Chapter Three
Ailsa knew she should be combing out her long, wet hair before it became hopelessly snarled.
One of the Buchanan women had offered her help, but Ailsa had needed a moment to just be, to stop trying to present herself as the new head of the Donaghey family and just think through everything that had happened.
Herself and her sisters, pursued. But why?
There were questions, so very many questions. But one thing she knew for certain.
She would do what was necessary to reclaim her home.
Except perhaps not quite at this moment. Because right now, her arms felt too leaden to even handle her hair.
“Ailsa?” Vaila peeked into the door and then let herself in when she saw that her sister was alone. Vaila too had bathed and changed and was looking far too energetic, given the day they’d had. She took one look at Ailsa and grabbed a comb, then began picking through her sister’s waves.
Ailsa closed her eyes against the swell of emotion that surged up inside her. Her beloved sister. The swordswoman at her back.
She didn’t know how she could have done this without Vaila.
“Davina and Eilidh are resting,” Vaila told her as she got through enough of the wind-swept snarls to start combing in longer strokes.
“I was half afraid that Eilidh was going to drown in the bath, but she made it through. I think Davina might be pretending to sleep so she can have a moment to mourn.”
“Aye, let her have her moment,” Ailsa said. “It’s been a long day, and I cannot quite believe…” she trailed off, lost in the horror of memory.
“What happened?” Vaila asked quietly. “To Mama and Da, I mean.”
Ailsa shook her head slightly, ignoring the way it caused tugs in her hair. “I-I don’t know, not exactly, but it must have been poison. They were at the table, and Da looked as though he’d just been reaching for his cup, when…” She couldn’t get out anymore.
“Poison,” Vaila spat. “A coward’s weapon.”
A coward, indeed. Who else would kill not only the Laird, but his Lady as well, and then pursue young ladies with the clear intent of doing them violence?
“I wish I knew who it was,” Ailsa said softly. Who stood to gain from her father’s death? From her mother’s?
“We’ll find them,” Vaila said fiercely. “Find them and kill them. But what are we going to do until then? Are you really going to…” She hesitated. “To marry Ewan Buchanan?”
Vaila said it like it was a punishment, and Ailsa supposed she could hardly blame her younger sister.
Vaila had been her confidante when Ailsa’s betrothal to Ewan had fallen apart the first time.
She had listened to everything that fifteen-year-old Ailsa had to say about the subject of Ewan Buchanan.
“Yes,” she said firmly. “I must. It’s the right thing to do.”
As she said it, though, the first thing that flashed to her mind wasn’t duty or her responsibility to her clan or even to her sisters.
It was the way Ewan’s arm had been warm and strong around her waist.
And how nice it had felt to lean on him, no matter how briefly she’d allowed herself to do so.
But she could not afford to think of this as anything but duty. If she let herself focus on anything else, she risked crumbling.
“In fact,” she said, addressing Vaila, “if the Buchanans no longer wish to move forward with the betrothal, we must be prepared to flee. I am a woman, and that means that marriage is the key tool I have to secure us allies. And if it will not be the Buchanans, then I will have to look elsewhere.”
Vaila was quiet for a moment, her hands stilling in Ailsa’s hair. Then, she began separating the mass of waves into three strands, braiding them into a thick plait. It wasn’t the most elegant hairstyle for what would come, but it was practical.
Just that made her smile a little. It was so classically Vaila. Pragmatism came first for her sister.
“I hate that,” Vaila said after a moment. “I hate that you must barter yourself. No man would be asked to do so.”
“I hate it,” Vaila went on. “But I understand it. And I will follow you, wherever it leads us.”
Ailsa reached behind her to squeeze her sister’s hand.
“Just be ready to get the girls and flee,” she said. “I hope we shan’t need it, but we must be ready. Just in case.”
Vaila tied off the end of Ailsa’s braid, then stood. She lifted the hem of her skirt and showed Ailsa the brace of daggers strapped to her lower leg.
Vaila’s smile was nothing less than bloodthirsty.
