Chapter 9
CHAPTER NINE
After three hours of restless sleep, Christopher woke again properly, but he didn't open his eyes yet.
With them closed, he could still feel Morag in his arms as if she were really there, her body fitting perfectly against his, her lips so close that it was almost unbearable.
He could still envision that glint in her green eyes when she'd challenged him, still hear the defiance she'd shown when she'd threatened to expose him, even though he'd heard the fear she'd tried to hide as well.
He groaned and forced his eyes open, rolling onto his back, hoping that the light of day would stop Morag from consuming his every thought. But even now as he stared at the canopy of his fine bed, he wondered what she was doing. Had she slept? Had she tended to her small wounds?
She'd managed to get a few small hits on him as well, though they had been small enough that there was only a little blood to clean up, and he could easily explain that as injuries from training.
He wondered if she'd have to burn the shirt she was wearing to hide it from her father. She was smart enough to do so.
Christopher got out of bed and wandered sleepily over to the mirror, his body aching with every step.
He stared at the man with the dark-ringed eyes who looked back at him and realized with both terror and a thrill that Murdoch was gone for good.
He'd worked so carefully to invent the persona that had kept him safe and bought him the trust of Alistair and Ian, but now that he had spoken of Elsie and Arran and Cassie—of his family—aloud, there was no way he'd be able to retreat back into that coldness.
His mind went to Morag again and the brief look in her eyes when he'd spoken of them. He wondered what it meant, then growled slightly at his own stupidity.
Morag Caindach was dangerous. He'd known that from the beginning, though now he understood that her true danger lay in a very different place than he'd expected.
Every moment she let her guard down and he did the same in turn, it changed something inside of him, so subtly that he hadn't noticed until it was too late.
She knew his secret, and despite that, he trusted her to keep it, no matter what she claimed to the contrary.
He wanted to be near her, to listen to her, to know her and understand her, and he wanted her to know him too.
That was the true risk she posed, and it was one he couldn't allow to continue.
"Focus," he told the man in the mirror. "Yer mission is too important tae lose yerself tae a pair of bonny eyes now."
He took a few more minutes to gather himself, then quickly washed and dressed. The sun was much higher in the sky than it usually was when he woke up, but nobody seemed to have noticed that he had stayed in bed too late.
Christopher knew that he needed to get some intelligence if he was to get back on track.
Ian was his best bet, and so he went off in search of his brother by blood.
His feelings about Ian were complex—the man was his brother, and he'd been surprisingly kind to Murdoch ever since he'd earned his trust.
Part of Christopher wondered, maybe even hoped, if there might be a chance of turning him away from the darkest path one day. Maybe he could bring him home to meet his other brothers or back to Murrays to meet Elsie. Maybe Fenella's children could finally be reunited at long, long last.
After asking a few different servants and guards, he found his way to the main courtyard where Ian was deep in conversation with some of the allied lairds. A huge crowd of people was gathered, from scouts preparing to ride out to soldiers discussing strategies to lairds and ladies mingling.
Christopher saw Laird Caindach in the middle of the fray, and sure enough, his eyes found Morag nearby, standing with a maid and watching proceedings with no expression on her face. He quickly looked away from her, finding Ian again, and started forward toward him.
Ian saw him coming and raised his hand to wave.
Christopher waved back and hurried over, but before he could say anything, a commotion erupted near the open gates which were waiting for the scouts to leave.
Guards were shouting and the panicked whinnying of a horse pierced the air.
All heads whipped to stare. From his angle on the stairs, Christopher had an extremely clear view of the horse which raced through the gates, screaming in agony and fear.
Icewater filled his veins. The riderless horse, dragged along by ropes, was huge and muscled, sleek and elegant and pure white except for the blood that streaked its face and body.
It limped badly on one leg, and its eyes were wide and crazed.
The soldiers who were pulling it along by the lead were shouting about an enemy scout who had run free, but Christopher could barely pay any attention, focusing on the injured animal, his heart aching for its pain and fear.
"That's a Kincaid horse," Ian said in surprise.
