Chapter 24 #2
“Oh.” He cleared his throat. “’E would tek me to a place where there was no sorrows.”
“Heaven?”
He shrugged. “Mayhap ’twere like heaven, but since I have na seen the Lord’s land, I canna say for certain.”
“Tell us about it,” lisped Edwina.
“’Tis late,” he said, “and you’ve ’ad a long day what with all your . . . needlework practice.” He lifted his gaze to Rhona. She said nothing. Knifeplay might well prove more worthwhile than embroidery in the long run.
“Please,” said Edwina, but Lachlan shook his head.
“What would your dad be a sayin’ if ’e saw Lady Roe ’ad kept you up too late?”
“He won’t know,” said Catherine. “He’ll be drinking with Sir Charles into the wee hours, most like.”
Rhona froze. “What!” How could she have missed the arrival of the marquis’s mercenary knight? This was the entire reason for her coming to Claronfell, but somehow she had become foolishly distracted.
Catherine eyed her solemnly. Already, there was worry on her face, a frown between her brows.
Rhona smoothed her tone. “What say you?” she asked.
“Sir Charles,” Catherine said after a moment’s hesitation. “He arrived this eve.”
“Oh?” She kept her tone carefully steady now, but Catherine’s gaze was still on her, and though she daren’t look at MacGowan, she feared he too was watching her suspiciously. “And why did he come to Claronfell?”
The girl blinked. “I know not. But they soon will be closeted away in the library if they are not already.”
“Well . . .” Rhona said and stood. She tried to keep her movements casual, but her body felt stiff and her mind was racing. “Good night to you,” she said and, being unable to think of a single other thing to say, hustled from the room.
Once in the corridor, she paused to listen, but the passageway was silent.
One glance behind assured her that MacGowan had remained with the girls.
She fled on silent feet toward the library and in a moment she realized Catherine had been right.
Even now, she could hear the marquis’s questions mixed with the knight’s quieter answers as they came toward her.
She had no time to waste in thought, but stepped rapidly into the library.
One glance around told her there was only one place to hide.
Near the back of the room a wall jutted out, separating the books from the rest of the chamber.
Skimming across the floor, she sprinted behind the wall, breathing hard.
A whisper of sound echoed from the far side almost immediately, and she froze with a hand on her dirk, but in that instant, MacGowan slipped in beside her.
They stared at each other from inches apart. “Cozy,” he said.
“What the devil are you doing here?” she hissed.
“The same could be asked—” he began, but in that instant, she slapped her hand over his mouth.
“So all is well with you and yours?” said the marquis. The sound of the door was distinct, rather like the final closing of a stone casket.
“Aye, well enough,” said Sir Charles and continued to tell about his father’s father who lived in Newbury.
Pressed up against MacGowan like an ardent hound, Rhona held her breath and watched his eyes. The dialogue droned on.
“More wine?” asked the marquis.
Rhona could only assume the answer was affirmative, for in a moment they heard the clink of glass against metal.
“And what of you, my lord?” asked Charles. “I trust you and yours are doing well.”
The conversation continued with talk of taxes and rents and news of ever increasing wealth.
Rhona shifted her weight carefully to her opposite foot and forced herself to ignore the feel of MacGowan’s biceps against her breast, though they felt as hard as living granite. Neither did she fail to notice when his fingers skimmed her hair.
“The harvest is bountiful.”
His lips brushed her ear. Against her will her eyes fell closed.
“Aye. The weather has been favorable.”
Lachlan slipped his hand behind her neck. Beneath his fingers, magic sparked. His lips found hers. Her knees felt weak.
A scrape of noise alerted her. MacGowan jerked away. Footfalls drew closer. She held her breath. They shuffled off. Against her breast, she felt Lachlan’s hard body relax marginally.
“And your daughters, they are doing well?” asked Charles.
The marquis didn’t respond immediately, and when he did his voice was slurred. “Young Lady Rhona of Nettlepath arrived to care for them.”
“Lady Rhona?” The knight sounded interested in a bored sort of fashion. “I don’t believe I’ve met her. Is she fair?”
“She is a strange lass,” mused the marquis.
“To your liking then.”
“She wears a silver shell I plan to add to my collection.”
“Just one of many then? Or shall I be expecting Claronfell to have an heir soon?”
“Don’t speak to me of heirs!” rasped Lord Robert. The rustling sound was more labored now, and Rhona knew it was the marquis who had found his feet. He roamed about the room as she held her breath.
“My apologies,” said Charles. “But you do have two bonny daughters.”
“To hell with my daughters and Lorna as well!” hissed the marquis, and they could hear him pivot about. His footsteps faltered.
“I did not mean to offend, my lord,” said Charles.
“Leave me be,” said the marquis. He was not a charming drunk. “I ask only one thing of you.”
Sir Charles drank and sighed. “’Tis a fine wine,” he said. “Is it from your own vineyards?”
“Damn you and this senseless prattle,” said the marquis. “Are the plans set or nay?”
“Aye, they are set, but I have been reconsidering the price.”
“I have already paid you well.”
“But you have asked a large . . .” Charles drank again. There was a shrug in his tone. “Shall I call it a favor?”
“Call it whatever you like. Just see that the job is done.”
“It shall be. For a bit more coin.”
“More!” the marquis growled. Someone paced the room. Rhona’s arm felt cramped against MacGowan’s side, but she dare not ease it. “We had an agreement.”
“That was before I learned more of the situation.”
“Frightened, Charles?”
The other laughed. It sounded no more sober than his companion. “Let me just say that I am not a fool.”
“How much more do you want?”
“Double the amount.”
The marquis swore.
“I will need it to pay the others,” Charles explained.
“They can be trusted?”
“They too were wronged, it seems, and though they have the perfect opportunity, none will expect trouble from that front. You know how he cherishes his bonny Highland rabble.”
Glass clinked against metal again. There was the sound of drinking, then pacing. Rhona held her breath as the footfalls came closer.
“Very well,” said the marquis. He was very close, just on the far side of the wall. “But I want to see it with my own eyes.”
“There will be a puppet show and a man dressed in naught but rags. I suggest you stay close to the puppeteer.”
“A puppeteer,” said the marquis, and laughed.
His footfalls sounded closer, and suddenly he was there, gazing at the books.
In a moment, a fragment of a second, he would turn and see them.
But in that instant, MacGowan reached out.
Quick as a serpent, he was. Grabbing the marquis by the back of his skull, he slammed the man’s head against the bookshelf.
Before Rhona could stop him, he’d stepped into the open, but one glance told him Charles was still turned away.
Lachlan was back in hiding before the marquis’s back struck the floor.
There was a moment of absolute silence, during which Rhona dared not breathe.
“Damn,” drawled Charles. “A coward and a drunkard.” There was the sound of a satisfied sigh as he finished up his drink and left the room.