Starcatcher, page 13
Gavin stared at the man who was both familiar and not, searching for any sign of guile. But he knew he could search forever and find none. Patrick Sutherland was neither a liar nor a bully, and he would never, as a matter of honor, allow someone else to shoulder the blame for something he had done.
“Nay,” Gavin replied. “But your father—”
“My father is no saint, and no one knows that better than I. But he didna kill Margaret.” When Gavin tried to interrupt him, he waved him off. “He truly felt betrayed, and he would have believed killing her to be within his rights. If he had done it, he wouldna have denied it.”
“She didna kill herself,” Gavin said. “She was still Catholic in her soul.”
“Then she left of her own volition,” Patrick said. “Or someone took her.”
Gavin frowned. “If you are right, then someone is playing us all for fools.”
“And who but one has reason?” Patrick replied softly. “King Charles is trying to bring order to the Highlands. If we fight each other, he could outlaw both of our clans. Who would be free to take our cattle and our land?”
“Sinclair,” Gavin said, his mind spinning with the implications of what Patrick was proposing. If it was all true, the scheme was diabolical. “But if Sinclair is behind this and joined my father,” he said, “he could be outlawed, as well.”
Patrick shook his head. “Nay, not if he is clever enough. And so far he has been. In two years, no one has found even a trace of Margaret. And he has kept our fathers at each other’s throats by making sure they blame each other.”
“What do you propose?” Gavin asked warily.
“Can you talk to your father?”
“About your father?” Gavin gave a harsh laugh. “He will not even allow the name Gregor Sutherland to be spoken.”
“And your clansmen?”
Gavin shook his head. “They would not go against him. Neither will I. It would destroy the clan if I were to try to usurp him.”
Patrick sighed grimly. “And so we must find a way to keep two stubborn old men from bringing destruction to their clans for the sake of their own pride. I need to know, before we begin, if you still trust me. My plan willna work if you do not.”
Gavin straightened. He looked into Patrick’s clear green eyes and searched his own soul. He had watched his family slowly being destroyed over the past two years. His father was no longer a happy, genial man. Margaret, whom he had loved like a mother, had disappeared. His two sisters were gone. His clansmen had lost both lives and the cattle they needed to survive the coming winter.
But still and despite everything, he trusted Patrick Sutherland. God protect him, but he did.
Gavin nodded. “Aye, Patrick. I trust you. I donna think I would have come here today if I did not.”
The reward for his honesty was seeing Patrick’s face crease into a smile.
“I have a plan,” Patrick said. “But first I have this to say, Gavin: By God, it is good to see you.”
He held out his right hand, and Gavin stepped forward to take it, clasping each other’s forearms with their other hands as they held each other’s gaze. Still, a hint of awkwardness—or perhaps it was caution—kept Gavin from letting the handshake become the rough, bearlike embrace that had been their standard greeting, a test of strength as well as a show of masculine friendship. He would wait and see.
“Tell me of this plan of yours,” he said, smiling at the eager look that lit Patrick’s eyes and animated his features. It was so familiar. He had been afraid that, in learning how to hide his feelings, his friend had forgotten how to show them.
“Do you have people you can trust?” Patrick asked. “Men who donna have wives and children but who, perhaps, do have ties to Sutherlands?”
Gavin nodded his head. “Aye.” God knows, their clans had been intermarrying for years. It was harder to find Gunn men without ties of some kind to Patrick’s clan.
The scar on Patrick’s face seemed to deepen as he grinned. It was an expression Gavin recognized, one that had inevitably gotten the two of them into trouble.
“All right,” Patrick said. “Here is what I am proposing that we do.”
By the time Gavin had heard the whole of Patrick’s plan, he had decided that the past twelve years had rendered the Sutherland heir daft—although Patrick’s eyes were quite clear, and he had given voice to his wild notions with complete confidence. His plan was insane. Utterly impossible. Gavin wished he had thought of it himself.
“We could both be disinherited,” he said.
“Aye, we could be,” Patrick agreed. “If we are caught.”
Despite himself, Gavin felt a grin creeping across his face. Patrick was as audacious as ever.
“All right,” he said. “I will do my part. You have my word on it.” As he spoke, he felt some of the heaviness that had enveloped his soul fall away.
“I have missed you, friend,” Patrick said softly. “You and Abernie.”
“You will be back,” Gavin said, amazed to see a glistening sheen appear briefly in Patrick’s eyes.
It was the sun, he told himself. Why else would his own eyes be burning, too?
Chapter 11
Patrick returned to Brinaire to find Hiram and Rufus talking in the courtyard. The former was in a state of extreme agitation; the latter appeared unaffected.
“I thought to find ye dead,” Hiram scolded as Patrick dismounted and handed his reins to the stable lad.
Patrick gave Rufus a nod of greeting and turned to Hiram. “The cattle are safe?”
“Scattered, like ye said,” Hiram replied.
“Guards?”
“The ones ye chose. Patrick, do ye not know I always do as ye say?”
