Starcatcher, page 35
For a moment, Patrick could not speak around the lump filling his throat. Gavin had risked his own life by diverting their enemies’ attention for the split second Patrick had needed. And he had done so without regard for his own life.
He held out his good hand to Gavin’s good one, and the two men clasped them together, bound together now by more than friendship. Patrick allowed himself a slight grin at Gavin’s jibe, although they both knew quite well that if the fight had continued, it would have ended another way.
Patrick watched as Marsali tore a piece of cloth from her shirt and began tying it around Gavin’s arm. The bullet would have to be removed, but it did not look dangerous.
He turned to Alex, who was still guarding Sinclair. The bleeding wound in the young man’s cheek looked painful, but neither deep nor dangerous with good tending.
And Margaret—dear Margaret—was lying on the ground nearby, half conscious, her eyes closed.
“Margaret?”
“They drugged her,” his brother said. “I am not sure she even knows what is happening.”
Patrick stooped beside her. “Margaret,” he said gently, holding back his rage at her condition. “You are safe now. I will take you home to Brinaire. Or would you rather go to Abernie?”
Margaret didn’t answer but moved slightly as Patrick lifted her. He could wrap one of his hands entirely around her upper arms with his fingers overlapping. She was dressed only in a shift, but a Sutherland plaid had been wrapped about her; beneath the clothing, she was nothing but skin and bone.
“Margaret.” Her eyelids flickered and Patrick was even more disturbed by the glazed, unfocused look he saw in her eyes. Drugs, he thought. Not enough to render her senseless but enough to make it difficult for her to control her movements or focus her thoughts.
“Margaret,” he said again, seeking a response, any response.
“Patrick?” She turned her head, trying to see his face. “But they told me … they said Patrick was dead. They said …” She gave her head a little shake, murmuring something about wine and wishing she had not taken it. With an impatient sound, she took a deep breath, and when she looked at him again, her eyes seemed to focus.
“Patrick! Oh, merciful heaven, ’tis really you! You are no’ dead as that wretched Foster told me.”
“Nay, I am not dead,” Patrick replied. “But some are not so lucky.”
Her eyes followed his to the man lying on the ground. “Foster?”
“Aye,” Patrick said. “He willna be hurting you again.”
Her gaze fell from his. “He didna hurt me. At least, not in body. But the things he said …” She shuddered. “Terrible things.” She raised her gaze to his once more. “Alex said … he said that Gregor … that he didna put me here. That he … that Gregor believes I … Oh, dear God … that I killed myself.” She burst into tears.
Patrick hesitated, glancing down at the blood covering him. Then, swearing silently, he hugged her to him. She needed comfort. “Ah, Margaret,” he murmured. “Father knows you wouldna kill yourself. He told me that himself. He was told that you left him for a lover, but I donna think he believes that any more than the other. I think he doesna know what he believes. But ’tis plain to everyone that he has missed you sorely.”
“I thought he put me here,” she sobbed. “I thought he loathed the sight of me and couldna stand me near him. Foster said it, and I believed him. Oh, Patrick, I want to go home. Please … please take me home.”
“Aye, you shall go home,” he said, patting her back gently. “Alex and I will take you to Brinaire, and you will—”
“Nay.” Her hand moved against his chest in negation. “Not Brinaire. I canna face Gregor. Not like this. Please. I want to go home, to Abernie where I … where I will feel safe.”
Patrick closed his eyes, feeling his heart break for her. “No one will force you to do anything, I swear to you.” Holding her away from him, he leaned down to kiss her cheek. “You will go to Abernie with Hector.” Then he added, whispering under his breath, “To hell with the consequences.”
“Take good care of milady,” he said, handing her gently to Hector. He turned to Sinclair, who was still kneeling with Alex’s dirk at his throat.
Patrick placed his arm on Alex’s shoulder. “You did well, Alex. Marsali will tend that wound once she finishes with Gavin.”
“’Tis nothing,” Alex said with a nonchalance that made Patrick’s smile wider. He wished his father were there.