Not just any Kincaid horse. Beneath the blood, Christopher caught sight of a dark heart-shaped mark between the horse's eyes.
It—no, he—was a horse that Christopher knew.
He'd been there when Arran bred and raised the foal, and there when Aila trained the yearling until he was ready to be gifted to the McKenzies.
Christopher remembered the bright smile on Rory McKenzie's face when he was told he could name the stunning creature.
He'd dubbed him Splendor, and every one of the McKenzies had adored him immediately.
Christopher remembered Rory asking Aila for tips again and again, excited to finally have one of the grand horses for the family, even if it would probably be used by their scouts.
Who had been riding Splendor when he'd been captured?
Whose blood was mingled with the horse's, sticking and matted in his fur?
His stomach tightened so painfully that he thought he might be sick, and, with all that pressure, Christopher's mask shattered as he stared at the horse.
Worry, fear, and panic consumed everything he'd worked so hard to create, and there was no longer any room for being careful.
"Stop that screaming," Ian said. "I'll kill the beast. Hold it still."
Ian moved forward, drawing his sword, and Christopher shouted, "No!"
He acted before he could think. With a strangled shout, he yanked Ian back with heavy force, blocking his path, unrestrained ferocity behind the way he threw the heir to the ground.
Ian shouted something in rage, but Christopher ignored him and the gasps and shouts from the watching crowd.
He walked forward as calmly as he could manage, stopping in front of Splendor and raising a gentle hand to the distressed creature's snout.
"It's all right," he whispered, tuning out every person in the world other than himself and the horse, the rest of the crowd fading away to nothing. "I'm here. Ye'll be all right."
He moved closer, keeping up the slow, careful whisper, the gentle expressions, and the soft movements. He used the gentle tones that Aila had taught him and the quiet tones he'd used over and over again to build trust with Beatha.
"We can help ye," he promised Splendor. "Be calm."
Slowly but surely, Splendor's screams abated into nervous nickering, then eventually into quiet. He lowered his head to meet Christopher's outstretched hand, and Christopher gently patted him, making sure he felt safe.
There was a beat of pure silence, then Ian's cold, furious voice echoed around the courtyard. "Murdoch!"
Christopher turned his head and saw that Ian had clambered to his feet, a dark bruise forming on his cheek where he had smacked against the ground. He stayed still, determined not to startle the horse again.
Ian glared at him. "An explanation. Now. Or I'll cut ye down here and now."
Morag's heart seemed to stop as she watched Murdoch calm the horse as though the world was unfolding in slow motion before her. She was captivated by the contrast in his forcefulness with Ian compared to the gentle way he spoke to the horse and the calmness with which he soothed the creature.
Morag had never liked horses much, and indeed she had dismissed them when her jealousy over Elsie had consumed her back at Murray Castle, but something in this moment had her spellbound.
The wild-eyed horse was oddly beautiful, and when Murdoch whispered to it, Morag saw for the first time what the Kincaids seemed to see: the nobleness, the power, and the humanity hidden behind those dark animal eyes.
As Murdoch's expression changed to relief as the horse calmed, Morag's chest relaxed, her heart soothing though still, inexplicably, shuddering with an ache she'd never experienced.
When Ian barked out his threat, Morag knew that she needed to act. She didn't have time to stop or think, not when he was looking at Murdoch like that. As she started forward, though, Mary grabbed her hand.
"Miss, where are ye goin'?" Mary hissed. "Ye'll get yerself intae trouble. Please, stay here."
Morag hesitated. Her maid and friend was right, but it didn't stop the urge in her every nerve screaming at her to move.
Ian's tone and expression were murderous, and she could not stand by and allow Murdoch to be hurt.
Brother or not, there was no way that Ian would let such blatant public defiance and violence against himself as the heir go unpunished.
She pulled her hand away from Mary. "I ken what I'm doin'," she lied.
Mary gave her a fearful look but did not try to stop her again.
Morag brushed through the crowd, nudging past the whisperers and gawkers, and didn't stop until she could wrap her hands around Ian's arm.
