Chapter 2 #2
A very good question. One Aiden had given much thought to in the months since the necklace was stolen.
But he was still no closer to an answer.
His father had been a staunch supporter of the king, even from the early days of his minority, and he had spent a fair amount of time at the king’s side—but more as a warrior than a political ally.
Compared to the Comyns, the Balliols, and the Bruces, the MacCurrans had little influence.
They were renowned for their battle skills, but these were peaceful days in Scotland—the Norse had been conquered and England had ceased to play their wicked games of control, at least for a time.
But some sort of treachery was afoot. “You know the name of the man I seek.”
A genuinely puzzled look stole over her face. “You cannot believe that I remember the names of all the king’s men.”
“Not all, just this one.”
“And why him?”
“He was standing next to your brother when I was dragged into the great hall and accused of my crimes.”
She adjusted her skirts, fanning the pale blue material out to dry the folds that were still wet. “I was not there, but if you describe him, perhaps I can name him.”
“He wore black from tip to toe, including a black wolf cloak.”
“And his face?”
“I did not see it.”
“The color of his hair, then?”
Aiden said nothing. He had no more to offer. The black wolf cloak was his best clue.
Isabail shook her head. “I cannot identify a man simply by his clothing.”
“Surely you would remember a man who garbed himself entirely in black? A man of enough consequence to wear a wolf pelt?”
“You ask too much. That night is several months in the past, and my brother took ill and died shortly thereafter.” A shadow passed over her face.
He empathized with her loss. But his memories of that night were clear as spring rain, and the safety of his clan hung on her ability to remember. “Name all the men of consequence who were guests of your brother, then.”
“And have you accuse them falsely of murder? Nay, I will not.”
Aiden stalked across the room. This woman was his only hope of identifying the poisoner. He needed those names. “You will tell me.”
Isabail shot to her feet and darted back to her corner of the hut, flattening herself against the wall like a tapestry of some enacted Greek tragedy.
Aiden followed, determined. “I will have the truth.” Placing his hands on the wall on either side of her, he caged her in. Then he leaned closer, his gaze pinning hers. “Give me the names.”
Aiden fully expected Isabail to maintain her dignified refusal, but she did something quite unexpected—she fainted.
He was so surprised, he almost neglected to catch her as she fell.
English ladies fainted all the time, especially when confronted with large, fierce Highlanders, but Scottish noblewomen tended to be made of sterner stuff.
He adjusted the unconscious woman in his arms. Light as thistledown.
Perhaps she was overly weary, exhausted from her trek through the snow.
Surely, she hadn’t collapsed due to his anger.
As chatelaine of Lochurkie, she would have regularly dealt with soldiers and laborers, many of them clad much as he was.
Of course, he was larger than many and built of sturdy MacCurran stock.
Raised as a warrior first and a chief second.
Aiden laid the woman gently on her pallet and covered her with a blanket.
Almost without thinking, he picked up her heavy braid of hair.
The strands glistened like silk, the hue so blond, it was almost white.
Gazing at her this close, it was hard to imagine she was John Grant’s sister.
The earl had been a large dark-haired man, perhaps a little too fond of ale and fine foods.
Quite an imposing fellow, especially with a sword strapped to his side.
Perhaps they were born of different mothers.
The earl he knew reasonably well; John Grant had been the justiciar of Glen Avon, and as such held court for the judgments of serious crimes in the region.
But all Aiden knew of his sister was that she’d been wed to the ill-fated young Macintosh heir who’d died of a festered knife wound shortly after a faire in honor of his name day.
He stepped back, frowning.
She was also deeply frightened of him. To her mind, he was a savage stranger who had attacked her carriage, slain her guards, and kidnapped her person. In truth, she’d been remarkably brave thus far. He doubted his mother would have endured such an attack without weeping or wailing.
Isabail’s fear could cause him serious grief, however.
In little more than a week, the king would grant Dunstoras to a new lord.
The MacCurran keep had been reclaimed by the king when Aiden was arrested in November, and only Alexander mac Alexander’s infatuation with his new bride had seen it linger without a lord this long.
