Starcatcher, page 10
The earl of Abernie had allowed the moat to disintegrate over the past twenty years, feeling that the keep’s thick walls and its position high on a hill were sufficient protection against attack. Water had accumulated in the deepest part of the moat, but in the back side, where he stood, the moat was shallow, water having worn away slices of earth to create runoffs.
Holding Marsali tightly to him, Patrick sat on the ledge, then jumped into the water. He could not avoid the splash that inevitably accompanied the action, and once in the water, he held still for a full minute, again expecting to hear that the alarm had been sounded.
When he was certain that his worst fears had not been realized, he started across the moat. The water was knee high, no more, and he moved with assurance. Though there was little light, it seemed almost bright after the deep darkness of the cistern. He found a ditch, cut into the side of the moat by runoff, and stepped into it, his feet sinking into several inches of mud. A fine rain started to fall, and with it came the blessed mist. Though it made the steps more difficult, the cover it provided could save them both.
Making steady progress, he came to the end of the ditch, where the banks leveled out and the trickle of water was absorbed into the rich dirt of a meadow. Patrick shifted Marsali onto his shoulder and, taking a few deep breaths, started running.
A mile to go to the forest. And, God help him, he had to make it before dawn.
Gregor Sutherland, marquis of Brinaire, laird of the clan Sutherland, glared at his younger son. “Where in the devil is that brother of yours?”
He watched Alex flinch and did not try to hide his contempt. Why was he so plagued? An unfaithful wife. And of two sons, one was disobedient and the other a coward. And his daughter! Och! She crept about like a ghost that had lost its way to the beyond.
“Well, where is he?” he demanded.
Alex shifted. “He did not tell me where he was going.”
Gregor struggled from his chair. His joints were swollen, and every movement caused him unfathomable pain. Any change in the weather made it worse. It took several men to help him mount a horse, which caused him enough humiliation to prevent him from doing it.
Gregor knew he had never been a temperate man, and the events of the past two years had only quickened his anger. The fear he saw in his son’s face both shamed and enraged him.
He had never known how to reach out to anyone. Not to his first wife, whom he had loved. Not to his second wife who was a shrew. Nor to his third, Margaret, whom he had tried not to love. And not to his children, whom he might have loved if he had but known how. His own father had viewed love as a weakness, forgiveness a sin. Hate your enemies, suspect your friends. Do unto others before they do unto you, his father had been fond of saying.
But he had not listened at first. He had called Donald Gunn, the earl of Abernie, his friend. They had hunted together and fought together, and Gregor had seen Donald’s easy affection with his family and envied him. It had given him great satisfaction to send his oldest son to foster with Donald’s family.
Somehow, he had allowed himself to become entranced by Margaret Gunn. After losing his first wife in childbirth, he had sworn never to care too much for anyone again. It had been altogether too painful to lose her. Love, he had decided, was painful, as well as foolish and sentimental. Duty and loyalty to clan: Those were the only two things that really mattered.
He had married Margaret to solidify an important alliance—for his clan. But she had chipped away at the shell surrounding his heart. She had made him care for her. But he had only come to know how much he cared when she had betrayed him.
And now his children were betraying him, too. Even Patrick, who had more than surpassed his highest hopes; Patrick’s reputation as a warrior had filled him with pride. But he had disappeared, leaving guests who had come in his honor behind. He had admitted to seeing the Gunn wench. And now he was gone again. This was the third time this month. No word. No explanation. And Gregor was certain Alex was covering for him.
Yet, the marquis knew he had no real basis for complaint. Since Patrick had begun training his clansmen, their battle skills had improved dramatically. Moreover, it was evident that Patrick had already gained their respect. He radiated a natural leadership that Gregor silently had to admire. Indeed, these changes should have pleased him, but they did not. He saw his authority, his control, slipping away, just as everything else had slipped away.
The cursed Gunns! His cattle had been raided; lies were being spread. The Gunns were accusing him—him—of killing and stealing, even as they stole his best cattle. And where was his son? Wandering about the countryside.
He threw a goblet into the fireplace. “I want Patrick here, and I want him now,” he told Alex. “Tell David to find him. I donna care how many men it takes. I want those cattle.”
Alex started to back out of the chamber.
“And you will start training again,” Gregor ordered. “You will fight beside your brother.”
A muscle moved in his son’s cheek. Och, but he had sired a tender lad, good for nothing except keeping accounts. He could employ someone to do that.
“Aye, Father,” Alex said, turning hurriedly to the door.
“I want to know as soon as Patrick arrives,” Gregor shouted after him. “I want one worthy son near me.”
He saw Alex falter as the arrow hit its mark, and he wanted to take back the words. But his pride would not allow it. He watched in silence as Alex slipped out of the room, closing the door quietly behind him.
Gregor stared at the closed door. He took a step toward it, then slumped against the table. Lowering himself into a chair, he snatched up a large vessel of wine and took a long drink without bothering to pour it into a glass. The alcohol would aggravate his gout, but he did not care. It would also dull his senses and bring him momentary respite from the loneliness in his soul.
