Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
MORRIGAN
Morrigan couldn’t breathe. She felt trapped, weighted down, buried alive. She needed to go somewhere, hit something, break free of this horrible feeling. Thankfully, the training yard was empty when she reached it.
Tearing off her tam and coat, she tossed them aside. She drew a backsword from the rack and swung the single-edged blade as she strode onto the yard.
The straw-covered pell summoned her. A dozen steps and she was thrusting, cutting, slicing, hitting the target with vicious strokes, again and again. Her heart raced. A fever raged through her, threatening to reduce her to fiery ash. But she continued with the assault on the training pillar.
She’d been only twelve years old when her father left her in the care of family in Perth.
A motherless child. They were supposed to protect her, watch over her, keep her safe.
Safe. Pain shot through Morrigan’s arms, jarring her from the force of the sword connecting with the wood through the sacking and the straw.
Kin! How dare you call yourself that? Blackguard!
The weapon whirled in an arc over her head and smashed down on the pell. She drew the sword back, striking again.
Her throat burned, but she refused to shed a tear. When had she become so stupid? She should have guessed he was in that cottage. The Grants had been speaking to him in Inverness. But she’d justified in her mind that they’d been speaking to many witnesses. Fool!
Over and over, Morrigan delivered more blows, feeling the impact of each one across her shoulders and down her back.
Seeing him here at Dalmigavie or a half-day’s ride away in Inverness, the effect was the same.
The monster was alive. Every painful memory was back.
Ever since hearing his disgusting voice and seeing his horrid face, she’d had no control over her thoughts.
Her insides burned with sadness, with rage.
All these years, her father had been right. Forget. Pretend. Forget.
Her arms were burning, but she continued to swing the sword, punishing the sacking, straw, and wood.
Her father had taken her away. They went to the continent.
To Wurzburg. The past was buried, never to be talked about.
Their family was dead to them. It was easier to forget, not to remember, to pretend nothing had happened.
Morrigan wished she could do the same thing now. She wanted this anguish to be gone.
She raised the sword high and brought it down with all her strength near the very top of the pell.
The blade’s edge buried itself deep in the wood.
Her head and shoulders rang with pain from the force of the blow.
She tried to wrench it out, but the sword wouldn’t pull free.
She let go of the handle of the weapon and kicked at the post, again and again, until her toes went numb.
“Should I fetch you another sword from the rack?”
Yanked out of the blur of self-inflicted pain, Morrigan whirled and faced her audience.
Aidan Grant stood at the entrance of the weapons shed, leaning one shoulder against the jamb. She didn’t know how long he’d been there, how much of her fury he’d witnessed. A handful of lads, helpers in the yard and the stables, were watching too.
She stepped back from the pell, her breathing uneven, drops of sweat running down her face. The roaring in her head had started to quiet. In spite of the fiery pain in her arms and shoulders, she was feeling better, more in control of her emotions, more clearheaded about what she needed to do.
“Thank you, but no. I’m finished.”
“Excellent.” He straightened up in the doorway. “Then, since you’re unarmed at the moment, perhaps this is a good time to speak?”
Her nod was curt. He had brought her enemy to Dalmigavie. But she couldn’t blame him. He didn’t know. In the same way, Isabella was clueless as to why she’d charged out of that cottage. There were lies she’d need to tell to protect herself, starting with this man right now.
The truth about what happened to her was painful.
But the tragedy didn’t end in Perth. An admission would bring shame to her, to Isabella and Maisie and all the people she now considered her family.
She’d be at the very center of a storm. But it wasn’t only her own reputation that she was worried about.
She saw how her father was affected. She wouldn’t put that burden on the women she loved like sisters.
Before she reached the place where she’d tossed her tam and coat, he was offering them to her. Morrigan didn’t want to notice his attempt at either humor or courtesy.
“When we met earlier, you hinted that you wanted to keep our discussions private. Where would you like to talk?”
She donned her coat and pulled on her hat. “The walled garden beside the courtyard.”
Morrigan led the way. It wasn’t the best place.
Many members of the Mackintosh household would see them in there.
Their conversation might be overheard. The bruises each of them was sporting and the way they’d interacted from the first moment they were introduced would cast her earlier explanation in a bad light.
