The Renegade's Heart (22 page)

Save that it might bolster her courage.
Should she spend more time with Murdoch, that augmentation might
not be amiss.

* * *

Stewart could have been the voice of
Murdoch’s own conscience.

“It is wicked, I tell you, and it is wrong.”
The older man spoke with heat, beginning his tirade as soon as they
left Kinfairlie’s walls behind them. “To deceive a man for one’s
own purposes is one matter and one that perhaps might be explained
by a quest for the greater good. But to abuse the trust of a maiden
is base beyond belief.”

Murdoch protested, more because he felt he
should than that he disagreed. “You do not know that I have done as
much.”

“You took too great a time in the chapel. She
was there, was she not?”

Murdoch remained silent, unable to lie to the
older man.

“Indeed, she was,” Stewart concluded. “Did
you confess to me that you had a tryst? Nay! Of course not, for I
should have ensured you did not keep it!”

“I have taken nothing from her,
Stewart...”

Stewart was not interested in whatever
Murdoch might say. “Gavin tells me that she was in the village and
that you seized her when you rode away. He says that the lady was
enchanted by you and your daring, and worse, that you did not
return for all the day.”

Murdoch would have liked to have argued in
favor of his own intentions, but he was not certain what would be
possible for him to do. He kept silent with an effort.

Stewart did not such thing. “I have seen the
glint in your eyes when you look at her, lad, and I am not so old
that I do not know the import of it.” The older man glowered at
Murdoch. “’Twas you who said the maiden’s curiosity would be
useful, but you go too far in this.”

“It is not that simple...”

“Aye, it is simple enough! Were you more
familiar with her on this morn?”

“It is not chivalrous for men to speak of a
lady this way.”

Stewart scoffed. “It is not chivalrous to
take advantage of a lady’s trust! How dare you lead her to believe
you a man of honor, when you mean only to use her for your own
ends?”

“I do not!”

“Will you leave a babe in her belly when you
abandon her? Will you see her shamed?”

“No!”

“And what do you think will occur then? That
you shall recover Duncan’s relic and that the Laird of Kinfairlie
will welcome you as a suitor for his sister? A man he has hunted as
a criminal and a thief? A man he has pledged to bring to justice?
Where have you been these past years that your wits have become so
addled as this?”

And there was the crux of it. “I will not
speak of it.”

“I will! Your father would never have
tolerated such behavior in his household and I regret to see that
his own son – his pride and joy, no less – has become such a knave
as this. What possibly could have happened to you to change you
thus?”

“More than you might imagine, Stewart.”
Murdoch spoke grimly. “I would treat her with honor, but I may not
have the choice.”

“Choice! So spake every villain in excuse for
his own crimes.” Stewart growled to himself for a moment longer,
before he found the words. “She is a maiden and one nobly born as
well! Knaves and scoundrels are not the men she has had occasion to
meet, and her expectations have been shaped by experience.”

“She is not unwilling to aid me,
Stewart.”

“Because she does not know the
consequences!”

Murdoch bristled at the notion that his
Isabella was a fool. “She learns the trade of a healer. She has
delivered children. I believe she knows more than most of the
consequences of intimacy – of which there has been little.”

“There should have been none!”

Murdoch bit his tongue for Stewart was
right.

“And what of her brother’s response? Will he
abuse her? Will he ensure any child is lost, even if the price is
his own sister? There are those who think highly of honor, and you
know little of this laird’s inclinations.”

Murdoch felt a new chill touch him. “You
assume I would not wed her.”

“I assume the laird would not wed his own
sister to the thief who haunts his forest! He will see you hanged
for your thefts, upon that you might rely – if not worse.” Stewart
leaned closer. “There was a time when I trusted your intent, lad, a
time when I thought I knew your very thoughts as well as my own.”
His lips tightened. “But this I cannot understand. How could you
use the maiden ill? How could you put her in peril in her brother’s
household?”

“I pray I do not.”

“Prayer is not sufficient! How could you fail
to return for so many years? Your father died in despair over your
loss. How could you have denied him the knowledge that you are
hale? How could you have let the earl believe you so sorely wounded
as that?”