“I’m ready,” she told her older sister. “I’m always ready.”
Ewan sat at his customary place in the dining hall, at the head table, at his father’s right hand.
His sister, Mairi, sat next to him, as she’d done since they were children. For the very first time, it felt wrong.
It felt like Ailsa should be in that spot.
He pushed that thought deep, deep down, and looked at the woman herself, who had come into the dining hall with her sisters.
They approached the front table and curtsied deeply.
All four looked far steadier on their feet than they had mere hours ago.
A rest, bath, and change of clothes had made them into proper ladies.
They hadn’t come with possessions, and therefore had been left to borrow clothing. Ailsa’s dress didn’t fit her quite right; it was too tight in the shoulders, and a bit long in the sleeves.
Ewan tried not to look affected by the sight of the woman wearing his family colors. This was not the time. And he was not yet sure that his pride would allow it.
“My lady,” Phileas said, addressing his wife on his left side. “Mairi. Please let me present to you Miss Donaghey—” Ailsa curtsied. “Miss Vaila Donaghey, Miss Davina Donaghey, and Miss Eilidh Donaghey.” Each of the other sisters curtsied in turn.
“We are very pleased to see you, lasses,” Lady Buchanan said graciously. “Though, of course, we wish the circumstances were better.”
Mairi offered nothing more than a brief nod. Ewan frowned censoriously at his sister, who steadfastly refused to meet his eye. This was not Mairi’s normal reaction to guests, but he would have to interrogate her later on this topic.
“Sit and eat,” Phileas instructed, waving toward a clear spot near the front of the room. “We shall be better poised to discuss matters once our stomachs are full.”
This was all well and good, Ewan thought as the sisters took their seats, except for how his appetite refused to materialize. Instead, he spent the meal taking bites only when Mairi gave him probing looks.
The rest of the time, his attention was on Ailsa.
Her back was to him, which revealed a little trio of freckles on the nape of her neck. They preoccupied him, those freckles. They winked in and out of view as she moved her head to eat and talk quietly with her sisters, her braid covering and uncovering the tiny dots of color.
His plate was scarcely touched when the staff began clearing away dishes.
When the clan began filtering out of the room, Phileas signaled that the immediate family should stay, as should the Donaghey sisters and James. In moments, everyone else was gone.
Somehow the room seemed smaller with only a few people separating him from Ailsa.
“Now,” Phileas said, folding his hands in front of him when they were all gathered around. “Tell me what happened.”
Ailsa cut a glance at her younger sisters. Ewan recognized the protective instinct of an older sibling in her gaze.
“This morning,” she explained quietly, the absent look in her eye suggesting that she was lost in memory, “I approached the dining hall, and I… smelled blood. I went in and my parents…” She raised her chin. Proud, as ever, was his Ailsa. “They were dead. It appeared to be poison.”
“Poison? I thought you said there was blood?” Mairi’s question was a bit sharp, and Ewan shot her a quelling glare, though he had the same question himself.
Ailsa flinched almost imperceptibly, then shot another glance at her sisters. The youngest one, Eilidh, was pale but steady in her chair.
“There was,” Ailsa said, voice steady. “The blood had come from their mouths.”
Mairi, to her credit, looked ashamed of herself for asking. And, indeed, it was a gruesome image.
Even so, Ewan was shocked when his father gasped and clutched at his chest.
As his family crowded around him, Phileas waved a hand to indicate he was well.
“I’m all right,” he said, sounding a bit breathless. “I’m fine. I’m just… shocked. I can scarcely believe it. Alasdair Donaghey. Dead.”
Ewan understood his father’s feelings; it could not be easy to lose a friend in so gruesome a manner, particularly after decades of association. But he had a more pressing question.
“Do we know who is responsible for this?” he demanded, directing the question to James.
His second stepped forward. “I examined the body of the soldier the lady’s dagger left behind. There were some indicators of his master. So, tell me, Misses Donaghey—does the name Finlay Gordon mean anything to you?”