But his smile faded as he looked at Sinclair, who had risen from his kneeling position once the knife was removed from his throat.
“You wanted a fight,” Patrick said, taking Foster’s sword and offering it to Sinclair. “I will give you one.”
He heard Marsali’s cry, Gavin’s muttered objection. He was tired, it was true. But somehow he knew it wouldn’t matter.
Patrick watched as, instead of taking the sword, Sinclair took a step backward. His retreat pulled Patrick forward, Foster’s sword in one hand, his own in the other. He wanted to kill.
“Take it,” he ordered Sinclair, who stumbled and fell partly to the ground, his eyes wide with terror.
I will never kill another Scotsman. Still, his hand itched to plunge the blade into Sinclair’s chest. Longed to with all his being.
“Patrick.” Marsali’s soft voice. Steady and pleading.
Sinclair held his arm in front of him as if to ward off a blow. Patrick’s sword hung in the air, then slowly, very slowly, he dropped it to his side and closed his eyes. The hate drained from him. Her voice took it away.
He felt Marsali at his side, her arm around him. He opened his eyes. Alex was already binding Sinclair’s arms.
Sinclair would pay. But he would pay through His Majesty’s justice. And Patrick would make sure he paid dearly.
Marsali clutched his hand. “Let us go home,” she said. Home. A good word. A fine word.
He nodded and leaned down, touching his lips to hers. And feeling whole for the first time in his life.
Chapter 28
Patrick decided to fetch Tommy and Jock from Creighton and risk leaving the remaining Sinclair prisoners locked in the same room where they had held Margaret until others could return to take them.
Patrick would accompany Margaret to Abernie, along with Hector. He could not rightly send the man alone; neither did he fancy leaving Margaret’s care in the hands of Alex’s two youthful friends, regardless of their bravery.
He sent the others back to Brinaire. Gavin needed attention, and Brinaire was far closer than Abernie. Marsali wanted to stay with her brother until he was out of danger, but that was just as well, for Patrick was not yet willing to chance losing her again.
He took Alex to one side. “Tell me everything that happened.”
Alex shrugged, but his eyes were bright, proud. “Everyone did their part. But, Patrick, all the guards were dressed as Sutherlands. Margaret really believed Father was holding her.”
Patrick could think of no punishment that would pay for all the grief and misery that Edward Sinclair had caused. He was, in that moment, glad he hadn’t killed him. Death was too good for him. Too easy.
“Those two friends of yours …”
“Rory and Jock,” Alex said eagerly.
Patrick nodded. “The three of you did the Gunns and the Sutherlands a great service this day,” he said. “I am proud of you. And our family owes a great debt to Jock and Rory. Tell them that. They have only to ask a boon, and it will be done.” Meeting Alex’s gaze, he said, “Since you found Margaret, I think you should ride ahead to Brinaire and tell Father. And that we are bringing Gavin in—as our guest.”
Alex’s grin broadened. “Aye,” he said as he mounted and spurred his horse, racing toward Brinaire with a brief wave over his shoulder.
Patrick turned to Gavin. His friend looked pale, but his back was straight, and he tried a smile. “Do you think your fa will throw me in the dungeon?”
“I am not so sure your own father won’t do exactly that to me,” Patrick said, trying to make his smile reassuring. “At least, they can exchange us this way.” Careful of Gavin’s arm, he embraced the other man, muttering, “Take care of my wife.”
“Aye,” Gavin said. “The Gunns will owe you a great deal.”
“Nay,” Patrick said. “My father with his bloody pride was every bit at fault.”
He looked at Marsali—his lovely Marsali. “Take good care of him.”
“I will,” she said, her eyes filled with worry. “I will be waiting for you.”
He leaned over and kissed her. It lasted longer than he intended. He cared not if others watched. He savored the sweetness, the gentleness of her mouth on his. He never wanted to let her go, not even for the next few hours.
“Take care,” she whispered.
“Aye, and I will hurry,” he replied.
He helped her into the saddle and watched as she and the others started toward Brinaire. He watched until they disappeared from sight, then turned to Sinclair.