The time had come when she’d need to admit a partial truth about Inverness.
He caught up with her and spoke first once they passed through the stone archway into the garden.
“Your sentiments toward Sparrow are very clear to me. I want you to know that the man is no friend of mine. I personally think him a rogue and a cur, and I say that even knowing now that he’s a relation of yours. But it’s my responsibility to keep him alive.”
Perhaps there was a glimmer of hope for Aidan Grant. “Why?”
“Because I have clients who are about to face a jury in Inverness. This man’s testimony could mean the difference between life or death.”
Morrigan refused to sit when he motioned to a bench. She had a hard time believing there was a shred of humanity in “Sparrow.”
“What is it that he could say in court? Why would anyone believe him?”
“First, is he really your uncle?”
They were again at an impasse. She looked up into his face.
Since their meeting outside the cottage, he’d pulled on his coat but still wore no hat.
The wind tossed a few strands of dark hair over his eyes.
She imagined that women might find the barrister quite handsome when his face was unmarked by bruises and he could see out of both eyes.
“Does it make a difference if he’s related to me?”
“Yes.”
“Why?”
“To start, because I’d like to know his real name.”
She shook her head in disbelief. “You’re prepared to present this villain in court as a witness, and you don’t even know his real name? How long have you known him?”
“Two days, not counting written correspondence. We met in person just a few moments before you and I—”
“Had our little disagreement,” she interrupted, finishing his sentence as two kitchen workers walked past them, carrying baskets of cut herbs.
“I’ve known him by reputation far longer. I’ve heard many tales about the damage he’s done.”
“What kind of damage?”
“Is he your uncle?” he persisted.
Morrigan noticed that information was being exchanged in a kind of negotiation. One offers something; the other offers something in return. What else should she expect from a barrister? “He’s my late mother’s younger brother. We’ve been estranged from that side of the family for a very long time.”
“His name?”
“Robert Wemys.” Even the sound of it on her lips made her ill.
“I wonder how many others he’s used,” Aidan mused, his attention wandering to the garden entrance.
“Your turn,” Morrigan prodded. “How can he help your clients? What can he say that will make a difference?”
His gaze moved over her face. Lingering.
Studying her. This time, she sensed what appeared to be a hint of regret as he stared at her bruised mouth.
His intensity was somewhat unsettling. For years, Morrigan had been an expert at warding off men’s attentions.
Her usual abruptness with would-be suitors intentionally bordered on rudeness, pushing them away at the very moment introductions were being made.
She knew she was reasonably pleasant-looking, and many found her odd sense of humor charming.
But no flattering compliment ever affected her.
She had no interest in any relationship that could lead to romance or marriage.
No interest at all. Her past scandal guaranteed it.
The trouble was, she realized, the two of them had skipped that initial introduction.
He motioned to the bench again, and for a second time, she declined.
“Would you be kind enough to speak plainly, sir? We had a bargain, of sorts.”
“Did we?”
“I have no reason to be open with you if you’ll not be open with me.”
“And if I hesitate, do you plan to use me in the same manner that you used the post in the training yard?”
“Are you trying to rile me?”
He smiled, a gesture that made a marked improvement in his looks.
“Your uncle—”
“Never refer to him that way again,” she interrupted sharply. “You have a name for him now. Pray, use it.”
“Very well,” he continued, clearly undeterred by her curt tone. “Wemys was one of dozens of men and women the Home Office and local authorities have been paying to subvert the reform movement by infiltrating committees and entrapping the leaders.”
A rat, Morrigan thought. A spy. How appropriate. She now knew her father’s immediate circle of friends had harbored such men too.
“Regarding my clients, I plan to have him testify in their trial,” he continued.
“So you said. The Chattan brothers, I hear.”
“You know about them?”
“They’re famous here. The Mackintoshes, the Drummonds, and the Murrays—being radicals—have a stake in the outcome.”
He tugged at his ear thoughtfully and looked pleased with her response. “Then perhaps you already know the two men were drawn into a snare.”
“So everyone says.” Morrigan frowned. “Was it Wemys who did it?”
“No. Someone else. Someone who worked for the same people.”