Patrick laughed. Hiram seldom did as he said but rather as he saw fit. Nevertheless, Patrick knew that, in the end, his interests were well served.
Turning to Rufus, he said, “And what do you have to say for yourself?”
Rufus bowed with a flourish. “Ye summoned me?”
“Aye, I missed your impertinent tongue.”
“And my charm, no doubt.”
Patrick nodded, waiting for an explanation.
Reading his silence correctly, Rufus spoke in casual tones—too casual, Patrick thought. “I wanted to be sure the young lass was comfortable.”
“And is she?”
Rufus’s saturnine face became inscrutable. “She appears content. I brought a message for the Lady Marsali, but I have no’ had time to gi’ it to her.”
“I will take it,” Patrick said.
“And why were ye so anxious for my return?”
“I know of a new employer for your unique talents.”
“And who might that be?”
“Edward Sinclair.”
Rufus flashed him an unholy grin. “Ye require my more devious skills, then.”
“Mmm. I hear Sinclair is in need of mercenaries.”
“And I, being the finest of them all, have a duty to accommodate him.”
“I will miss your modesty.”
“And my fine right arm.”
Hiram coughed. Loudly.
“When do ye want me to leave?”
“Now,” Patrick said. “While you were gone, there was an attack on the Gunns.”
“Aye, Hiram told me.”
“I want you to find out if, as I suspect, Sinclair was responsible. Also listen for word of a man called Quick Harry. He tried to follow the raiders and no one has seen him since.”
“And when I uncover an evil plot?” Rufus asked with false humility.
Patrick smiled. “There is a wood near the Sinclair border. Hiram will show you the way. Pick a place. Either he or I will be there every Monday and Thursday at noon. If you learn anything, anything at all, meet us or leave a message.”
Rufus nodded and turned to go.
“Rufus?”
He glanced back to raise a dark eyebrow.
“Stay alive.”
Rufus nodded. “Aye, I will. I have reason now to want to live a long, long time.”
Rufus’s words echoed in Patrick’s mind as he mounted the stairs toward the guest chamber. He, too, had reason to want to stay alive. If she would still speak to him.
As he approached Marsali’s room, he noticed the door ajar and heard voices and soft laughter. Weary as he was, his heart rebounded. Complete disaster had not occurred. He knocked on the partially open door and, without waiting for a reply, opened it to stand in the doorway.
Marsali and his sister, their faces flushed, were sitting on the bed, playing with the ferrets. His gaze made a thorough scan of Marsali, looking for any sign that the drug had caused her harm. But she looked well and, as always, lovely, wearing a dark blue tunic that matched her eyes. His sister’s appearance, on the other hand, surprised him. Although Elizabeth’s laughter seemed to have choked in her throat at the sight of him, her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were a rosy pink; her otherwise ordinary features were transformed into a quite pretty face.
At that moment, one of the ferrets noticed him and bared its teeth. Chagrined, he watched as the small animals allowed his sister to fondle them while they bristled at him. Turning to Marsali, he found her gaze steadily upon him, searching, her eyes wide and appealing and so very, very blue.
Several moments of tense silence ensued until, finally, his sister murmured, “I must go.” She handed the ferret she had been holding to Marsali, then hopped off the bed and scurried past him.
The ferret squirmed in Marsali’s hands, ready to defend her with its small life.
“Can you convince him … or her … that I mean no harm?” Patrick asked.
She quirked an eyebrow. “Afraid?”
“Aye.”
A smile flickered across her lips, then abruptly died. “Your father said you were going to Abernie to steal cattle,” she said.
“It is not stealing to take back what is yours,” he corrected.
“Was anyone …”
“Nay,” he said gently. “No one was hurt.”
She relaxed visibly.
He took a few steps into the room. “And you, Marsali, how did you fare?”
She said nothing, but something flashed in her eyes that told him all had not gone well.
“Father? What did he do?”
“No more than I expected from a Sutherland,” she replied.
“That bad?” he teased, trying to coax a smile.
“Why does it matter to you?” she asked. “I am naught but your prisoner.”
“Marsali …” He moved slowly toward the bed. When the ferrets bared their teeth again, cluttering angrily, he came to a halt, muttering an oath.
She gave a brief laugh. “They sound like your father.”
“He would not appreciate the comparison,” Patrick replied, pleased to see that her spirit was intact.
Marsali took the two squirming ferrets from her lap, whispered something to them, and placed them in a basket Patrick imagined his sister must have provided. Then she stood, looking at him, her dark blue eyes as warm as a loch covered with frost.
“What do you want?” she asked.
He reached inside his belt and took out the piece of parchment Rufus had given him. “From your sister.”
Without a word, she took it from him and held it, her fingers clenching it as if she expected him to take it away.
“Marsali?” He wanted so desperately to touch her.
She backed up a step, and he stopped.
He spoke in solemn tones. “I have not seen my sister laugh since I returned home. Thank you.”
Amazed, he watched a tear appear at the corner of her eye. And as it did, the frost melted. Suddenly, her eyes were filled with pain and longing.
