The Highlander's Wicked Ways, page 19
Gordon’s lips twisted into a cruel smile. “James will nae live to tell any tales,” he said. “And as for the chambermaid…” He shrugged. “Accidents befall servants all the time.”
My heart sank. What had I done? In my desperate attempt to find the truth, had I condemned others to share Isabella’s fate? The knowledge that Gordon intended to silence everyone who might expose his and Magdalene’s crimes weighed heavily upon me.
He reached for me then, and I jerked back instinctively, but there was nowhere to go. His fingers brushed against mine, then circled my wrist in a vice grip. His hands were cold as death, making my skin crawl. I tried to jerk free once more, but it was futile. He was much stronger than I was. With a hard pull toward him, I was sliding off the horse, heart racing. The world tilted, then righted as my feet hit the ground, and I searched frantically for an escape. In that moment, an odd warmth washed over me. The horse neighed and kicked up, as if spooked. Gordon released me to grab the horse’s reins, and then, as clear as if she stood beside me, Isabella’s voice whispered in my ear.
Run.
Panic knifed through me, and I bolted toward the woods.
Chapter Twenty-One – Munro
James and I crashed to the floor with him on top of me, but my rage gave me the edge. I shoved him off me and rolled on top of him, pinning him to the floor. “Traitor!” I spat, driving my fist into his ribs. The impact sent pain shooting up my arm, but I welcomed it, channeled it into more strength for the next strike. “I trusted ye above all others!”
James twisted beneath me, blocking my next punch and shoving hard against my chest. “Ye damned fool!” he snarled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth. “Their lies blind ye!”
I grabbed his tunic in both hands, slamming him back against the floorboards. “I saw ye with my own eyes,” I growled, my voice raw with betrayal. “Ye and Murieall, conspiring, embracing—”
He bucked beneath me with surprising strength, throwing me off balance just enough to roll us both. Suddenly, I was beneath him, his forearm pressed against my throat, not enough to choke but enough to hold me still. His face hovered above mine, a vein pulsing furiously by his right eye and his jaw set.
“Listen to me, ye stubborn arse,” he panted, his weight bearing down on me. “I told ye, Murieall nearly collapsed. I caught her before she hit the floor, nae anything more.”
I struggled against his hold, unwilling to hear his excuses. “More lies,” I spat. “Ye expect me to believe in ghosts now? In voices from beyond the grave?”
“Believe what ye will about ghosts,” James shot back, “but believe this—yer son was nae stillborn! Magdalene lied!”
I froze beneath him, the air leaving my lungs in a rush as if a horse had kicked me. “What did ye just say?” I whispered, the rage momentarily eclipsed by shock.
“George lived,” James said, his voice dropping lower but no less intense. “He drew breath. He cried.”
The implications crashed through me, terrible and overwhelming. If my son had lived, if he had drawn breath and cried… My mind shied away from the thought, unable to bear it. It couldn’t be true.
With a roar of renewed rage, I heaved upward, throwing James off me. He crashed into the nearby table, sending a candlestick clattering to the floor. I was on him in an instant, my hands finding his throat, fury and grief making me blind to all else.
“Ye lie!” I shouted, fingers tightening. “Ye dare speak of George—”
James’s hands clawed at mine, his face reddening.
“Stop, Da! They will tell ye about Murieall!”
The small voice cut through my fury, and I glanced up and flinched.
Bess stood there, her small face pale but determined, her eyes wide with fear and resolution. Beside her, Guinn clutched her sister’s hand, her expression equally resolute. But they were not alone. My hands slid from James’s neck as I stared, unable to move.
Behind my daughters stood a small crowd of five people. Fergus, the stable master. Nessa from the kitchens, wringing her apron in her hands. The widow from the village edge. The fisherman’s son. And Mairi, who used to work in the kitchens before her age, made it impossible.
I slowly got to my feet, and I took them in. “What’s this?” I demanded, my voice hoarse from shouting. “What are ye all doing here?” I asked, as James pushed himself to his feet, one hand rubbing his throat where my fingers had left red marks.
“They’ve come to tell ye what Murieall did,” Guinn said.