He blinked in surprise and looked down at her, and though she'd heard him protest his disinterest, she saw his irises contract at her touch.
She was used to men looking at her in that way—not with interest in who she was, but in what she brought with her face, her hair, her body.
She'd seen Murdoch looking, too, though she'd pretended not to notice, but his gaze was different.
When he had looked at her in the courtyard the night before, he had seemed to see all of her—yes, her beauty, but also her mind and spirit.
The contrast between that memory and the current sight of how Ian was staring hungrily at her made Morag's stomach tighten and filled her with confusing, conflicting emotions she did not have the time or even the inclination to identify.
"Lass, return tae yer place," Ian warned her, his voice low and dangerous as he addressed her.
"Forgive me, Master Campbell, but I dinnae want tae sit by and allow ye tae suffer a loss," she said, her tone conciliatory and her words carefully chosen to make sure he did not think she was criticizing him in any way.
"Consider the beast. It is injured, but it isnae an injury that willnae heal with some rest and care. Look how fine the creature is. It could be too useful tae us, tae yer father, tae ye tae allow it tae be wasted. Consider how we could harness its fine strength if it can be taught tae obey."
Ian's brow furrowed. He looked back and forth between Morag on his arm and Murdoch with the horse, calculation clearly rushing across his face. She saw that he could see the sense in her words, but she also saw his anger warring with that knowledge.
Morag knew she needed to use her advantage while she had it.
She leaned in, tightening her fingers around his arm and pressing closer against his side.
It only served to contrast more harshly with the warmth of leaning against Murdoch, but she tried to ignore that, especially when she heard Ian's sharp intake of breath.
"Think how strong it is. How powerful, how majestic, and how bonny.
And think of where it came from. That's a Kincaid horse, I've nae doubt about it.
How strong would we seem chargin' intae battle on the back of one of their own steeds?
" Morag insisted. "And when we have won, think how much anyone will pay for such a valuable creature.
It would be madness tae take that away from yerself. "
Ian grunted, then he gave a stiff nod. Morag stepped back, loosening her grip on him and trying not to notice the way his eyes lingered on her for a moment before he stormed over to the horse.
Morag could feel Murdoch staring at her too, and the strange guilt rumbling in her stomach at the display made so little sense that she was almost angry.
She had defended him. Why did she feel like she'd somehow upset him in the process?
Ian led the horse away, and slowly, the crowd dispersed. Murdoch, after a moment, followed his brother away, and Morag determinedly did not look toward him. When there were only a few people remaining in the courtyard, Mary hurried over to her.
"Miss, what have ye done?" Mary asked anxiously.
"Me father wished for me tae befriend Ian. I have done so," Morag replied. She had thought it had been a very good cover-up.
But Mary shook her head, glancing anxiously over her shoulder. Morag followed her friend's gaze, and the base of her stomach dropped away as she saw her father marching over to her.
"It didnae look like that. It didnae look like that at all," Mary whispered.
Laird Caindach reached them after a moment, his face drawn with anger. "Why do ye insist on embarrassin' me?" he demanded in a low hiss. "Explain yer behavior. Why would ye defend that traitor?"
Morag bristled. How could Murdoch be a traitor when he clearly had no loyalty to the Campbells to begin with? She paused, horrified by her own thought and how much danger she would have been in if she had voiced it.
She took a second to collect herself and then she calmly replied, "I am doin' what I think I must tae please ye, Father.
Me behavior was threefold. One, Murdoch Campbell now thinks I am fully on his side.
If I have his trust, it will be much easier tae fully prove that he is a spy.
Two, ye asked that I grow closer tae Ian.
I flirted with him, and I drew his interest, just as ye wished.
And three, the horse will be of value tae Laird Campbell. "
Caindach stared at her for a moment, then scoffed. "Ye speak well. But take care, daughter. Ye're playin' a dangerous game."
Morag bowed her head and hoped that nobody could hear how loudly her heart was thumping in her chest. Yes, things were getting treacherous. But this was no game. And her father had no idea how dangerous her heart and mind really were.