Devil in a Kilt (34 page)

She
could have left with them, and mayhap she should have, but something held her
back. Her instincts told her the gallant Sassunach knight could answer many
questions for her... if she could muster the courage to ask them.

And
if he was willing to oblige her.

Moving
to the small table near the window seat, she paused to admire the finely carved
chessboard. Each piece was exquisitely rendered and well polished.

She
picked up one piece, then turned to face the English knight. He still leaned
against the closed bedchamber door, the expression on his marred face unreadable
but not unkind.

In
truth, Linnet thought him a most kind man.

One
she could trust, despite his English blood.

Clearing
her throat, she said, "You have done much with this room, sir. And"—she
fingered the chesspiece, peering at it as she spoke—"I dinna think I've
e'er seen anything so fine as this. Is it from your home, from England?"

"Yes,
milady, it hails from England."

The
melancholy in his voice was not to be mistaken, so different was it from the
jovial tone he often used when conversing with her husband. Linnet glanced
sharply at him, the chesspiece forgotten.

His
good eye seemed clouded with sadness, but he didn't flinch from her perusal.
Instead, he pushed away from the door and came to stand before her, close, yet
keeping a respectful distance.

Rather
than look at her, he stared fixedly out the tall arched-topped windows.
"My father carved the chess set. It is one of the few memories I have of
him, as I have not seen him since I was but a young squire."

Emboldened
by his apparent willingness to speak of his past, Linnet posed the question
she'd oft wanted to ask but hadn't dared till now. "Sir Marmaduke, it is
apparent my husband holds you in high esteem, you wear the MacKenzie colors,
yet you are a Sassunach." Still fingering the chess piece, she plunged
ahead, "Pray, how did you, an English knight, come to be here?"

He
turned toward her then, but she could see he was looking back, into the past,
and not at her. "‘Twas my steadfast belief in being chivalrous to all
members of the fairer sex, and not just those blessed with noble birth what
brought me here, milady." With a sad smile, the best his disfigurement
would allow, he went on, "Mayhap ‘tis closer to the truth to say it was
the unchivalrous behavior of my peers, and my refusal to condone it, what
landed me in the MacKenzie household."

Linnet
set down the chess piece, then settled herself on the window seat and drew one
of the colorful silk cushions onto her lap. "I do not understand."

"Nay,
and ‘tis a blessing you have been sheltered from such things," he said,
his voice turning cynical. "Mine is not a pretty story."

"I
am still desirous to hear it," Linnet said, hugging the pillow to her
middle. "If you dinna mind, of course."

"As
you wish," Marmaduke agreed, clasping his hands behind his back as he
began to pace back and forth. "‘Twas many years hence, the summer I earned
my spurs. Truth tell, I was mightily proud and took my knightly vows most
seriously. Much to the scorn of my fellow knights."

He
paused to peer intensely at her. "Sadly, I was mistaken in expecting my
peers to share my idealistic beliefs. And so, on my first foray into Scotland,
I refused to participate in the ruination of village women. Worse, in the eyes
of my peers, I took up my sword to defend the women against the atrocities my
fellow knights would commit upon them. I—"

"You
protected Scotswomen from your countrymen?" Linnet cut in.

"Yes.
I sought to prevent innocent women from being violated. My punishment for such
was swift and severe."

"Is
that how your face came to be scarred?"

"Oh,
nay," he said, shaking his head. "My face was defiled many years
later. That is another story entirely. My punishment for attempting to aid the
Scotswomen did leave me with scars, but they are upon my back. I was stripped
and beaten by my own men, then left for dead. ‘Twas Duncan's father who found
me."

He
paused then, absently rubbing the scar slanting across his face. "The good
man, God rest his soul, carried me to this castle upon his own steed, where I
was nursed to health by his lady, your husband's late mother."

A
wistful smile played around the good half of his mouth. "It was my great
fortune to have been welcomed into this household and I've worn the MacKenzie
colors with pride ever since."