“What she did,” I echoed, glancing from face to face, finding no answer in their grave expressions.
Guinn stepped forward, her small chin lifted in a gesture so like her mama’s that my heart clenched painfully. “Murieall hears the dead, Da,” she said, her voice steady despite her obvious fear. “She’s been helping people.”
I shook my head, unable to process her words. “Guinn, that’s enough—”
“Nay, ’tis nae enough,” my daughter interrupted, surprising me with her boldness. “Ye need to listen. We all need ye to listen now.”
James got to his feet, his presence no longer enraging me but confusing me further. “Let them speak, Munro,” he urged softly. “For once in yer life, just listen.”
I looked at the gathered group, and the intense expressions on their faces made the hairs on my arms stand on end. “What would ye have me hear?” I asked, my voice sounding strange to my own ears. Not the voice of a laird, but of a man lost and uncertain.
Bess reached for my hand, her small fingers curling around mine with surprising strength. “They all have stories, Da,” she said. “About how Murieall helped them. About messages from people who are gone.”
I looked down at my daughter, at her earnest face upturned to mine, then back at the solemn gathering. Their silence held weight, as if each person carried a stone they were waiting to place at my feet. The truth, or what they believed was the truth.
The rage that had driven me moments before had receded, leaving me hollow and off-balance. I didn’t know what to believe anymore. My uncle’s warnings about conspiracies, James’s accusations against my aunt, Murieall’s claims of hearing the dead—they swirled in my mind like leaves dancing on the wind, impossible to grasp or dismiss.
“Verra well,” I said at last, the words falling heavy from my lips.
Fergus stepped forward first, his weathered hands cradling a rusted dagger as if it were made of gold. His eyes, usually sharp and assessing, now swam with unshed tears as he raised the blade for me to see. “This belonged to my da, Laird,” he said, his voice thick with emotion. “He hid it beneath the stables before riding to battle, where he fell. Ye ken how long ago that was.”
I nodded.
Fergus cleared his throat. “The lass, Murieall, found it and brought it to me. She told me my da wanted me to ken he’d kept his promise to leave me a blade on my naming day.”
I stared at the dagger, noting its ancient design, the worn leather hilt. “How could she have known of this?” I murmured, more to myself than to Fergus.
He shook his head. “She could nae have, Laird. ’Tis how I ken what she claimed is true.”
As Fergus stepped back, Nessa moved forward, a yellowed parchment clutched in her trembling fingers. “My mama’s recipe,” she said, holding it out for me to see. “Hidden behind a loose brick in the hearth for five years since she passed. The lass found it yesterday, told me Mama wanted me to have it for my wedding feast. Said the secret was a touch of cinnamon.” Her voice broke. “Laird, nae a living soul kenned where this recipe was, but my mama.”
My throat tightened as Nessa retreated, only to be replaced by Mary from the kitchens. She held a locket up. “My mama’s locket. Passed down from mama to daughter for ages. When my mama died, it was nowhere to be found.” Mary wiped away tears rolling down her cheeks, and my own throat grew tight. “Murieall found it and gave it to me,” she finished, stepping back. Then someone else came, and then another person.
With each tale, something shifted inside me, a crack forming in the wall of my certainty. I had been so sure that Murieall’s claims were madness or manipulation, yet here stood my own people, good, honest folk who had no reason to lie, all testifying to the impossible.
I glanced at my daughters, who watched the proceedings with solemn faces. Had I been so blinded by grief and suspicion that I’d failed to see what was right before me? The thought scraped raw against my pride, against everything I’d believed to be true.
As the last clan member stepped back, James moved to the center of the room, his gaze steady as he faced me. “This morning, Murieall and I sought out Francine, the chambermaid who assisted yer aunt during George’s birth.”
“What of her?” I asked, James’s words of George not being stillborn, echoing in my mind now.
“She confessed to us that she heard George cry,” James said. My blood started to roar in my ears. “A weak cry,” James continued, “but unmistakable. She was outside the birthing chamber when it happened.”
