To Marry A Scottish Laird (22 page)

Joan was about to ask who the man was when her aunt suddenly stood and moved to the side of the bed.

“ ’Tis time to put more salve on your side,” she said quietly. “Lift your arm.”

“Oh, aye,” Joan said guiltily and did as she asked. She’d been slipping on the task she was supposed to be performing and had allowed the conversation to shift to subjects that had nothing to do with any of the attacks that had taken place at Sinclair. She supposed this was her aunt’s way of bringing them all back to the topic. There was nothing like letting them see the ugly bruising to ensure they started thinking of how she’d gained it. Hopefully it would bring the topic back around to the attacks on her, she thought, as her aunt lifted the side of the tunic she’d pulled on before the cloth had been brought up.

“Oh!”

Joan glanced to Murine at that cry, just in time to watch the woman swoon and slide out of the chair she’d been sitting in. She ended up slumped against the legs of her chair, her skirt up around her thighs where it had caught as she’d fallen out of her seat.

Saidh peered at Murine, shook her head and then stood up to walk over and tug her skirt down to cover her legs. Straightening then, she turned to peer at Joan, her eyes going wide as she took in Joan’s side. “God’s teeth, woman. Yer side is black as sin.”

“Aye, it looks nasty,” Garia said with concern, getting up from her seat at the table to move closer to the bed. Shaking her head, she met Joan’s gaze and said, “ ’Tis lucky it was yer side and no’ yer head that took the blow or ye definitely would no’ ha’e survived.”

“That was probably Finola’s intention,” Edith said grimly, taking her place to get a better look at it.

“Mayhap,” Joan agreed mildly. “But I was the lucky one. I hit my side, not my head and survived. Finola wasn’t so lucky.” She paused, but when no one said anything, she added, “Actually, I feel rather sorry for Finola. She must have been terribly unhappy.”

Garia paused at her seat to peer at her and then shook her head. “I’m sorry, Joan. I do no’ feel bad fer her at all. But ye’re very kind to, yerself.”

“Kind to the point o’ stupid if ye truly feel sorry fer that bitch,” Saidh said with disgust. “The woman was cruel, nasty and she was after yer man . . . and she did no’ care that he was married to ye either.”

Joan hesitated, and then glanced to where her aunt had settled back in her chair by the table. When she arched an eyebrow ever so slightly in question, Lady Annabel raised her mead and gave her head the faintest shake, her expression grim. So did Lady Sinclair when she glanced to her next.

Sighing, Joan lowered her head and pretended to sew a stitch to hide her expression. There was no way she could keep the frustration off her face right now as she acknowledged how stupid this idea had been. Or maybe she just wasn’t any good at it. They weren’t learning anything from this exercise. Nothing she’d heard so far was very helpful in telling them who was behind everything. These women all just seemed like nice, normal women. Not one was showing signs of being a coldblooded killer who might have thrown Finola down a flight of stairs and had set Joan up for a riding accident that could have killed her. Maybe the girls were right and Finola had been behind everything. Perhaps she had dosed the cider just to put a halt to the sewing session and get her hands on the dress. And perhaps she had stuck the hatpin in the horse that night before she’d fallen down the stairs.

Of course, that didn’t explain where the candle she’d been holding had gone, Joan thought, but perhaps the explanation for that was as simple as one of the servants pinching it in all the chaos after Finola had been found dead.

Sighing, Joan glanced up, and frowned when she noted Murine was showing no signs of stirring.

“Shouldn’t Murine be waking by now?” she asked with the beginnings of concern. “She doesn’t usually stay in her faints this long.”

“Aye, she usually wakes quickly,” Saidh said, and Joan glanced to her sharply as she heard the slur in her voice.

“Saidh? Are you all right?” she asked, sitting up slightly. Noting the glassy eyed look on the woman’s face, Joan glanced quickly to her aunt. “Aunt Annabel, there’s something wrong with . . .” Her voice trailed away as she noted that her aunt appeared to be sleeping in her chair. Lady Sinclair was too, she noted, turning her attention to her next.

Chapter 18

C
AM LET THE KIT
CHEN DOOR SWING CLOS
ED
behind him as he spied Tormod chatting up one of the maids at the far end of the room. He’d searched high and low for the bastard until one of the men had mentioned that the warrior was sweet on a kitchen maid, though he hadn’t said which one. That had finally led him here.

