Bride for a Knight (17 page)

The woman who’d died birthing Jamie.

And, as the tongue-waggers also claimed, Munro was never able to forget.

“Och, nay.” Aveline’s heart clenched. She took the empty ale cup from him and returned it to the table. “Dinna tell me you’ve filled that chest with—”

“All I have,” he blurted, the stubbornness going out of his jaw, but the brightness in his eyes now damping his cheeks. “My memories,” he added, reaching to lift the lid of the chest. “One handful of heather and one stone for each year she’s been gone. I collect them every year up on the moors, on the eve of her passing.”

“Jamie’s birthday.” Aveline’s own eyes misted as she peered into the chest at the clumps of dead and dried heather, Munro’s collection of colored stones.

Swallowing against the sudden thickness in her throat, she sat beside Munro and hugged him. “It wasn’t his fault,” she said, hoping she wasn’t making it worse, but feeling compelled to speak. “Jamie cares about you. I suspect he always has. Perhaps if you—”

“I’m no dried-up husk without a heart.” Twisting round, Munro yanked one of his parchments from beneath the pillow and thrust it at her. “I’ve kept abreast o’ the lad o’er the years.”

Her own heart thumping, Aveline unrolled the scrunched-up missive and began reading. Sent by a man she knew to be one of Munro’s allies, the parchment was dated about a year before and detailed Jamie’s valor during the tragic Scots defeat at the battle of Neville’s Cross near the English city of Durham.

She looked at Munro, not knowing what to say.

He humphed again and reached into his strongbox, fishing deep into the clumps of heather until he withdrew another handful of squished and yellowed scrolls.

“There are others—as you can see.” He stuck out his chin, his eyes now glinting with a touch of belligerence. “Years’ worth.”

Aveline set down the Neville’s Cross parchment and took a deep breath.

Munro stared at her, his mouth set in a straight, hard line.

“You must show the scrolls to Jamie,” she said, disappointed when the old laird’s expression didn’t soften.

“That they exist ought to be enough,” he said. “And you’ll say naught about them. I’ll have your word on that.”

Aveline sighed, but finally nodded.

“As you will,” she agreed, her heart aching for Jamie.

And his father.

Munro Macpherson was wrong. The mere existence of his scrolls wasn’t enough to smooth the rift between him and his only surviving son.

But it was a beginning.

A notion that would not have pleased the shrouded figure standing in the swirling mist high above the Garbh Uisge and peering down at the racing, roaring cataracts.

Healing, justice-bringing rapids. Quiet now, save for the deafening rush of the water; the fitful winds rattling the birches and bog myrtle clustered so thickly on the steep braesides.

Nothing else stirred.

The curses and shouts that had shattered the gorge’s peace on a certain fateful day were silent now and those who’d deserved to die slept cold and stiff in their graves.

All save one.

And he, too, would soon be no more.

His father, bluster-headed coward that he was, would do himself in. Fear and guilt were his enemies. No great effort would be required to rid the hills of him.

A few others might follow as well.

If a greater atonement proved necessary.

The beginnings of a most satisfying smile twitched at the corner of the figure’s lips. A soft, much-deserved laugh was also allowed. There was no need not to savor the moment. The darkening woods and the frothy white gleam of the water. The pleasure that deepened with each return to the scene of the figure’s shining triumph.

Aye, it was a moment to be relished.

And with the exception of the figure’s dark and flowing cloak and its shielding hood, there was no need for caution. Enough mist and rain had descended on Kintail in recent days for there to be ample cover to slip inside one of gorge’s deep, mist-filled corries should any fool risk a visit to this devil-damned defile.

The figure sniffed. Nay, unexpected intruders were not a concern.

Neither from Baldreagan or Fairmaiden.

The winding deer track from Fairmaiden, especially, was choked with drifting curtains of thick, creeping mist. No one from that holding of reformed cutthroats and new-to-the-soft-life caterans would desire to bestir themselves on such a gray and clammy afternoon.

And if they did, it wouldn’t be to trek through chill, impenetrable mist just to gain the treacherous confines of the Rough Waters. Those who dwelt at Fairmaiden relished their comfort too greatly to brave the gorge’s steep, rock-lined shoulders save on fair, sun-filled days.