The room tilted slightly, the faces around me blurring as his words sank in. “If that were true,” I said, my voice strangely distant to my own ears, “why would she nae have spoken of it?”
“Because Magdalene threatened her,” James replied. “Caught her lingering by the door, grabbed her arm, and swore she’d be driven from clan lands with naught but the clothes on her back if she ever spoke of what she’d heard. The lass believed her and kept silent all these years.”
James moved toward me and clasped my shoulder as a terrible coldness spread through my chest, numbing me from within. “Munro, I vow on Isabella’s grave that I believe Gordon and Magdalene have been plotting to take the lairdship from ye. They poisoned ye against me, against Murieall, against anyone who might stand in their way, and I fear, well I fear, Magdalene may have done something unspeakable to George.”
My mind spun with the horror of it. George, my son, alive and then—what? Silenced by my own aunt’s hands? And Isabella had refused to accept Magdalene’s lie. Had she confronted Magdalene? The bruises on her wrists flashed in my mind. Then the torn cloak.
“She knew,” I breathed, the realization crashing through me. “Isabella knew what Magdalene, maybe my uncle as well, had done to George.”
James nodded grimly. “I fear it to be true. And now ye’ve sent Murieall with Gordon, who has claimed loudly to hear Isabella’s ghost.”
A raw, wounded sound tore from my throat as I staggered back against the wall. “God’s blood,” I gasped. “What have I done?”
The faces surrounding me blurred together, their expressions of concern and fear barely registering through my panic. In that terrible moment, another truth revealed itself, one I had been too blind or too stubborn to acknowledge: I loved her. I loved Murieall, with her fierce determination, her gentle way with my daughters, her courage in the face of my disbelief. I loved her, and I had possibly condemned her to death.
“We have to find them,” I choked out, pushing away from the wall. “Now, before it’s too late.”
Without waiting for a response, I bolted for the door, James close at my heels. We tore through the corridors, past startled servants and guards, my heart hammering with a fear more profound than any I’d known in any battle. If we were too late, if my uncle had already—
No. I wouldn’t let my mind travel that path. I would find her. I would. I couldn’t be too late again to save the woman I loved.
Chapter Twenty-Two – Murieall
I bolted through the undergrowth, my lungs burning with each desperate gasp. The forest floor betrayed me at every turn. Roots reached up to snag my ankles, and branches clawed at my face. Isabella’s warning rang in my mind. My skirts tangled around my legs, threatening to topple me with each frantic stride, but the fear of what lay behind me proved stronger than any obstacle before me.
The memory of Gordon’s face when he’d dragged me from James’s chamber pushed my feet faster still. There had been something in his eyes I hadn’t seen before. It was a cold calculation that chilled my blood more thoroughly than the morning air.
The ground sloped sharply beneath my feet, sending me stumbling down an incline littered with slick leaves and loose stones. I caught myself against the rough bark of an ancient pine, the scrape against my palm barely registering through my terror. Blood pounded in my ears, drowning out the forest sounds that might have warned me of pursuit.
I pushed my trembling legs harder, ignoring the protest of muscles unused to such desperate exertion, but a sharp pinch in my side forced me to slow my pace, my chest heaving as I tried to draw enough breath to continue my flight. From behind me, a crunch of leaves exploded in my ears. I screamed and whipped around as Gordon emerged through the thick forest, his face a mask of cold determination. I lurched backward, turning to run, but fingers closed around my arm with crushing strength. Another scream tore through the silent clearing as he shoved me so hard the world tilted sickeningly before I slammed into the earth, driving the air from my lungs.
Before I could draw breath to cry out again, Gordon jerked me over and was atop me, his weight pressing me into the damp ground. His thighs straddled my waist, pinning my arms to my sides, and the wild triumph in his eyes made my blood freeze in my veins.
“Ye’ve led me a merry chase, lass,” he panted, his breath hot against my face. “But it ends here.”
I bucked beneath him, twisting my body in a futile attempt to dislodge him. “Get off me!” I snarled, summoning anger to combat the terror that threatened to paralyze me. “Munro will ken what ye’ve done! What ye and yer wife did to Isabella and the bairn!”
