Chapter 25
The footsteps had no more than disappeared when MacGowan stepped out of hiding. Taking one glance into the chamber, he snatched up Rhona’s hand and dragged her out with him.
She scrambled over the marquis and rushed to the door. In an instant they were in the hallway and only a few moments later Lachlan had closeted them away in her room.
The door shut with a click behind them, and then he turned to her.
“Explain,” he said.
She lifted her chin and held his gaze as her mind raced round and round like a carousel gone mad. A puppeteer. A man in rags. “Explain what?” she asked.
He smiled, but the expression was hard.
“What were you doing in the library?”
“I went to borrow a book.” None will expect it from that front. What front? Who?
“Truly?”
“Aye.”
“You lie,” he said.
She shrugged. “You may believe whatever you wish to believe.”
“Whatever I wish!” He slammed his palm against the wall beside her head.
“I’ll tell you what I want to believe,” he growled.
“I want to believe that you have come to Claronfell to care for those wee lassies. I want to believe that you have not lied to them, that you are not lying to me, but I tell you true, warrior, I am having a bit of trouble with that.”
“Then try harder, champion,” she gritted, and moved to slip away from the wall.
He caught her arm and pulled her back. “What are your plans, woman?”
“Plans?”
“Why are you truly here?”
Her mind spun like a wooden top. Surely she could trust him with the truth.
Indeed, she longed to, for she needed help to untangle the clues.
But she must do what she must and that meant danger, and though he seemed willing, nay, almost eager to risk himself, he was adverse to the idea of any danger for her.
The thought sent a strange, melancholy feeling sweeping through her, and for a moment she was almost tempted to reach out and touch his face, to feel the hard planes of his strength against her palm.
But she had not survived so long by being either foolish or soft, and she would not be so now.
“Tell me, champion,” she said and carefully steadied her emotions. “What are your feelings for me?”
“Feelings?” His grip loosened on her arm, and he leaned back the slightest degree as if wary of standing too close.
“Aye,” she said, and pressed on, though her heart was pounding like a charger’s hooves. “Do you cherish me?”
He glared at her. A muscle jumped in his lean jaw, but finally he spoke. “You are like ale,” he said. “The more I have of you the more I want, and yet, I think, you are not good for me.”
It was difficult to breathe, but she forced herself to go on. “If I were in danger . . .” She paused, searching for words.
He narrowed his eyes and upon her arm his grip tightened a bit. “What kind of danger?” he asked.
“It matters not. If my life were at risk what would you—”
“’Tis the marquis, isn’t it?” His free hand was clenched, his face intense. “What has he done?”
She drew a careful breath as she watched him. Aye, there may be bonnier men, but never would there be one who embodied ferocity and tenderness to such a breathtaking degree.
“What has he done?” His voice was a low growl.
“MacGowan,” she said, steeling her voice. “He has done nothing, I only—”
“You may as well tell me, lass, for I’ll kill him either way, whether you admit the truth or nay.”
Perhaps she should have been scandalized, or angry, or at least frightened, but somehow she was only flattered. Who else had there been in the entirety of her life who would risk himself for her? “Lord Robert is the Saxon king’s second cousin,” she said evenly. “The punishment would be death.”
His expression changed not the least. “Tell me what he has done so that I may do what I must.”
She watched him as a wild, indefinable range of emotions rushed through her, but when the chaos cleared all that remained was a tightening tinge of something that felt frightfully like happiness.
She bundled all the emotions up and set them aside. A warrior had no place for emotion.
“I am not for the likes of you,” she whispered.
“And why is that?”
She shook her head, her mind racing. “You know nothing of me, MacGowan.”
“Then enlighten me.”
“Suffice it to say that your kind do not marry mine.”
“Mayhap you know little of me own kind.”
“There you are wrong.”
“We MacGowans do not wed your average maid.”