And what choice did he have left: Only drunkenness and rage.
Dawn’s first rays had dispersed a blessedly dense mist when Patrick reached the place where he was to meet Hiram.
The horses were tethered to a tree off the path, deep in the forest. Hiram was not in sight, but Patrick knew where to find him. For all his size, Hiram was agile, and could climb a tree like a cat. Finding a branch that would hold him was another matter.
That was, in fact, how they had first met. Hiram had fallen on him, nearly breaking both their necks in the process. After they concluded that neither had sustained life-threatening injuries, and Hiram learned that Patrick was to be his new commander, Hiram had stuttered apologies.
Patrick had grinned. “How did anyone as big as you get up there?”
“Och,” Hiram replied. “Not as quickly as I came down.”
From that moment on, Hiram had made it his particular role to protect Patrick’s back.
Casting a quick glance at the leafy branches above him, Patrick put Marsali down and knelt beside her. Her eyes were still closed and her breathing normal. But she was very cold. Even unconscious, she was shivering.
“Hiram!” Patrick called. A thud announced his friend’s arrival a few yards away.
“Ye didna see me?”
“Nay,” Patrick said. “Like a bird, you were.”
Hiram chuckled. “Ye lie.”
“A large bird, then.”
“More like a bear,” Hiram said, squatting beside Patrick to study Marsali. “The lass is unconscious?”
“She was afraid it would only brew more trouble if she came with me.”
“She will be angry.”
“Doubtless.” Patrick sighed. “But right now I have to get her warm.”
Hiram handed him an extra plaid they had brought along and turned away as Patrick wrapped Marsali in it, holding her tight until some of her shivering quieted. Then Patrick lifted her into Hiram’s arms while he mounted his horse. Checking the two ferrets inside his sporran, he assured himself that they were still sleeping. Marsali truly would never forgive him if he harmed her pets, any more than she would forgive him if his actions brought harm to her family.
Acutely aware of the fine line he was walking, Patrick gestured to Hiram to give Marsali to him. He settled her onto the saddle, her legs straddling the horse and her back leaning against his chest. She felt as if she belonged there. All he had to do was convince her of that. He would not leave their future in the hands of two stubborn old men.
Waiting for Hiram to mount, Patrick watched with regret as his friend gathered the reins of the third horse, which was to have been Marsali’s. They would have to lead the animal. But he had no room for more regrets. What was done was done.
He spurred his horse forward, and Hiram followed. Though dawn had broken, the night was not yet over. They were still on Gunn land with a half day’s ride ahead of them.
Chapter 9
“She will be treated as an honored guest.” Patrick spoke through clenched teeth.
“I am still lord here,” his father replied. “I will say where she stays, and a tower room is sufficient. She is naught but a prisoner.”
“She is a lady. I was betrothed to her. She will be treated with the courtesy of her position.”
“You dare dictate to me?”
“No, I am merely stating what I will do.”
“I make the decisions. The clan will obey me.”
Patrick spoke softly. “Will they, Father? They donna like this feud with the Gunns any more than I do. Do you really want to put it to a test?” He kept his features impassive and his gaze steady under his father’s angry glare.
The old man sitting in the stuffed chair was a stranger to him. Of course, his father had always been a stranger, but now even his appearance was radically changed. The spare body, the gray hair, the perpetual frown, and the trembling hands were unfamiliar to Patrick’s eyes, as were the grimaces of pain and the almost continuous drinking. Yet it was his father’s hesitation, his apparent retreat from their battle of wills, that told Patrick the changes went far deeper than a few gray hairs.
“Father?”
The marquis waved his hand as if the matter were beneath his interest—or as if it required too much effort to speak. Patrick could not be sure which was true. “As long as she is well guarded,” he finally said.
Hiding his shock at having won so easily, Patrick continued. “She will take her meals with us, and she will be treated cordially by all of us.”
“You give me instruction?” His father struggled up from the chair, his face mottling with outrage.
“Aye,” Patrick replied calmly. “I brought her here to stop this madness, not to compound it. You know the Gunns will petition the king and seek to have us outlawed. I can justify the kidnapping by saying I only took my betrothed bride. We canna justify taking her as a hostage. Those days are gone.”
His father’s hands clenched. “They stole our cattle.”
“They think we stole their cattle—and worse.”
“You know that is a lie. They invented the tale to put us in the wrong.”
“No, Father.”
“Whose side are you on?”
“The side of reason,” Patrick said. “I would wager everything I have that someone else is involved. The Gunns were attacked. I saw their wounded.”
“How did you get in, lad?” His father cocked his head to the side, an unholy light dancing in his eyes. “Can you take others back in there?”
Patrick’s lips thinned. As usual, his father was only hearing what he wanted to hear. “I am sure, by now, Gavin has discovered my route,” he said. “He will have blocked it.”
His father looked momentarily disgusted. But then another thought put the light back in his eyes. “Och, I would like to see Gunn’s face when he learns you were inside his keep.”
“I take no pleasure in deceiving him,” Patrick replied. “He was kind to me when I was a lad.”