“Ah, lass …” Reaching across the space that separated them, he snagged her wrist and pulled her stiff body into his embrace, one of his hands gently wiping away the tear that had started rolling down her cheek. “Donna cry,” he whispered. “’Twill be all right.” He would make it so if it took his last breath.
She started to speak, then closed her mouth, and he saw the veil come down over her eyes once again, shutting herself in, shutting him out. He could not ask her to trust him again, but, sweet God in heaven, he wanted to. He wanted her faith, her love. But he understood why he did not have them.
His hand fell to his side, and she immediately stepped away from him.
“I should leave you to read your letter in privacy,” he said, but her voice stopped him from leaving.
“You look tired,” she said.
So she still cared. At least a little.
“It has been a long night,” he replied.
“For Gavin, too?”
Stunned, Patrick stared at her. It was as if she had read both his mind and his heart. When he did not reply immediately, she spoke again.
“You saw him, did you not?”
“Aye,” he replied, unwilling to lie to her, yet cautious. The path upon which he and Gavin had embarked was fraught with danger, not the least of which was discovery. The fewer who knew about it, the better off—the safer—they would all be.
“Did you have words?” she asked.
He noticed her gaze skimming quickly over him, and he realized she was looking to see if he had come to harm.
“Aye,” he said.
“You did not fight?”
“Nay.”
“He was alone?”
“Aye.”
“Then you did talk with him?”
“Aye.”
“Can you say naught but nay and aye?”
“Only that you look very bonny this morning.”
She stamped her foot in frustration, and the ferrets, shut inside their basket, started chittering again.
They both looked at the basket, then back at each other. For one long minute, their gazes held. The distance between them, although only a few feet, seemed like an ocean. He wanted to hold her, to soothe away the disillusionment he saw in her eyes. He wanted to be her hero, her starcatcher, once again. And, God help him, most of all, he wanted to kiss her and feel even a small spark of the wondrous fire that he knew lay there, waiting, for them.
But the time was not right. With every step she took away from him, she was telling him that she was not ready to yield.
“Patrick,” she whispered, her tone anguished.
“I never wished to hurt you,” he said hoarsely. “Marsali, I swear, I did not. God help me, I am trying to put a stop to all this.”
Her lips trembled. “I want to believe you. But I donna see how taking me from my bedchamber, unconscious, or stealing cattle from outside Abernie’s walls can be helping matters. It seems more like pouring oil on a fire already out of control.”
He let out a heavy sigh. “I can but tell you that I believe I am doing the only thing that can be done to put an end to a war that no one wants.”
“You are very good with words,” she said. “You always could make magic with them, talk Gavin or me or even Fa into believing whatever you wanted us to believe. I came to believe you could do anything”—she uttered a bitter laugh—“even pluck stars from the sky. I thought you were different from other men, that you cared for more than battle and revenge.”
“I do, lass,” he said. “I care for a great deal more. Please—” He broke off, closing his eyes briefly. “Please, have faith. Just a while longer.”
When he met her gaze once more, her look was wounded, accusing. “You want me to have faith, but you explain nothing. You expect me to be a mindless pawn in a game you—and Gavin, too, I suspect—are playing between our clans.” Her frown deepened. “All those years, I was so proud of you every time I heard another tale of your bravery and the victories you had won. But now”—she shook her head—“now I have seen the price you and other men are willing to pay for such reputations. I know now that there is nothing noble about creating widows and orphans. There is no honor in wounding innocents. And there is certainly no valor in death and destruction.” She closed her eyes. “I want no part of your game.”
“I want no part of you.” Patrick heard only the words she did not speak. They could not have been clearer if she had said them aloud.
He turned away from her to face the window, his back rigid with the effort it took not to cry out his anguish, for no wound he had received on the battlefield had ever cut more deeply. For a long time, he stared sightlessly at the mountains that stretched across the horizon. When he thought he could speak without breaking, he turned back to her, though he did not meet her gaze.
“I apologize for the inconvenience I have caused you,” he said. “I will return you as soon as possible to Abernie. I know you do not believe me—and of course there is no reason you should—but there are things I must do first.” He heard the iciness in his voice, but he could not alter it. “If you require anything, please ask Elizabeth. She will see to it.”
Before she could say anything more, he crossed the room and closed the door softly behind him.
Hurt and angry and utterly bewildered, Marsali stared after him. She did not regret her words, though they had caused her deep pain. If there could be no truth between them, then they had nothing worth saving. They could not build a life on mutual desire alone, not even a desire so strong that it crackled in the air like lightning every time their eyes met.
She did not know this man who talked of ending the conflict between their families at the same time he held her hostage and raided her clan’s cattle. She did not understand him, the enigmatic man who, one moment, could be so tender and, the next, so ruthless. No, she neither knew nor understood him.
If only, God help her, she did not love him.
Chapter 12
The mountains called to him, the mist-shrouded peaks that had always given him a measure of peace. He rode toward them, Marsali’s eyes haunting him over every mile he traveled. Over and over, he saw her pain, her confusion. Her horror as she looked at him and saw truly, for the first time, who he had become.