“Make him comfortable,” he told Hector.
“Aye,” Hector said as he tossed Sinclair over the saddle like a sack of grain and tied his feet to his hands under the horse’s belly. “Verra comfortable.”
The following day, Patrick rode beside the earl of Abernie toward the gates of Brinaire. He had met Abernie and his men halfway the evening before. Despite Abernie’s concern for his son, he had returned to his own keep, accepting Patrick’s assurances that Gavin was in no danger. And Margaret desperately needed her brother now.
Patrick had stayed the night, making sure that Margaret was well and comfortable. And he had slept, despite his need to see Marsali. He had been tired to the bone.…
Behind them rode Hiram and Rufus, flanking a bound and ragged-looking Edward Sinclair. Margaret had remained at Abernie in the care of several teary-eyed clanswomen, who had not yet stopped expressing their gratitude and joy over her seemingly miraculous return from the dead.
The earl cleared his throat, and Patrick looked at him.
“I donna know how to say this,” the earl began. “I have had little practice with such things. But say it I must.” He drew himself up in his saddle until his back was washboard-straight. “I have wronged you, Patrick, and ’tis sorry I am. I remember the day you left Abernie, and how you looked—so tall and proud to be going off to do your duty for your clan. I was proud of you that day, lad. Proud to have had a hand in preparing you to be a mon. And I look at you now, and I look at what you have done these past weeks to help our clans, and I am proud of you all over again. I think I must have taken leave of my senses these past two years. I willna e’er know how I could have thought you anything but honorable and decent. I am sorry, Patrick. I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me.”
For a first effort at eating humble pie, Patrick thought the earl could not have done a finer job. “’Tis done,” he said simply, leaning across the saddle and extending his hand.
The earl looked at it, meeting his gaze, then leaned forward to clasp his arm in friendship.
Straightening once more, the earl sighed. “I wonder if my daughters will be so forgiving.”
Patrick smiled. “I donna think you need fret. They love you very much. And I think Marsali worries that you will never forgive her.”
Abernie waved a hand. “There be nothing to forgive. I donna hold anything against her or Gavin in this terrible thing we have all lived through. And Cecilia! Och! How could I blame a little lass like her for anything?” He shot Patrick a concerned look. “You are certain she is safe?”
“Aye,” Patrick replied. “Rufus and Hiram will go to the Lowlands to fetch her before week’s end.”
“Good. Mayhap Jeanie can go with them as chaperon.”
Patrick hid a grin, thinking that, with Hiram along, mayhap someone should be sent to chaperon Jeanie, as well.
A few minutes later, they passed through the gates of Brinaire.
As they approached the castle steps, the earl said, “Do you think your father has been told of our coming?”
“I sent a messenger this morning,” Patrick replied.
The earl let out a heavy sigh. “Ah, Patrick, I donna look forward to facing your father. But it must be done.”
His own thoughts exactly. He was not sure what to expect: to be forgiven for his deceit or to be disowned and disinherited. Gratitude was too much even to imagine, much less hope for.
Dismounting, Patrick handed his reins to the stable lad who came to collect them, then turned to yank Sinclair out of his saddle. With his hand gripping one of Sinclair’s arms and the earl’s hand gripping the other, they dragged the defeated, though unrepentant, laird of the clan Sinclair up the steps of Brinaire and into the great hall.
Patrick’s father was waiting for them, standing in the center of the huge room with the help of a stick. Alex stood next to him. But Patrick’s gaze went past them both to the bottom of the stairs, where Marsali stood looking radiant despite a certain tension in her body. He knew she was trying to be discreet, maintaining a respectful distance, nor was this the time or the place for their own personal greetings. Still, he wanted her beside him.
They deposited Sinclair on his knees, and while Abernie approached his father alone, Patrick moved quietly to her, taking her hand in his and bringing her with him to stand next to Alex. A worried frown flickered across her brow as she looked from him to her father and back again. He shot her a reassuring wink, and although her eyes widened in surprise, her hand tightened around his.
“I love you,” he whispered.
“I love you, too,” she whispered back, her fingers intertwining with his even more tightly.
