A Rip in the Veil (37 page)

“Need help, do you? Afraid that I’ll beat you senseless?”

In reply, Matthew crashed his fist into his brother’s face. Luke reeled, but came back fighting. But this time Matthew had two good arms, and on top of that he was fuelled by an ice-cold rage, one savage punch after the other driving Luke back into a corner.

“For Ian,” he spat as he landed one well directed blow. “My son, not yours.”

Luke parried, ducked. “Mine,” he panted, “Margaret swears he’s mine.”

“Then she lies,” Simon said, “but she does that a lot.”

“Take that back!” With a screech Luke launched himself in Simon’s direction, was brought up hard by Matthew’s fist in his gut. “Agh,” Luke groaned, all air knocked out of him.

“That’s for Alex,” Matthew said. Repeatedly, he hit Luke in the stomach, standing back to watch his brother crawl on all four. “And for the babe.”

“The babe?” Luke stared up at him, wiping at his bleeding mouth. “What babe?” He groaned, clutching at his midriff.

“The wean Alex lost.”

For an instant Luke froze, an expression of acute shame flashing over his features.

“A wean?” He was back on his feet. “I swear I didn’t know.”

“Does it make a difference?” Matthew said, “Would you have stayed your hand, had you known?” Two bright green eyes met his – angry, catlike eyes.

“I…” Luke looked away. “Probably not.”

Matthew was so surprised by the honesty of this reply, he lowered his guard, and Luke took the opportunity to swipe at him, landing a forceful punch on Matthew’s chin. But before he could reach the door, Matthew grabbed him and shoved him to land on the ground.

“The swords,” he said to Simon.

“Matthew,” Simon said, “this isn’t wise. It’s frowned upon, you know that.”

“Give me the damned swords!”

Simon handed him two rapiers and stepped as far out of range as possible.

“So, brother, do you know how to use one of these?” Matthew most certainly did, four years at war had left him an excellent swordsman.

Luke nodded, and when Matthew threw him one, caught it by the hilt.

“A duel?”

“A duel? I think not. Retribution, more like.” Matthew stood at ease, and Luke licked his lips.

“Afraid?” Matthew jeered. “Uncomfortable when you have to see me in the eyes instead of having others do your dirty work?”

Luke cursed and lunged.

They were well-matched in size and reach, and for a while Luke held his own, compensating for lack of experience and skill by sheer desperation. At one point Luke succeeded in grazing Matthew with his blade, a triumphant smile spreading over his face.

That was the only blood Luke drew, and over the coming minutes Matthew decorated his brother’s arms, his torso with a series of cuts. Desperate and cornered, Luke charged. Matthew sidestepped, rapped him over the hand with the flat of his blade, causing Luke to release his sword, and a few moments later it was over, with a bleeding and trembling Luke standing on his toes while Matthew’s blade rested against the uncovered skin of his throat.

“I could kill you,” Matthew said. “I should kill you; or geld you. Which is it to be” He angled the blade upwards, pressing hard enough to break the skin. His hand quivered; so easy, a decisive slash and Luke would be no more. He was vaguely aware of Simon hovering in the background, but Matthew’s attention was focused on the honed edge of his rapier and how it pressed against Luke’s throbbing jugular.

“Please…” Luke croaked, “please.” The enclosed space filled with the sour stench of piss.

Matthew wrinkled his nose and drew the blade to the side, leaving a shallow bleeding gash in its wake.

“Get out, wee brother” he said contemptuously. “Get out before I change my mind.”

Luke fled. “I hate you, Matthew Graham,” he yelled when he was safely out of range. “I hate you, you hear?”

*

“…and by now he’s halfway to Edinburgh,” Matthew summarised much later.

“Oh,” Alex said. “And Margaret?”

“Margaret? Well, I assume she’s still here. She wasn’t riding with him.”

“She can’t, can she?” Joan said. “She has her son.”

“My son,” Matthew snapped and stalked from the room. Alex made as if to stand and go after him, but Simon waved her down.

“I’ll go, if nothing else I can offer the comfort of whisky and silent male companionship.” He winked at her. “Sometimes that’s all a man needs – or wants.”

“Here.” Simon refilled Matthew’s pewter cup, sloshed some more into his own cup, and sat back. “You should have killed him.”

“Aye. But he’s my brother.”

“Not for long, if Luke has his wishes come true.”