“Tormod,” he barked, striding toward the pair.

“Wha—Oh.” Tormod straightened at once on spotting him and turned to face him in question. “Is there something ye want?”

“Robbie said ye saw the stable boy walking me horse and me wife’s to the keep yesterday and that he was talking with one of the ladies me mother brought here?” Cam began.

“Aye. I do no’ ken where he went to after that, though, and I told Robbie as much.”

Cam waved that away. “Which of the ladies was he with?”

“Oh,” Tormod grimaced. “I do no’ ken her name. ’Twas the short one with red hair. I think she’s a MacCormick.”

“Aye. That’s Garia MacCormick,” Cook announced, drawing his gaze around. “A little peculiar, but a nice lass just the same.”

“Peculiar?” Cam asked quietly.

“Aye. She picked me a bunch o’ apples the other day. Thought I might like to make a nice tart or something, she said. I made applemoyse instead, it’s tastier, to me mind, and—”

“Get to the peculiar part,” Cam interrupted impatiently.

“Well, later that day one o’ the maids saw her picking through the garden, gathering up all the cores from the apples,” he said with a shake of the head, and then explained, “I have the maids throw things like that there, it makes the soil richer and—”

Cam didn’t stay to hear more. He didn’t need to. Apple seeds had been amongst the things Joan and Lady Annabel had said the poison that had been used on the messenger might be made from. And Garia had been seen not only collecting the apple cores, but also walking with the stable boy as he led their horses to the castle. He couldn’t think of any other reason the woman would have wanted the apple cores, and it would have been easy for her to distract the stable boy and slip the hatpin under the saddle as she walked with him. Cam was pretty sure he had his culprit.

Unfortunately, his father and Laird MacKay were less certain when he shared what he’d learned with them.

“I do no’ ken, son,” his father said, pursing his lips. “The cook said that a maid said . . . ? Did ye talk to the maid herself? ’Tis one thing to suspect the MacCormick lass did it, and another to accuse her on such flimsy proof. The MacCormicks are powerful. We do no’ want to start a war here by accusing the wrong lass.”

“Aye, and Tormod did no’ even ken the lass’s name,” the MacKay pointed out. “Ye should at least have him point out to ye which woman he saw. He and Cook could be talking about two different women. Or is she the only short redhead yer mother brought here?”

“Nay, there were two others,” Artair said. “Though one left the first day and another this afternoon. Garia MacCormick is the only short redhead left.”

“And the only short redhead whose scroll was carried by Allistair,” Cam said impatiently.

“Well, that’s true enough,” his father admitted thoughtfully.

“She’s up there right now with Joan,” Cam said grimly.

“She’ll no’ do anything with the other women there,” his father said soothingly. “I’m thinking we should call Tormod out here, and get Cook to send out the maid who saw the lass collecting apple cores and have them tell us if the MacCormick lass is who they saw. We can do that at the evening meal,” he decided with satisfaction. “If ’tis the same lass, and is the MacCormick girl, then we’ll sit her down and ask her some questions. We’ll get to the bottom o’ this.”

“If the ladies have no’ already done so by then,” Laird MacKay added.

“Aye,” Artair nodded. “If the ladies have no’ figured it all out for themselves by then.”

Cam narrowed his eyes at the two men and asked, “How much ale have ye had?”

His father stiffened at the question. “No’ even a full tankard, thank ye very much. What are ye suggesting?”

“I’m suggesting that earlier neither o’ ye were pleased at the thought o’ our wives being up in a room with a possible killer, and now ye both seem pretty damned unconcerned.”

“O’ course we’re concerned. But they should be safe enough with all the women together, and this is a sensitive business. We can no’ just accuse a lass who belongs to a powerful clan on hearsay,” his father snapped.

“Fine,” Cam snapped back. “Then I’ll search Garia’s room and find proof.”

“Oh, say, that’s a good idea,” his father commented. “I’ll come with ye.”

“Aye, me too,” Laird MacKay announced, getting to his feet.

T
HE HAIR ALL OVER
J
OAN’S BODY SEEMED SUDDENLY
to be standing on end as she stared at her unconscious aunt and mother-in-law, and then she slid her gaze back slowly across the room. To Murine still lying prone on the floor, then to Saidh struggling to get up from her chair and then dropping back with alarm on her face, then to Edith asleep with her arms on the table, and finally to Garia who had stood and moved to the end of the bed and was eyeing the sleeping women with narrow eyed interest.