Murdoch met the other man’s gaze steadily.
“Perhaps I had no choice.”

Stewart sighed heavily. “Perhaps you are no
longer the man I believed you to be.”

Murdoch had to drop his gaze. “I am not,
Stewart, that much is certain. I am both more and less.”

“I see the less but not the more,” Stewart
said. He gave Murdoch one last look, then spurred his horse onward,
quickly leaving Murdoch behind.

Murdoch slowed Zephyr as the shadow of the
forest drew closer, reluctant to enter the domain of the Elphine
Queen again. He clung to the vestige of warmth yet within him, the
gossamer memory of Isabella’s touch, and tried to bolster his
courage for the night ahead. She would come to him again, he knew
as much, and she would be less inclined to leave him be than even
the night before.

He could not surrender.

He could not cede.

Murdoch must be strong, even as his body fell
prey to her spell. He must survive the new moon somehow, that he
could court Isabella with honor. If nothing else, he must see the
relic restored to Seton Manor.

He told himself all of this, noting that
every shadow was infested with the light of the Fae. It was yet
morning and he knew the Elphine Queen’s power would grow by night.
He felt cold with a sudden vigor that could only be their fault,
and he saw ghosts hovering in the shadows, too.

He turned Zephyr and rode across Kinfairlie’s
fields, needing to think and knowing it would not be possible
within the shadow of Kinfairlie’s forest.

* * *

The tea made from the wild thyme was murky
and dark green. Isabella had found the plant beneath the snow,
exactly where the smith had said it grew, its pungent and distinct
scent all the identification necessary. It was very similar to the
kitchen thyme in growing habit, but smaller with tiny leaves. Like
the kitchen thyme, it seemed to slumber in winter and its leaves
had turned a dark green. Isabella compared what she had harvested
from beneath the snow on the mill bank one last time with the thyme
in the kitchen garden before she brewed her tea.

The scent was strong, and she was relieved
that they were roasting fowl in the kitchens that day for it and
the herbs used with it disguised the scent of Isabella’s tea. As
she waited for her brew to cool, she made another posset for
Eleanor ensuring that she added more mint to the posset this time
to further obscure the pungent smell of the wild thyme.

Isabella eyed the brew, murmured a prayer,
then drank the tea. The taste was not unpleasant, though it was not
a brew she would have consumed by choice. She felt no different
after she had drunk it, and certainly she saw nothing different in
her surroundings.

Despite herself, she was disappointed. She
did not have to pretend to be unable to see the Fae, for still she
could not see them.

Isabella picked up the hot posset for
Eleanor, intending to deliver it to the solar.

She had time to reach the darkness at the
base of the stairs to the tower, time to wonder whether Moira and
the smith were mad, time to consider what she might do next, and
then the shadows exploded into sound and activity.

At first Isabella thought that Kinfairlie’s
keep was infested with mice. There were small creatures scuttling
in the shadows, running across the stairs in front of her, leaping
into the shadows in the corners. They were dark and small.

But they were not mice.

No, they were tiny, misshapen men with
squinted eyes and bent noses. They reminded Isabella of the old
willows by the river in the forest, the gnarled trees with whorls
and knots in their roots and boughs. They were twisted and
dark-skinned, as if tanned by the sun, and wizened with apparent
age. They moved quickly and furtively, scrambling in a manner not
unlike mice.

They could not have been a hand span in
height and were so numerous that they flowed like quicksilver.
There were hundreds of them, seemingly on all sides, the shadows
and corners moving with their frantic movement, as they crawled
over each other.

It was only with closer examination – while
pretending to be study the toe of her boot – that Isabella saw the
blue whorls on their skin. The blue was not so dark that it stood
out against the tanned brown of their flesh, but when she looked it
was there.

The pattern was exactly like that on
Murdoch’s flesh.

And the creatures sang.