Inwardly,
Linnet winced at the images evoked by his tale. And at her own initial fear of
him. "I must apologize to you, sir, for I did you most unfairly when first
we met," she said, heat springing to her cheeks. "‘Twas greatly afeared
of you I was."

Marmaduke
smiled as best he could. "You've no need to apologize, lady. It is indeed
a grim sight I present. You have shown me naught but kindness, and ‘tis with
great honor I serve you and your lord husband."

Still
ashamed of her reaction upon first seeing him, Linnet changed the topic.
"You have been friends with my husband since his father brought you
here?"

"More
than friends. ‘Tis as brothers we are."

As
brothers.
The words stirred a memory, something she couldn't
quite place.

As
brothers ...

Turning
away from him, she glanced down at the wind-whipped waves crashing against the
jagged rocks at the base of the tower.

As
brothers ...

Then
it came to her.

Robbie
had once called Sir Marmaduke "Uncle."

Looking
back at the tall, once-handsome knight, Linnet asked, "Be that why Robbie
refers to you as his uncle?"

"Nay,
lady, that is not the reason," he said, then fell silent, a closed look
settling over his features.

Embarrassed,
afeared she'd gone too far with her probing, Linnet pushed to her feet and went
to stand before the hearth. "Please excuse my curiosity," she said,
staring into the flame. "I did not mean to pry."

When
he remained silent for more than a few moments, Linnet stole a glance at him.
He regarded her with a look of great intensity as if weighing whether or not he
aught say more.

Finally,
he shrugged and said, "You may as well know, as it is no secret. I am
Robbie's uncle by marriage. My wife, Arabella, was Duncan's sister."

Linnet's
mind whirled with snatches of conversation, bits of gossip she'd gleaned from
servants. The pieces settled slowly, coming together one by one, their portent
chilling her to the bone despite the warmth of the crackling fire so near where
she stood.

Trembling,
she cleared her throat and stated rather than asked, "‘Twas the lady
Cassandra who killed your wife and Duncan's mother. She concocted a poison with
herbs from the herbarium."

"It
was never proven," Marmaduke said, joining her before the hearth.
"‘Tis long past and should not be allowed to cloud your mind."

"It
clouds more than my mind, it clouds my very life." She attempted a wan
smile and failed. "Whatever marred my husband's first marriage casts a
shadow o'er my own, dinna you see?" Swallowing her pride, she burst forth
with her innermost fear. "I've wondered if he still mourns her, yet now,
knowing this, surely he cannot? Not after what she'd done?"

Sir
Marmaduke started to answer, then clamped his mouth shut. Spinning away from
her, he strode to the windows. "Upon my word, lady, and pray forgive me if
I offend you, but you erred in even considering such a notion."

"I
did? Then why does her likeness yet hang beyond yon door?" she asked,
nodding toward the closed oaken door to Duncan's former bedchamber.

Sir
Marmaduke ran a hand over his face as if he'd suddenly grown weary. "I
cannot vouchsafe your husband's motives for keeping the panel-painting, but I
can tell you mine and ‘tis on any saint you care to name, I'd swear his reasons
are similar."

Linnet
waited, clenching her hands to lessen their shaking.

The
Sassunach's broad shoulders sagged ever so slightly. '"‘Tis to
remember," he said, bitterly. "To remember, lest I forget the misery
she wrought unto myself and all who had the misfortune to know her."

Coming
forward, he placed his hands lightly on her shoulders and turned his face first
to one side, then the other. "Would you believe I was once considered handsome?
That, at tourneys in France, and at court, fine ladies vied for my
attention?"

"Sir
Marmaduke, please," Linnet pleaded, the regret and sorrow in his tone
squeezing her heart. "I beg you, forget I mentioned her. It was not my
intent to distress you."