Matthew took another sip of whisky. The warmth of it travelled down his innards, calming the snaking anger that just the thought of Luke inspired.

“Why, Simon? Why does he hate me so much?”

Simon shrugged. “Luke’s a difficult man to comprehend. And God alone knows what fanciful stories Margaret told him when he returned – but I don’t think they painted you in a flattering light.” He paused and swept the remains in his cup. “I suspect Luke thinks you coerced Margaret into marriage, forced yourself upon her, and for that he will never forgive you.” Simon cleared his throat and stretched for the stone bottle. “Almost empty,” he said indistinctly, refilling Matthew’s cup. “You have to evict her, she can’t stay on in the cottage, not after this.”

“It isn’t her fault,” Matthew said.

“It’s her lies that lie at the bottom of it all.” Simon levelled a discerning stare at him. “What is it you want with her?”

“Nothing! It’s just… Sometimes I, well, I’d like to lay my ghosts at rest. To not always see her laughing at me in my head.” And as long as Margaret remained at Hillview, he could hope for the occasional glimpse of the lad.

“You want to bed her?” Simon sounded astounded.

“No! I don’t know what I want. I’d like her to plead that I come back to her.”

“And would you?”

“Nay,” Matthew said, “but I’d like that she should ask so that I could tell her so.”

Alex was still awake when Matthew entered their room. He had hoped she wouldn’t be, not wanting to talk to her while his mind buzzed with images of himself and a penitent Margaret. He flushed with shame; in his bed was his wife, and he had his head full of pictures of that other wife, the one who crushed his heart. And saved his life, for had she not thrown herself across him that Sunday almost a fortnight ago, he would’ve been dead. He became aware of Alex and found himself staring into two glacial blue eyes.

“So, do you?” she demanded.

“Do I what?”

“Do you want to fuck her? You know, to lay your ghosts at rest.”

He considered lying to her, or even pretending he had no idea what she was talking about, but some sense of self-preservation made him decide to tell her the truth, as well as he could.

“At times.” He ignored her colourful curse and went to sit beside her. “I don’t love her, but I wouldn’t mind the opportunity to humiliate her as she did to me, laugh at her while she begged for me to…well, you know.” He snuck her a quick look. So far the truth had not gone down well. “It’s nothing I would ever do.”

“But you think about it, you and her, fucking.”

“And you don’t? Don’t you at times think of him, John, like that?” He hoped she didn’t, that he’d succeeded in erasing his predecessor entirely from her heart and mind.

“And if I did, how would that make you feel?”

“I’d hate it.” He caught her eyes. “Do you?”

She shook her head vehemently. “I think of him, but never like that.”

“Oh.”

“But you do.”

He hitched his shoulders. What could he say?

She turned her back on him, shoulders stiff with reproach. Matthew patted her hip and she slapped his hand away. He sighed, stood to undress. He looked down at her still shape, so unmoving he was sure she was holding her breath. For a moment he considered leaving her to sleep. In the end he decided not to.

“I love you,” he said as he rolled her over to face him. “Only you. You know that.”

“Huh.”

He had to work for it that night. Hard. Fortunately, he was both persistent and creative.

* * *

“Really?” Minister Weir’s nose twitched.

“Well, I’m not sure,” Luke Graham said, “but I find it…coincidental.” He dabbed at his swollen, bruised face and scowled.

“How do you mean?” Hector asked from his corner. He was making an effort to stay out of the light, to keep his ageing body hidden – in particular after seeing the undisguised shock on Luke Graham’s face when he‘d greeted him. He looked down at his hand, closed so firmly round the earthenware mug. Old, but as yet strong, even if he suspected it was but a matter of time before whatever was happening to his outer shell began to attack muscles and tendons as well.

“The man said, how he and his friends had attempted to rob a man and a woman on the moor. And the woman…” Luke shook his head. “She’s strange, my brother’s wife, and she’s not from here. Who knows what she might be?” He raised his hand to rub at the narrow scab that decorated his throat.

“A foreigner,” Minister Weir nodded.

Hector gave him an irritated look. The man had major issues with xenophobia.

“That in itself is not necessarily an indication of anything sinister, this inn is full of foreigners.”

“Sailors, to be expected here in Leith.” Luke continued with his incredible story about a woman in long blue breeches and the two robbers she’d kicked to death.

