The Renegade's Heart (17 page)

“Bertram!” the smith’s wife hissed from
within the shop. “Mind your place!”

“The Laird of Kinfairlie has shown himself to
be a fair man, and one who does not insist upon men holding their
tongues,” the smith said.

“Indeed, he has,” Isabella agreed. “I thank
you for your counsel, Master Smith.”

She would investigate wild thyme’s powers as
well, the better to understand the smith’s meaning. What manner of
allies did Murdoch have? What did they have to do with wild thyme?
Isabella was certain she had been warned, and she would know of
what.

First, back to the baker’s abode, then the
chapel and its crypt.

To Isabella’s dismay, her quest was not to be
pursued as yet.

For Moira came running from the keep, her
manner distraught. “My lady Isabella! Praise be to God that I found
you. Come quickly! My lady Eleanor has need of your care!”

* * *

Alexander, Laird of Kinfairlie, felt his
burdens were heavy in these times. The sight of his sister Annelise
– sweet, gentle Annelise – playing with his son in the hall upon
his return sent a pang through his heart.

He did not doubt that the Earl of March would
become more determined to see Kinfairlie’s daughters used to secure
alliances – and to provide rewards. Alexander had had a reprieve
these past years with so many men journeying to France to fight the
king’s war, but now they returned, and the earl would be determined
to secure their loyalty. The earl had already proposed two matches
for Annelise, who was, after all, the eldest of Alexander’s unwed
sisters and thus the most eligible to wed. That she was yet young,
lovely and sweet of nature only made her more desirable.

But to condemn Annelise to be the wife of a
hardened warrior, a man who had gained the spoils of violence and
doubtless become convinced of its merit, was not a deed Alexander
could willingly do. Would she be beaten? Raped? Treated with
disrespect? Isabella would have faced down any who dared to treat
her badly, but Annelise had not such steel in her spine.

It would have been one thing if Alexander had
known the men in question, or even if he had been given the
opportunity to meet the candidates and take their measure, but the
earl simply sent names. Alexander had declined the earl twice since
the Yule, but knew he could not continue to deny his liege lord’s
will forever.

He could take his sisters to the king’s
court, but he feared they would be desired by men he had no wish to
welcome into his family. The court might well be rough this year,
even when the king returned, due to the number of warriors arriving
there. His sisters might merely be despoiled and abandoned.

He wished they were older.

He wished they were more plain.

He wished they were already wedded.

But mere wishes would not see the matter
solved. Alexander had to find a solution while respecting his
pledge that his sisters should wed by their own choices. He wanted
to build a dozen curtain walls around his keep, each taller than
the last, fill the spaces between with deep moats, and ensure the
safety of all beneath his hand forever. He wanted Ross and Malcolm
to return unchanged, men but not warriors hardened by battle. He
never wanted to argue again with Ross as he had at the Yule, and he
feared the silence of Malcolm’s fortunes.

He wanted Eleanor to survive this pregnancy,
to be hale and happy by his side once again.

But Alexander feared his desires might not
come true.

He knew his party had chased the brigands
from Kinfairlie’s forests, but he was certain that Murdoch Seton
would return. That man believed his complaint had merit and
Alexander did not imagine that he would be easily dissuaded of that
view. Indeed, he had some admiration of Murdoch’s persistence.

As inconvenient as it might be.

Alexander did not know why so many relics
sold at Ravensmuir had been stolen, but there was no doubt that
they had been. He did not know where they had been taken and he did
not know who might be responsible. He did not know how the thief
could know the location of so many relics without looking in the
record of the auction locked within this very room.

But he had a suspicion and he feared it might
be true.

He would not condemn his aunt Rosamunde, not
without knowing the truth of her involvement. But he feared that
his aunt, who had been the most successful of the family in trading
relics and a woman with a keen memory who had attended that same
auction, had returned to her old trade.

She would not have told Alexander, for she
might have guessed he would disapprove.