“Garia?” she said quietly.

The woman took a deep breath, her shoulders rising, and then she let that breath out and turned to meet her gaze. “Aye, Joan?”

Joan hesitated and then asked, “Did you put some sort of sleeping powder in their drinks?”

Garia nodded.

“When?” she asked. “I didn’t see you near the tray. Saidh even brought you your goblet.”

“Aye, she did,” Garia agreed. “Saidh is surprisingly considerate despite her rough talk and ways. I quite like her. ’Tis a shame she will have to be the villain in all this.”

“Saidh will be the villain?” Joan asked with a frown, glancing to the woman in question. She had slumped in her chair, her eyes at half-mast.

“Aye, she was the last to be affected by me tincture and noticed that I was the only one left who was completely unaffected besides you. She still isn’t fully asleep, and just look, ye can see the realization in her eyes. She understands it was me,” Garia said sadly and then shook her head. “I’ll have to kill her and claim it was in self-defense, that I woke up and saw her bent over ye, tried to save ye by stabbing her with the shears, but ’twas too late.”

When she then picked up the shears from the table and stepped toward Saidh, Joan quickly asked, “How did you give the sleeping draft to everyone when you didn’t go near the tray of drinks after the servants brought it up?”

Garia turned back and stared at her for a long minute. Joan suspected she was debating whether to answer or not. In the end, however, she shrugged and said. “Murine was easy. Seated at the table with me as she was, I merely had to wait for her to start cutting and then quickly drip some in her goblet. I dosed Saidh’s drink when I took her the scissors, and then I dosed Lady Sinclair’s as I passed her on the way to see yer bruising. She was looking at it too and seemed quite horrified. Had she not seen it before?”

“Not since I was first brought back,” Joan said quietly. “I believe she helped Aunt Annabel with me then.”

Garia nodded, unsurprised. “I dosed Lady Annabel’s goblet on me way back to me seat and Edith’s as well since she was over here gawking at yer side still . . .” she shrugged. “And then I just waited to see who dropped next.”

“Next?” Joan asked. “So Murine’s faint wasn’t a faint?”

Garia shrugged. “It may have been, but the tincture will keep her under.”

Joan nodded slowly, but when Garia began to move again, asked, “And you did all this to what end?”

Garia blew out a slightly irritated breath and turned to peer at her again. “Why do ye think, Joan?”

“Because you want Cam for your own,” she guessed.

“Aye, o’ course I do,” Garia agreed. “And much as I like ye, Joan, yer wearing finery does no’ make ye a lady any more than putting a dress on a pig would make it one. Ye’re a peasant. Yer mother may have been a lady, but yer father was a commoner. She became a commoner when she married him. Ye were born a commoner, raised a commoner, and will always be a commoner. Cam deserves better than that.”

“Better being you?” she asked dryly.

“Aye, as it happens,” Garia said. “I was born and raised a lady. I have been properly trained in all the things a lady should ken. I sing like a bird, ken every dance there is, can hit the center of a target with an arrow on the windiest day and can ride like a warrior. I was born to rule Sinclair, not some backwater keep with little in the way o’ coin and a dirty, smelly old Laird . . . a laird who licks his lips every time he looks at me like I’m a leg o’ mutton he can no’ wait to bite into,” she added with disgust.

“This is the man your mother plans to marry you to?” Joan asked, trying not to be obvious about shifting her eyes around the area nearest her in search of a weapon besides the wee sewing needle she held in her hand.

“Aye. She’d rather marry me off to that odious creature than be saddled with me fer the rest o’ me days,” Garia said with a combination of bitterness and pain.

“Could you not run away to the abbey or—” Joan snapped her mouth closed at once as fury exploded over Garia’s expression and she realized what she’d said. She hadn’t been thinking, she’d just been trying to keep the conversation going as she searched for a way out of this situation. But she was thinking now and wasn’t surprised when Garia clenched her hand around the shears and began moving toward her instead of Saidh.

“The abbey, Joan?” she ground out furiously. “Yer mother was sent there fer punishment fer killing her husband, yet ye think it must be such a pleasant place I’d want to spend the rest o’ me life there? Unwed, me hair shorn from me head, me knees chapped from being on them so much. Never to have children o’ me own?”