And the fools cowering within Baldreagan’s blighted, hell-born walls were too busy poking about elsewhere to pose a serious threat. Too occupied switching bedchambers and lighting candles, thinking smoking pitch-pine torches and bolted doors would protect them.

The figure stared out over the Garbh Uisge, admiring the gloom and flexing eager fingers. Truth was, all the heather and stone in Scotland wouldn’t hide them if a
bogle
wished to find them.

Whether they paid a visit to the ravine again or nay.

Though it could be surmised that
he
stayed away because his silly bride dogged his every breath and step.

His faery.

The figure scowled and clenched angry fists.

Only the great flat-footed James of the Heather would come up with such a ludicrous endearment.

Och, aye, that one was too chivalrous for his own good and wouldn’t want to take a chance on the wee one trailing after him into the mist and twisting her precious ankle on a leaf-covered tree root.

Or worse.

Like watching a puff of wind blow her away.

Perhaps looking on in horror as she lost her footing on the slippery, streaming slopes and plunged headlong into the icy, tossing waters. Hitting her fair head on one of the many waiting rocks.

Black and jagged rocks.

So deadly.

And utterly innocent. Who could foist blame upon the dark, serrated edges of a rock if a soul was careless enough to fall atop it?

Certainly not the fools who’d gathered the remains of the footbridge and then been empty-headed enough to burn the wood without even noticing the saw marks and gouges it’d taken to cause the worm-eaten, weather-warped old bridge to collapse.

The figure smiled again.

And moved closer to the edge of the ravine.

If one leaned forward a bit and looked carefully enough into the foaming cauldron, it was almost possible to imagine a swirl of pale, streaming hair caught in the tossing waters. A dainty hand, reaching out for a rescuer that would never appear.

Or, even more pleasing, a flash of bright auburn hair and a quick glimpse of a bonnie male face, the eyes wide with terror and the mouth roaring a silent, water-filled scream.

But all the cries and thrashings would prove for naught.

Just as they hadn’t helped his brothers when the footbridge had given way beneath them. The figure’s lips began to quirk again and a warm, pleasant sense of satisfaction banished the afternoon’s chill.

The Macpherson brothers had dropped like stones.

And most of them hadn’t even struggled, for all their swagger and boasting in life. Their black-hearted gall and deceit. They’d sputtered and gasped for breath, flopping about like hapless flotsam, letting the current speed them to their deaths.

A few had fought fiercely, kicking their legs and flailing their arms, wild-eyed and shouting, cursing down the sun.

But the sun hadn’t cared.

And neither had the lone figure standing high above them, looking on with an approving smile.

A smile that had soured just over a sennight ago when happenchance allowed the figure to witness an act of infuriating passion.

A kiss so shamelessly heated even the memory scalded.

And in a holy place, standing on the threshold of St. Maelrhuba’s chapel and in clear view of the Na Clachan Breugach stone.

The figure shivered and stepped back from the lip of the gorge. Not wanting to invoke the older, darker powers that might frown on taking such justice into one’s own hands, the figure adjusted the folds of its great, voluminous cloak and slipped back into the mists and shadows.

While St. Maelrhuba’s influence might be a bit watered down after so many long centuries, there wasn’t a Highlander walking who’d doubt the lingering sway of the ancients.

The mysterious Picts and others.

Shadow folk one would be wise not to rile.

Passing by the Na Clachan Breugach stone each time a visit to the ruinous chapel was required was daunting enough. Kissing in the shadow of such a stone, and then so lustily, was to call up a thousand devils.

Never mind that in the days of the ancients more lascivious acts than kissing had surely gone on within the sacred circle of those hoary stones.

Stones of Wisdom or the Lying Stones, only one remained and the figure was sure it hadn’t been pleased to witness such a kiss.

Such passion.

And so, the figure decided, moving stealthily through the trees, measures would need to be taken to ensure such passion didn’t flame again.

Only then would the stone be appeased.

And the figure’s grievances well met and avenged.

About the same time and not all that far from the swirling waters of the Garbh Uisge, Jamie followed Alan Mor into his privy solar at Fairmaiden Castle. Once again, he marveled at the little room’s cheery warmth and beauty. This time he also wondered if he hadn’t misjudged his host.