But to return to the trade, she would have
need of an inventory to sell, and the relics that had once been
stored at Ravensmuir might be the simplest inventory to obtain. For
all Alexander knew, Rosamunde still considered them to be her
property even though Tynan had sold them. She might reason that the
reclamation of the relics was simply a restoration to their
rightful owner.

It was also possible that Ross had gathered
many of the relics at the command of their aunt. Why else would he
leave the service of the Earl of Buchan so abruptly? Why else would
he leave Scotland for the life of a mercenary on the continent?
They had argued bitterly at the Yule because Alexander knew Ross
had not told him the truth.

Could his own relations be in alliance over
this matter? Could they be the ones who threatened his future?

Alexander could not say. He could not reveal
his suspicions about Rosamunde, yet he dared not risk protecting
her any longer. Murdoch was routed for the moment, though that
might not last. Alexander had to seize the opportunity.

His thoughts churned even as he celebrated
the day with his men. The horses had been stabled and the men
rewarded with ale in the hall. Alexander shared but a quaff with
them in the spirit of camaraderie before he climbed the stairs, the
sight of Annelise and Roland haunting him.

He took but a moment to see Eleanor and kiss
her brow, and was most relieved to find Isabella in attendance. His
sister knew more than she told, he was certain of it, just as he
was convinced that any admiration she had for Murdoch Seton was the
harmless whimsy of a maiden.

Eleanor was pale again and her smile was
weaker than Alexander would have liked. He hoped with all his heart
that she would not lose this child, but he worried more for her
welfare – and the demands she placed upon herself. Moira sat beside
the bed, fretting sufficient for three women, and the solar was
filled with the scent of the herbs Isabella was grinding in her
pestle.

“It seems you were right, and I should remain
abed,” Eleanor murmured.

“You are never so kind to yourself as you are
to others.”

She gave him a thin smile. “Well, there is so
much to be done.”

“And my three sisters to do your bidding.”
Alexander brushed the fair hair back from her brow with a tender
fingertip and kissed her again. “Sleep, Eleanor. ’Tis all the child
wants of you.”

“I know,” she admitted and her lashes
fluttered reluctantly to a close. Alexander looked hard at
Isabella, wondering what she saw that he did not. To his relief,
she nodded and smiled, her confidence reassuring him.

“It is her stomach,” Isabella confided
quietly. “I believe this is common early in the pregnancy. When she
drank the posset yesterday, she was able to eat and felt
stronger.”

“Can you make it for her daily? Or is it a
potion that should be used sparingly?”

“There is no concern with her drinking it
even several times a day. I shall prepare more of the herb mixture,
then any soul could heat milk and add a measure of herbs to it.”
Isabella smiled again for him. “Otherwise she seems well enough. I
will show Moira the proper measure.”

“And me, if you please,” Alexander said. At
Isabella’s nod of agreement, he glanced again at Eleanor. “I will
return in but a moment.” Then he retreated to his office to write a
missive to Rosamunde.

Alexander had to dispatch a messenger before
Murdoch was returned.

* * *

Murdoch felt the cold grow with every step he
took toward Kinfairlie’s forest. It was evening before he reached
the perimeter of the woods and he was chilled through, despite
walking at a brisk pace. He stepped into the forest and the cold
settled over him like a shroud, making him shiver anew. He could
feel the mark on his flesh growing, and his future becoming more
dim by the moment.

He made his way to the camp they had
abandoned that morning and was glad to find Gavin already there.
The boy was excited to see him and filled his ears with chatter
about their adventure during the day. The tale had already been
embellished in Murdoch’s absence, and he knew that by the time it
was recounted to Stewart and Hamish, it would grow even more
wondrous.

Still, it was harmless for the boy to have
enjoyed their deed, and his enthusiasm spared Murdoch from needing
to make conversation. His very limbs felt leaden from the cold, but
he could see that Gavin was not so affected.

It was the Elphine Queen.

Or whatever she did to his heart.