Joan couldn’t help thinking that might be a good thing, but suspected saying so wouldn’t be a smart thing to do just then.

“Ye’re the one who should be in an abbey. Like yer mother before ye. Ye never should have been in Scotland at all. Why did ye have to come and ruin everything?” she growled.

“There were twelve women here, Garia. What did you plan to do? Kill anyone he showed interest in?” Joan asked quickly, easing sideways on the bed.

“They were no competition,” Garia snapped with disgust, pausing at the bedside. “Saidh is so rough ye’d be forgiven for thinking her a man, and Edith likes to think she’s smart, but she’s dull as dirty water. As for Murine, she could no’ keep from fainting long enough to hold a conversation with the man. And they were the best o’ the bunch!” She shook her head. “Nay. If no’ fer you, he’d probably have proposed to me already and then I could have laughed in me mother’s face. She did no’ think I could win him,” she added bitterly. “Well, I shall show her when ye’re dead and we’re wed.”

“Did you push Finola down the stairs?” Joan asked, trying to change the subject to something less volatile and buy more time.

“Aye. The cow threw herself at Cam. There ye were, lying in yer sickbed and she was throwing herself at him like some tavern wench,” she said with outrage. “She had to be punished.” Pausing, she frowned and asked, “How did ye ken she was pushed and did no’ fall?”

“You took her candleholder,” Joan said quietly, easing a little more to the side away from her.

“Oh. Aye. ’Tis in me room. I shall have to put it back in hers after this,” Garia decided.

“Is that when you took the hatpin from her?” Joan asked, glancing swiftly to the side and wondering if her goblet was sturdy enough to do any damage if she hit her with it.

“Aye. ’Tis a shame, that. I really liked the hatpin, but it seemed better if the pin used was someone else’s, and using hers would reassure anyone who might be getting suspicious that the danger had passed. Which is what I thought happened,” she added and then frowned. “I hadn’t thought of the candleholder.” Shrugging, she turned her full attention to Joan again. “Ye do realize ye’re no’ going to be able to get out o’ the bed ere I stab ye?”

“Mayhap,” Joan allowed. “But I can try.”

Garia smiled faintly. “I really do like yer spirit, Joan. ’Tis just a shame ye never learned yer place and that ye should stay in it.”

The words were barely out of her mouth before she suddenly stabbed out at her with the shears.

Rather than try to flee the bed and be stabbed in the back, Joan grabbed the bolster she’d been leaning against and brought it up to block the shears. Much to her relief, it worked and while the feather bolster suffered a messy death with feathers flying everywhere, she was unscathed.

Joan made an attempt to flee the bed then, only to have Garia grab her by the hair and drag her back. She landed on her back in the bed, saw Garia shake the bolster off the end of the shears and plunge them toward her again, and quickly grabbed her wrist with both hands. She also began to scream her head off. A sound that ended in a grunt when Garia suddenly climbed onto the bed and knelt on her chest, forcing the air out of her lungs in one painful gush.

“Ye’re just making this harder on yerself, Joan,” Garia ground out, trying to force the shears down toward her chest.

Joan would have told her to go to hell, but didn’t have the air in her lungs to say it. Besides, all her strength was presently being sapped by trying to keep the shears out of her chest. She was failing miserably at the effort, the lack of air weakening her, and Joan was sure she was about to die when Garia suddenly collapsed onto her with a startled grunt.

Eyes wide, Joan retrieved the shears from Garia’s now lax hands and then pushed her head out of the way to look past her.

“Murine,” she said with surprise when she saw the woman standing there with a log from the fireplace in her hands. Jinny had prepared for a fire in case the ladies wanted one, but it was warm enough they hadn’t bothered. Still, the logs had come in handy, Joan thought vaguely.

“I’m sorry,” Murine said quietly, drawing her gaze again.

Joan glanced to her with surprise. “For what? You saved my life.”

“Aye, but it took me so long,” she said unhappily and explained, “I woke from me faint a while ago. I didn’t drink the mead she dosed. I was too busy trying to cut a straight line. And then when I woke up, it took me a minute to orient meself and try to move, and before I could, I heard what she was saying, what both o’ ye were saying and I was so scared. I was trying to look around fer a weapon without drawing her attention to the fact that I was awake, and—”