“I…” Luke broke off, twisted his mouth into a rueful smile. “Well, I suppose I fear for my brother – what if his wife and this woman is one and the same?”

The hell you fear for him, Hector sneered.

“Of course you do,” Minister Weir said, patting the younger man’s hand in a paternal gesture.

“I’ll make it worth your while.” Luke produced a velvet pouch. “And even more should she hang.”

Minister Weir gave him a stern look. “Do you think me motivated by gold?”

Hector choked on his beer.

“Of course not,” Luke said, “see this as contribution to your expenses, no more, no less.”

“Hmm.” Minister Weir caught the pouch when Luke lobbed it to him. “I’ll get to the bottom of it, but it would help if we could find the witness.”

“Aye, not too difficult, I reckon. The man’s a drunk, babbles his story to whoever plies him with sufficient whisky.” Luke produced a few coins and dropped them on the table. “Down Lanark way,” he added before excusing himself, mumbling something about needing to find the captain of his ship.

“Well, well,” Minister Weir said, rubbing his hands together. “Isn’t this exciting? A murderess, no less, mayhap even a witch.”

“Indeed.” Oh yes; very exciting, exciting enough that Hector’s hands were twitching. Minister Weir grinned slyly at Hector.

“Interesting enough for me to persuade you to come along?”

“Absolutely; after all, how often does one get to expose a murderer?” Finally, he thought, hiding his smile in his mug, at last he’d have the pleasure of meeting Alex Lind face to face.

Chapter 30

It was a quiet ride back home, Matthew submerged in his own thoughts. Alex sighed. For the last few days the single subject of conversation had been Ian, Matthew keeping up an intense debate with Simon as to how he should go about to reclaim his son.

Simon had been categorical. The divorce document and the subsequent disowning of the boy would be difficult to reverse – besides, he’d pointed out in a voice so low Alex wasn’t supposed to hear it, how would Matthew’s new wife feel about having Ian come to live with them?

A damn good question, Mr Melville, a question Mr Graham should perhaps have raised with his wife first. Still; she could sympathise with his feelings, and just the thought of a child growing up under Luke’s care made her shudder.

“If you wanted him back, I’d do my best to welcome him,” Alex said, smiling at his surprised look. She nudged her mare closer. “It’s not only me that’s transparent at times,” she said, reaching over to pat his leg.

“Do you think I should try?”

Alex mulled this over for a long time. If she were to be honest, she would be uncomfortable with his son in the house – particularly a son torn from the only parents he’d ever known. Matthew was still waiting for an answer, his eyes resting on her with a look she couldn’t quite interpret.

“I think it would be cruel to the mother.” She drew rein, waiting until he’d turned and halted Samson. “I would have no problem with Ian living with us, but I’d never accept having Margaret there. Ever.” Definitely not after what she’d overheard the other evening, all that crap about wanting to have Margaret beg him to take her back. His intense performance in bed that night had assuaged some of her jealousy, but most of it was still very much alive and kicking.

A slight flush stained Matthew’s cheeks. “My son should grow up with me.”

“Your son doesn’t consider you his father. He’d hate you for wrenching him away from his mother. It would be devastating to them both.”

“Mayhap I should let them stay on in the cottage, then I can see him now and then.”

“No. She goes.” She drove her heels into the horse and left him in the middle of the road.

Once back home, Alex took care of the unloading, shooing Matthew off to inspect his fields or go and scratch the sow, or why not check on the oxen?

“The oxen?” He looked over to where the two placid beasts were grazing in the closest meadow. But he seemed glad enough to be let off the unpacking, leaving satchels and pannier baskets by the door before leading the horses off to the stable. Alex waited until he was out of sight before digging into one of the panniers. Right at the bottom, hidden under bolts of fabric, was Mercedes’ picture, wrapped in burlap.

She caressed the bundle. It hummed into life, strands of whispering song leaking out of it. Shit! She fumbled and dropped it. It should burn. Burn it now, yes, burn it now. Gingerly she picked it up. She’d tried to destroy it back in Cumnock, but at the last moment she’d pulled it back from the fire, incapable of burning this last tenuous link with her mother.

“Welcome back,” someone said from behind her. Alex smiled a bright greeting at Mrs Gordon, loaded her arms to hide the package, and rushed upstairs. She held the wrapped painting at arm’s length. She’d burn it. Yes, of course she would. But not today. Hastily she stuffed it into the mule chest.