Isabella did not understand all of the words
of their songs. She recognized some Gaelic amidst the cacophony of
sound, and caught some snippets of English, too. They were raucous
and they laughed at their own verses, which left her in no doubt
that some of their language was crude, if not rude. Their voices
made her shudder, high and squeaking or low and guttural. Either
way, it was hard to pretend that she was oblivious to them.

How had she managed to not hear them
before?

It was clear that they assumed she was still
unaware of them and Isabella recalled the warnings Moira and the
smith had given. She pretended to continue on her way, keeping her
expression impassive even though she was shocked by the sheer
numbers of them. It was not easily done. She feared to step on one
of them as they raced across her path, or to react to an overheard
lewd verse. Their earthy commentary became more clear, and she
pretended to be among the men at the stables when they were unaware
of her presence.

Isabella assumed that this was what her
sister Elizabeth saw. Which one of the small creatures was Darg? Or
was Darg even present? She wondered whether Elizabeth often saw so
many Fae at once, because she only ever mentioned Darg. Were these
spriggans or another kind of Fae? Isabella would not have known a
spriggan from a bogle by sight, though she had heard tales of
both.

That was when she heard their verses merge
into a single chorus.

“
Gold and silver at last regained, only to
be at risk again. Kings and queens would claim our hoard, unless we
ensure ’tis safely stored. Intruders gather at the gate, but our
treasures, they will not take.”
They spat in fury at this very
idea, a scuffle breaking out amidst their numbers.
“Off we
hasten to Ravensmuir, to see our riches made secure.”

Isabella reached the second floor of the
tower. She glanced up and saw a golden goblet pushed from the top
of the stairs. It must have come from the solar, or Alexander’s
chamber, maybe even from the treasury. The cup rolled and bounced,
encouraged on its way by the army of small cheering Fae. It landed
on the second floor, then rolled to Isabella’s feet. She put out
her foot to stop it instinctively, then wondered whether she should
have been able to see it.

The Fae had lunged after it, then frozen in
dismay at her intervention. She felt the silence of their perusal
and knew she had to pretend to be oblivious.

All the same, she was outraged. This had come
from Kinfairlie. These wretched little thieving Fae meant to
abscond with treasure from her brother’s holding and take it to
Ravensmuir.

Which simply justified her deceiving them,
the better to learn their scheme.

“Oh!” Isabella exclaimed. “However did that
goblet get to be here?” She bent and picked it up, brushing the
dust from it. She ignored the hissing, spitting and stamping
sprites that tried to snatch at it, then cursed her when she held
it aloft.

“That Moira.” Isabella shook her head. “I
shall have to speak to her about leaving such items at the top of
the stairs. Why, some poor soul could have tripped and fallen.
Anthony might have broken a bone.” Still tsk-ing, she picked up her
skirts and marched up the stairs to the third floor.

What else would they steal?

What had they stolen already?

Isabella continued to the third floor to
deliver Eleanor’s posset, keeping her eyes open. When she saw four
of the Fae carrying a familiar silver platter on their shoulders,
keeping to the shadows lest she spy the treasure, Isabella knew the
truth.

The Fae had stolen the relics from their
rightful owners. It made some sense, for Darg had told Elizabeth of
its conviction that the relics at Ravensmuir were its own. And the
Fae would be able to slip past locked doors and invade secure
treasuries.

They were taking the relics back to
Ravensmuir, probably to hide them in the caverns once again – and
incidentally, they would take whatever else they could claim on the
way. In a way, it made sense to take the relics back to Ravensmuir,
where they had been secured for years before Tynan saw them
auctioned. Indeed, it made more sense to hide the relics there the
more Isabella thought about it: the ruins of collapsed Ravensmuir
were known to be unsafe. Few humans would dare to enter the remains
of that keep in order to search for a hoard of treasure that all
knew had been sold and moved.

Which simply meant that she had to tell
Murdoch about the Fae and interrupt the procession of treasures
before they ever reached Ravensmuir. That was the only way he would
be able to retrieve his family’s relic. If the Fae were moving
their valuables on this night, she had little time to waste.
Murdoch would have this one chance to retrieve his brother’s
property, and she would have this one chance to save her brother’s
reputation.