Aiden had only a brief window of time to prove his innocence before the land was lost. And it wasn’t just the land he would lose.
Outlawed after their chief’s disgrace and routed by soldiers, much of his clan had scattered.
Only a handful of loyal kin remained, and those had withdrawn to a stone ruin deep in the forest. If Dunstoras were given to a new lord, it would not be long before those kin, too, were gone.
Aiden’s hands fisted at his sides.
If he gained the identity of the man in black, he might have a chance to save Dunstoras and rebuild his fractured clan. But to gain the names of John Grant’s guests, he would have to conquer Isabail’s fear and gain her trust. In less than a sennight.
No so great a challenge, surely?
* * *
When Isabail woke, the bothy was dark and shuttered.
The howl of the winter storm had quieted, but she had no sense how long she had been unconscious.
Her last memory—the fierce face of the MacCurran swooping down upon her—was still vivid enough to make her heart pound, and she wondered if she’d taken a beating.
Biting her lip in anticipation of pain, she shifted in her pallet.
To her relief, there was almost none. Her hip was sore from lying in the dirt floor—the blankets beneath her couldn’t compare to the feather-stuffed mattress she was accustomed to—but save for that, she felt perfectly fine.
Isabail looked around.
The fire was merrily blazing, having recently received a fresh log, and she lifted her head to find the person who had fed it.
Her heart stumbled. Aiden MacCurran sat on the other side of the flames, sleeves rolled up, carefully tending to his sword.
He seemed unaware of her, so she watched him for a moment.
Unlike his two henchmen, the MacCurran chief’s chin was clean-shaven, and his hair appeared to have been recently washed.
Not a typical Highlander, then, despite the warring nature of his clan.
His forearms rippled with sinews as he worked, the hairs on his arms golden in the firelight.
Isabail was woman enough to admit she found him attractive—from a distance.
Broad shoulders and tapered hips were attractive in a man, no matter who that man might be.
But it was also strangely comforting to watch him hone his sword—his hands were strong and sure as they worked, displaying a level of care and control over his weapon that belied the bestiality of his large fists.
“There’s more venison, if you’ve a hunger,” he said quietly.
Isabel swallowed dryly and sat up. “I’ve more a need for something to wet my mouth.”
He pointed to the door of the hut. “Fetch some snow.”
Isabail flushed. Why hadn’t she thought of that? Of course she could eat some snow. She scrambled to her feet and headed for the door.
“I’ve beat a good path to the woodpile,” he added. “If you must see to your needs, it’ll provide a measure of privacy.”
Her flush deepened, though she couldn’t quite pinpoint why. A visit to the privy was a common enough event, and he was hardly giving the delicate topic excessive attention. But just the knowledge that he’d thought about her needs made her cheeks heat. Isabail escaped quickly.
Outside the bothy, the snowfall had ceased, but the sky was still sullen with cloud.
The sun was little more than a smudge of brightness above the trees, but a pair of crossbills flitting through the branches thought it was well worth chirping about.
For the briefest of moments, the notion of fleeing took hold, but she couldn’t leave without Muirne. Besides, where would she go?
Nay. As much as he frightened her, the MacCurran was her best hope of survival.
She ate her fill of cold wet snow, completed her ablutions, and returned to the cozy warmth of the hut.
MacCurran had not moved—he was still polishing the fine steel of his blade with a purposeful attention to detail.
For some reason, that eased Isabail’s tremulous thoughts.
Surely a man capable of such focus could keep his temper under tight rein.
“Rouse your maid,” he said.
She knelt beside Muirne and checked her fingers and toes—save for the woman’s right small toe, all were a healthy shade of pink.
“We’ll set off as soon as she is ready.”
Isabail nodded. With a gentle shake and a firm voice, she encouraged Muirne to rise. The older woman was still clearly exhausted, but she sat up when Isabail offered her food and water. “Nay, my lady. It should be I who sees to your welfare, not you to mine.”
But she took the food and consumed it with a very unladylike haste.
MacCurran handed her a pair of dry stockings. “Your boots are dry, but they likely won’t remain that way. If you lose feeling in your feet as we walk, let me know immediately.”