“Mayhap not average,” she said. “But at least your brothers’ wives are maids, while I—”
“Their mother was accused of witchcraft.”
“Witchcraft?” She felt herself go pale, felt her stomach churn as the memory of the tale came burning back to her mind.
“Aye,” he said. “Some think the birth of twins ungodly. Others said the lady of Evermyst had an unnatural attraction for the sea. As for the elder Munro, he accused her of killing his father. Thus she was condemned to death even though the king himself owed her,” he said.
“Owed her?”
“Aye,” he said. “Long ago one of His Majesty’s ships was endangered. She made certain it returned safely to shore.”
They too were wronged!
“Nay,” she breathed. “It cannot be.”
He scowled at her. “Did you know her?”
“None came forth to save her?”
“What?”
“No one stood by her?” she said. “Not even King James?”
“Our king was occupied with troubles of his own.”
Puzzle pieces fell together like the clang of an iron cell.
’Tis said the king himself will be there.
There was a plot against the king. There will be a man dressed in naught but rags.
He would be in disguise, dressed like a commoner as he oft was when visiting his subjects.
I suggest you stay close to the puppeteer.
He would be near the puppet master. And though they have the perfect opportunity, none will expect it from that front.
You know how he cherishes his bonny Highland rabble.
It was Anora and Isobel Fraser who planned the king’s murder, for James had forgotten his debt and abandoned their mother to death.
She felt sick to her stomach, dizzy and weak.
“Rhona. What is amiss?”
She raised her chin, fighting the panic. His brothers’ beloved wives planned treason, and she must expose them or let the king perish.
“Peaceable yet powerful he must be. Cunning but kind to thee and me,” she muttered.
“What are you talking about?”
“Return to your father’s keep, MacGowan,” she said. “Find a maid who appreciates such qualities.”
“I dunna know what you speak of.”
“Aye you do,” she said. “You may be powerful, but you are also peaceable. Cunning you have, but not in such a great degree as kindness.”
He was scowling again.
“’Tis not the same with me,” she said. “Kindness is not my path. I will make the choices that need making, and damn those who suffer for it.”
“Aye,” he scoffed. “It’s a demon, you are.”
“Perhaps,” she said and steeling herself, spoke again. “For I do not cherish you.”
He said nothing. Indeed, she thought he had ceased to breathe.
She tried to speak again and finally succeeded. “Lord Robert is neither peaceable nor kind nor loving. But he is a marquis.”
“You cannot stay with him.” He gritted the words.
“Aye, I can and I shall.”
“He is deviant and he is cruel.”
“Aye,” she said. “’Tis a match made in heaven.”
“Damn you, Rhona,” he growled. “I’ll not leave you. Not to him.”
Her stomach clenched. Love, it appeared, was not a gentle suitor as she’d suspected, but a damned knave that twisted your gut and strangled your breath.
“Listen now,” she said, “for I tell you the truth.” It was difficult to force out the words, to breathe past the lie, to keep living. “I do not cherish you, MacGowan, and I never shall. Do not shame yourself further by pursuing me.”
An eternity passed between them. Not another word was spoken. His fists clenched, his body tightened, and then he turned and silently left the room.
She did not sleep that night, and by morning, he was gone. Sir Charles left shortly after.
Rhona sat in silence at the breakfast table, her mind numb, her stomach sick. The marquis appeared, looking no better. His face was a peculiar shade of green. Upon his brow was a swelling the size of a swan’s royal egg.
“Troubles, my lord?” she asked, and tried to put some feeling into it. But worry was a raw ache inside her. He planned murder and there was no way to stop it but to punish the Evermyst maids.
“Aye,” he said, and put his hand to his brow. “I am in dire need of a tonic. Where is that blasted Welshman when I need him?”
“In truth, my lord, I have sent him away.”
He seemed to brighten immediately. “Away?”
“Aye,” she said, and lowered her lids with an effort. “I felt he was becoming . . . too attached to me.”