A flicker of something—was it regret?—passed across his features before his expression hardened once more. He reached to his side, and my heart stuttered as he drew a dagger, its blade gleaming wickedly in the filtered sunlight.
“I’m nae a murderer!” he said, his utter belief in his own goodness apparent in his vehement tone. “I do nae want to kill ye, but ye do nae leave me a choice!” He pressed the tip of the dagger lightly into my chest, so it just pricked. Still, my heart raced harder at the thought of the dagger plunging into my chest and ending my life. “Ye were an unexpected problem, appearing as ye did at the castle, bringing Munro slowly back from the brink we took so long to push him to. He was meant to topple over it, nae start caring about his clan and life again.” He stared at me accusingly. “Ye caused that,” Gordon grunted then. “And to make matters more problematic, ye—” he waved the dagger at me, “I hear ye claim to hear ghosts that give ye messages to aid the living they loved.” He stared hard at me. “’Tis nonsense, but I can nae let ye live, stirring hope in Munro and gaining support, admiration from the clan I mean to lead.”
My mind reeled at his words, even as I managed to free one arm. My nails found his cheek, raking down the weathered skin and drawing blood. He hissed in pain but didn’t loosen his hold.
“Killing me will nae stop the truth from coming out!” I cried, praying this was true. “Too many have heard the dead speak through me. They will tell Munro. He will listen.” God’s blood, let it be so.
Gordon’s laugh was bitter as he caught my wrist, slamming it back to the ground with enough force to make me cry out. “I will smother the stories and the hope, and nae one will question me, or yer unfortunate accident. Ye are mad! And I will ensure that anyone who claims to believe what ye said is called mad as well.” He nodded, as if he was making himself believe his own desperate words. “And Munro will return to the grief-stricken laird who does nae care to keep his title. He will be devastated at yer betrayal with his best friend.”
I thrashed beneath him, tears stinging my eyes at the futility of my attempts.
“Ye’ll nae get away with this,” I panted. “’Tis too late. Even if he believes James and I conspired against him, he still has come to care for the lasses once more!”
Gordon shook his head, and his gaze turned hard as steel. “Nay. I will see that he does nae lean on the lasses.”
“Will ye kill yer own nieces as ye killed yer nephew?”
Gordon filched and gripped my chin so hard that pain lanced along my jaw. “I did nae kill my nephew,” he hissed.
I didn’t know what to make of his claim, as it sounded genuine, and before I could attempt to sort out my thoughts, he leaned closer, his voice dropping to a whisper. “Do ye ken what it’s like to want something yer entire life and watch it given to another? I should have been laird when my brother died. It was my right. It had always been that way in our family. The lairdship had always passed from one brother to another, so I did nae care so overly much that Leif was laird for a time. He was sickly, and I kenned well he did nae have long to live. And Magdalene was willing to wait for her time to reign as the lady of Ross stronghold. All was going according to plan! Leif was getting sicker more quickly than we even expected, Munro and Isabella had only lasses, and she was scairt to have more bairns, and even Munro’s mama took ill and died, so we would nae even have to contend with her as the bothersome widow.”
Gordon rocked back for a moment, his weight coming off me, but then he instantly pressed forward once more. “And then Leif changed who the lairdship went to behind my back! Sickly Leif! Weak Leif. I was astonished when he died, and the council and my nephew called me into the great hall to reveal how my own brother had betrayed me!”
“He must have seen yer rotten core!” I hissed as I bucked. “He surely kenned ye would nae make a good laird!”
Gordon raised the dagger higher, its blade transforming from steel to liquid fire in the golden light. His face showed a strange mixture of determination and regret, as if he truly did wish there were another way.
“It should have been simple,” he said, and I could hear the sorrow in his tone. “The lairdship was taken from me by betrayal, and the ladyship was taken from my beloved. She could nae stand it,” Munro muttered, “and I could nae deny her. So we plotted to slowly gain support for me to be laird. A battle lost that Munro should have won. A winter where sheep died, and the food stores ran low. The clan would grow angry, and it would be directed at Munro. We were putting the plot in motion, and then—”