“He thrust that she-witch on me,” his father roared. “Then he questioned my honor in front of all of Scotland.”
Patrick let a few seconds of silence pass. Finally, he spoke quietly. “What happened, Father? I canna imagine Margaret betraying you.”
His father looked away. “There was ample proof.”
“But not enough for Parliament?”
“The two accusers disappeared, but I spoke to them myself. I know Margaret went out riding, alone, every day. Two men saw her meet a man at the abandoned hut in the north woods.”
“Did they give you a description?”
“Only one that would fit dozens of men.”
“It could not have been Edward Sinclair?”
His father’s gaze snapped to his face. “Nay, it wasna him. Sinclair is the only one around with light-colored hair, and the men said the man was dark.”
“Why did you trust the two men? Did Margaret admit it?”
“Nay,” the old man grumbled. Then, more forcefully, he said, “But she didna deny it, either.”
Patrick spread his hands. There was even less proof than he had guessed. “When she disappeared, she didna leave a note?” he asked.
His father shook his head.
“’Tis strange indeed she didna return to Abernie, do you not think? She and her brother were very close.”
“She drowned herself,” his father said. “’Tis as simple as that. She was disgraced, despite Parliament’s ruling. No man would have had her.”
But she would not have killed herself, Patrick thought. No good Catholic would commit a mortal sin against God only to avoid social disgrace.
“And these two men?” he continued. “Were they our people?”
“Mercenaries,” his father said uncomfortably. “Sinclair was making threats, and I hired them.”
“Sinclair has spent his life trying to make trouble between the Gunns and Sutherlands,” Patrick said. “Can you think of a better way to accomplish it than to make you believe that Margaret—your wife and Donald Gunn’s sister—had betrayed you?”
“She didna deny it,” his father said stubbornly.
More likely, his father had not given her a chance to deny it.
Patrick sighed. He would not convince his father, but the word of two men who killed for money and who had conveniently disappeared was not enough for Patrick. Although he himself had been a mercenary, pledged by his father in return for alliances that would secure more land, he had met few other than Rufus and Hiram who had gained his respect; most would sell each other out for a pence.
If Margaret was innocent, then there was only one likely explanation for her disappearance: murder. Patrick felt chilled. Uncovering a murder that had been planned and executed two years ago was an overwhelming task—and not one suited to a trained warrior. But if he did not solve the puzzle, no one would. And his dreams of a life with Marsali would be doomed.
Marsali. He needed to get back to her. She had still been asleep when he had carried her to the guest bedchamber and laid her upon the feather bed, but she should be waking soon. He wanted to be there when she did.
“I want your word, Father,” he said, breaking the tense silence. “I want your word that you will be civil to Marsali. Or I will leave Brinaire and take her with me. No one here will stop me.”
He watched the anger flash in his father’s eyes, but it was anger laced with cunning. “I am always civil to guests at Brinaire,” his father said.
Patrick recognized that the reply was not a surrender. Rather it was a temporary cease-fire. The old man was undoubtedly plotting a strategy of his own. The Sutherland would not risk a test of his leadership for fear it would be denied—he was not certain that his clansmen’s loyalty was still his to command.
Neither was Patrick certain that he himself could claim that loyalty—not yet. Not when he was working to gain fealty that his father had held inviolate for thirty years.
He nodded to his father, then, in respect, backed out of the room.
His sister, Elizabeth, was waiting outside, and Patrick wondered whether she had been listening.
“Did Father agree?” Elizabeth asked.
“She will stay as our guest,” Patrick said. “I hope you will lend her some clothing.”
“Aye,” Elizabeth said shyly. “I have always liked Marsali. I had hoped she would be my sister.”
“Then make her welcome, little one. She will need friends.”
“Do you …” She glanced at him from under her thick lashes. “Do you wish to marry her?”
Patrick considered his sister carefully. Then he said, “I will marry her.” When Elizabeth’s surprised gaze flashed upward to meet his, he touched the tip of his index finger to her chin, smiling. “But that is between you and me at the moment. I donna think our father is ready to accept it as truth.”
A hint of pink crept into Elizabeth’s cheeks, and Patrick knew she was pleased that he had trusted her.
“And Marsali?” she asked.
He sighed. “She will be none too happy with me when she wakes.”
She gazed up at him with adoration. “Then she is daft, and I will tell her so.”
His eyebrow lifted in surprise at her uncommon display of spirit. Perhaps there was more to Elizabeth than met the eye. “Then you donna share this ill will toward the Gunns?” he asked.
“Oh no. Margaret was ever so good to me. I do not believe any of what they say about her,” she said. Standing on tiptoe, she leaned toward him to whisper in his ear. “She even said she loved Father and that she really believed Father loved her, even if he could not say so. Imagine that!”
She said the words with such amazement that Patrick felt sick. Had she been so unloved these past years that she could not even imagine their father having the capacity for affection?
He smiled down at his sister. Elizabeth was no beauty, but she had lovely, golden-flecked green eyes that made her rather pretty when she smiled, which was much too rarely. Her normal expression was pinched, as if she was trying very hard to please but did not expect to succeed.