"And
you have not, dear lady," he assured her, some of the bitterness gone from
his voice. "With or without your being here, my face and my memories would
be the same. Truth to tell, you have helped me as none before, for your healing
skills have made a great improvement in my blighted appearance."

Lifting
a hand to the puckered flesh where his left eye should've been, he said, "‘Twas
her lover did this, ‘twas Kenneth, your husband's bastard half brother."

Speaking
slowly, as if the words had to be pried from wherever he kept them, he went on,
"My wife had learned he and Cassandra were plotting to murder Duncan.
They'd already done away with Duncan's mother, although we did not realize
‘twas their doing at the time."

He
made a low bitter sound. "Fool that I was, I confronted Kenneth. I
challenged him to take his whore and be gone, warned him not to set foot on
MacKenzie land again. But as so oft, my belief that there dwells a bit of good
within all men was sorely misplaced."

Linnet
tried to murmur soothing words, her own worries paling beside those the
Englishman now confessed to her, but the words wouldn't come, refused to be
pushed past the dryness in her throat.

"My
interference cost me my wife and Duncan his sister," Marmaduke said, and
Linnet was horrified to see a tear form at the corner of his good eye.
"Whilst Kenneth led me to believe he'd follow my advice, he hastened back
as swiftly as his mount could carry him, but not to fetch his harlot and leave
Kintail for good. Nay, lady, they poisoned my Arabella instead."

Pausing,
he swiped the back of his hand roughly over his eye, wiping away the tear
before it could fall.

"Mayhap
they feared she knew too much and would warn Duncan. I cannot say, and it
scarce matters, for they killed her just the same. I am sure of it, even though
their guilt can never be proven."

"Does
my husband know this?" Linnet asked gently.

"Yes,
he knows. He confronted her. She ran from him, fleeing to the battlements,
Duncan chasing after her." He stopped to draw a deep, ragged breath.
"She laughed as she ran, taunting him about Robbie, claiming the boy was
Kenneth's child, not his. Then she topped on the hem of her gown and plunged to
her death before he could do aught to save her."

"Do
you think he would have?" Linnet's voice was a bare whisper.

"Yes,
had he been close enough. He likely would've questioned her, then banished her
to a convent for the remainder of her days." He paused then, staring off
into the distance before he continued, "May God forgive me, but had I been
up there with her, I do not think I'd have made an effort to prevent her
fall."

"And
when did Kenneth do this?" Linnet gently touched a finger to his puckered
scar.

"That
same day. I caught him trying to steal Duncan's best horse. He'd learned of
his ladylove's demise and meant to flee. We fought and, as you can see, he
bested me." He stopped to take a deep breath, then toed to give her a
smile, a rueful one. "He is an excellent swordsman, almost as masterful as
Duncan."

"But
Duncan has boasted of your skill with arms," Linnet protested. "He
said he's seen you cut down five men at once."

"And
so I have. In war," he told her, his voice burdened by a flat dullness
that twisted Linnet's heart. "‘Tis a fool I was that day for I broke the
first rule a squire is taught when learning to wield a sword: I let my emotions
get in the way. My rage made me clumsy."

"I
am sorry." Linnet frowned. "‘Tis a high price you paid for your
loyalty to my husband."

"I
did naught he would not have done for me. Duncan is my brother as surely as if
his blood flowed through my veins. As for my face, and losing my eye. .."
Sir Marmaduke let his voice trail off, then sighed. "I'd gladly forfeit my
remaining eye and all else I possess if by doing so my Arabella could return to
me."

When
Linnet said nothing, he peered at her with such intensity she feared he could
see into the deepest reaches of her soul.

Shuddering
under the weight of all he'd told her, she turned back to the fire, no longer
able to meet the pain she saw on his face. Ne'er had she heard of a man
sacrificing so much, nor of a husband whose love for his wife burned so strong.

"You
loved her very much," she said at last, her gaze steady on the flames
curling around the firelogs. "I canna imagine a love so enduring."