A grin shifted his greenish lips. “He was rather in the way.”
“Aye, my lord,” she said, and returned his smile with careful shyness. “And it was impeding on my chances of getting to know you better.”
“Better . . .” He brightened still more. “Indeed, ’tis a fine idea. But . . .” His face clouded. “’Tis a poor time for this, for I will be leaving in but a few days.”
Her heart thundered in her chest. “Leaving, my lord?”
“Heading north. To the stronghold of Evermyst.” His tone was reflective. “The brothers MacGowans are hosting a gathering.”
Dear God, she was right. Meara had not lied. Evil stalked Evermyst, but it came from within as well as without. “You are invited to this gathering, my lord?”
“I am the king’s cousin.” He laughed as if there were some irony she missed.
“I am wealthy and powerful and welcome everywhere, and yet ’tis the Highland rogues who are favored.
” His tone had become strange, as if he spoke to himself, but he glanced up and gave her a tight smile.
“There will be games and drink and merriment.”
She forced herself to continue to breathe. “I do not believe I have met the brothers.”
He turned his attention back to her. “Nay, I suspect you have not, my little steel mouse, but . . . perhaps it is time.”
She said nothing.
“Aye,” he said. “You shall travel with me, as will my progeny.” He nodded as if to himself. “Aye. A man with his bonny daughters in tow. ’Twill be so much the better.”
And so it was set. Rhona ate little and slept less for the next several days. When she was not fending off the marquis, she was caring for the children, and when she was not with the girls, she was planning, scheming, trying to see some way she had misread the clues. But she could not.
They left in two days’ time. And the pace was laborious. Not for many years had Rhona journeyed such a distance as a woman. And never in her life had she traveled with children. Her nerves felt as raw as open wounds.
She wished now that the girls had stayed at Claronfell. Indeed, she had wished so all along, but they offered a shield of sorts, a garnish to her costume, aiding her mission.
Catherine was utterly silent in her father’s presence. Edwina returned to sucking her finger, but for the most part, the marquis ignored them. He too, seemed preoccupied. Too preoccupied to make his usual advances, and finally they arrived.
Evening was fast falling when she first saw the heights of Evermyst soaring fifty rods above the sea. For a moment she could not take her eyes from it, could not look away. Against her breast, her small silver shell felt warm and heavy.
Although the road wound round an outcropping of rock and up to dizzying heights, they did not climb up that rugged course, on the verdant nearby hills, pavilions of every bright hue had been erected. Lord Robert stopped their carriages there.
Soon servants were scurrying about like bees, setting up their camp, preparing meals. Reeves and Colette had accompanied them, for the marquis liked his comfort.
Edwina stayed close to Rhona’s side. Even Catherine seemed loath to stray too far, though her eyes were round with wonder as she took in the sights that surrounded them.
From her vantage point, Rhona could see the banners of a score of clans—the Forbeses, the MacGregors, and near the mountain’s very roots, the Munro’s white destrier on a field of green.
Warhorses with heavy feathering and high steps jolted past. Women laughed. Men cursed, and from far off, Rhona heard the high eerie sound of the pipes playing to the sky.
Her heart felt bound up in her chest. Emotions cluttered in, squeezing her breath away. Evermyst, warriors, competition, death. She could all but taste the impending drama. While beside her, two small girls looked to her for comfort. But who would comfort her?
“Me lady,” said a voice.
Horror and fear and soaring hope sparked in her chest at the sound of Lachlan’s voice. She spun around, her heart thrumming hard. But he was not there. Only someone who looked vaguely like him, someone who would soon hate her.
“Me lady,” he said again and bowed. “I am Laird Ramsay of Evermyst and this is my wife, Lady Anora.”
Lady Anora—mistress of lofty Evermyst. Lady Anora—bonny and bright. Lady Anora—with the silver shell about her neck. Lady Anora—Rhona’s sister.