“Gavin?”
“Will be fine.”
Patrick nodded, and they both turned to watch the scene unfolding before them.
The two patriarchs were regarding each other warily.
“Gregor,” Abernie said, speaking formally.
“Donald,” the marquis growled.
Abernie shifted on his feet, sent a few surreptitious glances his daughter’s way, then focused once more on the man before him. “You heard about Margaret.”
“Aye,” the marquis said. “My lad, Alex, told me.”
Patrick smiled at the warmth and possessiveness with which the announcement was made, and he returned the hard squeeze Marsali gave his hand. Alex and his father, it seemed, had made their peace.
Abernie shifted his gaze to Alex. “My thanks, lad,” he said.
Alex nodded. “’Twas an honor, sir. But there were others who helped me.”
“Aye,” the earl agreed, “but if you had not acted when you did, Sinclair would ha’ killed her. I am indebted to you, as I am to your brother.” Bringing his gaze back to the marquis, he said, “I accused you falsely,” then added with a trace of defiance, “though I had reason.”
Patrick’s gaze snapped to his father’s face. The old man neither replied nor moved. For a long time, he stood still as a stone, his jaw working and his throat expanding and contracting as he swallowed … several times … hard. Patrick was aware that everyone in the room, save Sinclair, mayhap, was holding their breath. As the seconds ticked by, he began to fear the outcome of the meeting. Had it all been for naught?
Finally, when the tension in the room had grown to unbearable proportions and Marsali’s fingers were gripping his so hard it actually hurt, his father cleared his throat.
“How is … Margaret?” he asked.
Sounds of expelled breaths echoed around the room, and Patrick felt relief wash through him like a cleansing wave—in small part, at least, because Marsali had loosened her death grip on his fingers.
“She is weak,” Abernie replied. “And she is verra thin. She has been given drugs. Not much, she says, but enough to confuse her and keep her quiet. Valerian, she thinks, and hops. But she will recover—at least, in body. I canna be as certain about her spirit. She has spent two years believing you had her imprisoned because you thought she had betrayed you and you couldna stand the sight of her. That is what she was told.”
His father straightened to his full height, incensed. “She would believe that of me?”
“You believed worse of her,” Abernie said angrily. “And she was innocent. Here. I brought this blackguard to tell you what he has done.”
Hiram and Rufus hauled Sinclair forward until he was within striking distance of the marquis and forced him to his knees.
“Tell him,” Abernie said to Sinclair. “Tell the marquis of Brinaire everything you told me or, by God, I will see you drawn and quartered.”
Sinclair shot the earl a look, and Patrick tasted bile, seeing the cowardice in the man’s eyes. He was a disgrace to his clan, to the Highlands, to all of Scotland.
“You swore—” Sinclair began.
“Based on your truthful words,” Abernie interrupted him.
Sinclair directed his gaze at the wall, speaking in flat tones. “The Lady Margaret met a man named Foster whilst she was out riding. He lured her to your hunting shelter by saying he had news of Patrick Sutherland but that they couldna talk where they might be seen. She went with him, and he told her that your son had been taken prisoner and that she could help him.”
Sinclair stopped suddenly, mayhap, Patrick thought, because he saw the understanding—and the fury—transform his father’s already formidable countenance.
“Go on,” Abernie prodded.
Sinclair glanced at him, then continued grudgingly. “Your son cut Foster’s throat in a fight and left him for dead. Foster swore an oath of vengeance against him, but when he couldna find him, he came here to seek vengeance against Patrick Sutherland’s family. He came to me. He devised a plan that … that I offered aid to carry out. He would get revenge, and I would get your lands when you and the Gunns had destroyed each other. Your lady wife was the means by which we sought to start a feud between you.” Drawing a shaky breath, he continued. “Your lady didna know I was involved in the plan. Foster dealt with her. He told her that your son was being ransomed, and that if the marquis learned of it, he would attack rather than pay, and your son would die. She believed it. She brought her jewels to your hunting hut to pay the ransom. Those were the meetings described to you.”