Perhaps placed unwarranted suspicion on his doorstep.

Truth was, whether he found it hard to believe or not, the Matheson laird looked genuinely outraged and appalled.

And, Jamie couldn’t deny, exceedingly innocent.

Leastways of having had anything to do with the deaths of Jamie’s brothers.

Alan Mor’s indrawn breath and the way he’d leapt from his seat at the high table when Jamie stated his reason for visiting was testament enough to his surprise. Even now, his bushy-bearded face was visibly pale.

Clearly shaken, he raked a hand through his hair and strode to the shuttered windows, then wheeled back around almost as quickly. “I would not be party to such a black deed if my own life depended on it,” he vowed. “Or the lives of my fair daughters.”

“But you understand I had to come here?”

“Och, aye,” Alan Mor owned. “I just canna think who would do such an evil thing.”

He started pacing, rubbing the back of his neck as he stalked around the solar. “I’ll admit your da and I have had our bones to chew, but any feuding we carried on has e’er been amiable feuding. Anyone in these hills will tell you that. Though I willna deny we keep a wary eye on each other. But see Munro’s lads done in?”

He stopped in front of the hearth fire and shook his bearded head. “Nay, lad, I had naught to do with the like.”

Jamie frowned.

Ne’er had he accused any man of such a vile deed.

Even by association.

But he’d seen and heard what he had.

His brothers were as dead as dead can be. He couldn’t back down. If he hadn’t been able to save them, he could at least honor them now with his persistence in uncovering their murderer.

And hopefully, in the doing, prevent more tragedies.

Someone had appeared in his father’s bedchamber draped in a dripping plaid—a plaid that selfsame someone later tossed onto the effigy of one of Jamie’s long-dead forebears.

Although he’d not discount Aveline’s insistence that she and others have seen his brothers’ ghosts, Jamie was certain the
bogle
plaguing Munro was a flesh-and-blood man.

Someone well capable of tampering with an age-worn footbridge.

And, he suspected, equally guilty of recently mixing fish bones in a kettle of porridge meant for consumption at Baldreagan’s high table.

A near disaster he’d learned of just recently, the almost-tragedy, averted thanks to Cook’s watchful eye.

Just now, though, Alan Mor’s eyes were on him, waiting. So Jamie put back his shoulders and plunged on.

“In truth, sir, I canna think who would have done it either,” he said, speaking true. “I—” He broke off when the door opened and Sorcha entered with a large flagon of warmed, spiced wine.

Jamie nodded to her, gladly accepting the cup she offered him. He also tried not to frown again. But it proved difficult for her presence made him keenly aware of the loss of his brothers.

His reason for visiting Alan Mor.

Taking a sip of the wine, he turned back to his host. “After what I’ve told you, surely you must see that someone is responsible?”

“So it would seem,” Alan Mor agreed after a few moments of brow-furrowing. “But” —he whipped out his dirk and thrust it at Jamie, hilt first—“I’d sooner have you ram my own blade into my heart if you think my hands are stained with your brothers’ blood.”

Jamie took the dirk and tucked it carefully back beneath the older man’s thick leather belt. “I can see it was not your doing,” he said, meaning it.

But the matter remained unresolved.

He slid an uncomfortable glance at Sorcha, not wanting to besmirch her father’s house and his associations in her presence. But she didn’t seem to be paying them any heed.

She was seeing to the fire, jabbing a long iron poker into the flames, and he couldn’t help thinking of the hearth fires at Baldreagan, each grate well laid with smoldering pieces of the footbridge.

The notion called his brothers’ nine faces to mind and he could almost feel their stares. They wanted and deserved their deaths avenged.

Something he’d never see accomplished if he fretted about offending those who might have answers.

So he took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Your men,” he began, watching Alan Mor closely, “can there be one amongst them who’d carry such hatred against my clan?”

“My men of Pabay? The reformed cutthroats as the glen wives call them?” Alan Mor waved a dismissing hand. “There’s not a one o’ them I’d trust to commit such a barbarous act.”

“But they wouldn’t have come to you from Pabay—the robbers’ isle—if they didn’t carry a good share of dark deeds on their shoulders.”