The sky was falling dark and the chill of
night made them huddle in their cloaks, but Murdoch dared not light
a fire as yet. He would be certain of Stewart and Hamish’s welfare
and their return first. The forest was devoid of the sounds of men,
which was a relief. Indeed, Murdoch was certain that no human eyes
watched him and Gavin.

The Fae, though, were everywhere. He kept his
eyes narrowed and his gaze fixed on the ground in front of himself,
as if in deep thought. Gavin finally tired of recounting his tale
and fell silent, as well.

The splash of water made Murdoch’s head snap
up. He held out a hand to keep the boy from speaking and
straightened with care. Gavin watched him with such a lack of
understanding that Murdoch feared the boy had lost his wits.

That could, though, be the work of the
Fae.

The shadows seemed to have filled the forest
like a dark mist, making it impossible to see far in any direction.
Murdoch could hear that the splashing came from the direction of
the river that passed through Kinfairlie’s woods. It could not be
fifty feet away.

Who approached them?

Who dared to move so noisily?

On stealthy feet, Murdoch worked his way to a
better vantage point. The splashing continued, evidence that
whoever was in the river remained there – and was unaware of
Murdoch.

Or did not care.

Murdoch approached the bank of the river and
halted in the shadows. A woman bent over the water, her back to
him. She was old and crooked, and murmured to herself intelligibly
as she worked. She looked to be washing a garment in the river,
which made little sense.

It was evening, in the heart of the forest,
and no one lived near this place. A thin layer of ice glistened as
it formed on the surface of the water in the evening’s chill, its
frosty edges outlining rocks like white lace and the smooth
expanses of it reflecting the stars like a mirror.

Gavin appeared behind Murdoch, his eyes
round. “What is it, sir?”

“An old woman washing,” Murdoch answered
quietly.

“Where?”

Murdoch glanced at the boy. “Directly before
us. Can you not see her?”

The boy granted Murdoch a look of such doubt
that Murdoch could make no sense of it. Gavin made a show of
scanning the river, then shrugged. “I see no one, sir.”

“But you must have heard the splash of the
water.”

The boy shook his head, uncertainty filling
his gaze. “Are you well, sir?”

“I am hale enough!” Murdoch turned and raised
his voice. “Woman! Rise and show yourself! What is it that you wash
in the river?”

She lifted her head and glanced over her
shoulder, halting her labor. Gavin made no acknowledgement of this
movement. The old woman straightened as much as she apparently
could and turned to face him, still crooked with age. Her hood fell
back to reveal her face in the same moment that she lifted her
washing to show him.

One side of her face was ravaged with age and
scarred, while the other was devoid of flesh. That side was a skull
with no eye, and her hand on the same side was skeletal. She lifted
the garment higher as her grin widened and Murdoch saw that the
shirt was stained with blood. The water dripping from it was red,
and a crimson current swirled in the river about her knees.

Then he recognized the garment. It was his
own tabard she washed.

Murdoch stumbled backward in his shock and
dismay, but the woman merely nodded and returned to her labor.

“A
bean-nighe
,” Murdoch murmured,
knowing that he was seeing a Fae whose actions foretold his own
death. “Are you certain you cannot see her?” he demanded of Gavin,
although he knew the answer well enough.

The boy shook his head. “You should eat a
morsel, sir,” he said, speaking with the care one reserved for the
mad or the delusional. “I shall light a fire and all will be well.”
The boy strode back to their camp with purpose but Murdoch could
only watch him go.

He glanced back, but the
bean-nighe
had vanished.

The Elphine Queen’s laughter rang lightly in
the distance. Murdoch spun to look toward the sound of her
merriment, but saw only a flurry of snow flakes swirl in the air,
dancing toward him.

He glanced skyward and saw that the clouds
had cleared, that the night was dark and glittering with stars. The
moon was nearly full, which meant that he had just over two weeks
to choose.

Or have his choice made for him.

An irrational fear seized Murdoch, a
conviction that the Elphine Queen’s magic would claim his sanity
before she seized his heart. He strode through the woods to the
fire Gavin kindled, furious that he had been fool enough to make
any wager with her.