before he rose to his feet. His hair shone like sable in the candlelight as he crossed the hall and took the child from her uncle’s arms.
“Aye,” he said, “that he does, wee Catherine.”
“So you have returned.”
Rhona awoke with a start, grappling for her dirk as she searched the room for the source of the voice, but she already knew who had breached her chamber.
“MacGowan,” she said, and hoped her tone sounded casual. “Have you nothing better to do than climb me damned wall?”
Her fire had dwindled to little more than embers, but its erratic light gilded his hair to an amber hue.
He shrugged as he stepped toward her. The tam was gone, as was his foolish expression and his inarticulate accent.
He looked large and solemn and more than a bit dangerous in the moonlit darkness.
“I thought perhaps you had forgotten the lassies and would spend the night elsewhere with your fat marquis.”
She shrugged. “Indeed,” she said, and faced him as he paced closer. “It was an enjoyable day. Lord Robert is quite good company.”
“If you do not care that he abuses his children.”
“In truth,” she said, and scowled at her own thoughts, “he talked of little but them this day. I think he cares for them a good deal.”
“Did he tell you that?”
She was tired and cranky and fidgety, with a thousand worries running like wild bullocks through her head. “Aye he did,” she said, then hurried to add, “I’ll admit that he has been neglectful, but when I suggested that Catherine is being abused, he assured me he would see to it.”
“So he didn’t know.”
“Nay, he believed she was torturing herself. It seems she bears the blame for her mother’s death. Lorna was not strong, and Catherine badly wished for a brother. The pregnancy was more than she could bear and—”
He chuckled. The sound was low and humorless in the deep night.
“You find something amusing, MacGowan?”
“Amusing?” he growled. “Nay. Pathetic! The marquis spews his lies and you would walk through fire to believe him. You have been here but three days. Yet you know the truth.”
“You think he will refuse to relieve Colette?”
“Nay,” he said, “I think he will gladly let her go.”
“Then—”
“For the maid does not share his bed. She sleeps with another.”
She felt herself go pale. “So you would vouch for her because she spreads her legs for you?”
His brows lowered. Anger rippled through the room. “’Tis Reeves she spends her nights with.”
“You—” She halted. “Reeves? The humorless bailiff?”
“Aye. Apparently not every lass is enamored with your ugly marquis’s grand title.”
“Still . . .” Her mind was racing. “That hardly makes her innocent, Mac—”
“She was with him all last night and she did not touch the girl this day. Of that I am certain.”
“That is because Lord Robert warned her—” She stiffened. “What do you imply?”
“Were you not so busy winning a fortune, you would know.”
“Something happened to Catherine.”
“Aye.”
“But I checked on her.” Her voice was pale. “All is well.”
“You are right, I suspect. After all, you are the warrior, callused and hard. A lassie’s blackened eye means little to you.”
“Nay,” she whispered.
He stared at her, his expression unreadable. “Call me a liar if you like, warrior, but the truth is in her face.”
“Nay,” she whispered again and, swinging her feet to the floor, lit an iron lantern and rushed from the room.
She swung the girl’s door wide and in that instant Catherine sat up and blinked against the light.
But only one eye opened, for the other was swollen shut. Inflamed and blackened, it puffed away from her face in dark, ominous colors.
The girl said nothing. Instead, she sat absolutely silent, her expression inscrutable.
“Who did this to you?” Rhona growled.
The child said nothing.
“Did your father strike you? Tell me, Catherine, and I swear I’ll make it right.”
Another second passed in silence, then she turned her back and lay down.
Rhona stood frozen for some moments as her stomach roiled. Then, steadying her emotions, she pushed herself from the room and back down the hallway.
Aye, she had a mission. Aye, it was of the utmost importance, and aye, she had tried to protect the children while maintaining her disguise.
But she had failed. The child had suffered.
Rage boiled like black tar inside her.
Damn diplomacy!