Highland Scandal (13 page)

“Next we have your father’s murderer to deal with.”

Lachlan’s throat closed up at Semias’s word choice. He let it pass without comment.

“Where is this man?”

“Laird, ’tis no man but a woman.”

Artur turned away, no doubt to get her.

“A woman...the auld laird killed by a woman. I believe that is called justice.”

Weakness always kills a man.

Lachlan looked to the door to the Laird’s Chamber behind him where his past weakness battled for her life.

Chapter Seven

Two arms yanked her from the darkness. She blinked against the light. Only the bruising hold of her arm kept her on her feet. Semias had won. Today, she would face her death. She clutched her belly. Perhaps, this was better than what awaited her.

She blinked against the stinging torch light. She drew in a shaky breath, banishing the moldy miasma of the dungeon from her lungs. The stench lingered in the weave of her clothing. Dirt was thick beneath her nails and smeared over her. Feces, urine, water and dirt coated her bare feet and she slid to her knee. Domhnall helped her back to her feet. She gave a quivering nod of thanks before she steeled herself.

How many days had passed since she was locked away? She believed a fortnight had gone by based on the meals brought to her. How many of those days had he been here? Domhnall held her and he all but dragged her into the great hall.

Peat smoke curled around the hall’s beams. She felt warmth lick at her skin. The delicious heat did nothing to banish the chill.

Before the grand Laird’s chair, Semias stood beside an unknown man. The new laird—Lachlan. He was broad-shouldered, with an air of fearless and ruthlessness. He was a braw man much like his father. She halted. Domhnall yanked her forward. She cried out.

“She’s with bairn.” His shocked tone bounced off the blacken beams.

She rested her hand over the swell of her belly.

“Aye, Laird, though it did not stop her from committing a most vile sin.” She glared at Semias.

“Where is her husband?” The laird’s narrowed eyes focused on her. She struggled not to fiddle under his regard.

“She lacks one.”

“The father?”

“Your father.”

He flinched back, and then rolled his eyes. He shouldn’t since he shared the sinful parentage of her bairn. “Get her a seat.”

The laird approached her with measured steps. His attention was on her belly. Through his thick lashes, his eyes glowed an amber. He took her hand and tucked it in the crook of his arm.

Domhnall returned and placed the chair in the center of the hall. The laird escorted her to it and lowered her to sit.

“I am Lach—Laird Gordon.” His taut tone surprised her. “And you?”

“Sheena.”

“Would you care for a drink or food?”

She craned her neck to look upon him. “Nay.”

“That is the auld laird’s bairn,” he said, sounding as if it were an accusation.

She nodded and folded her hands over her belly’s girth.

“Your family?”

“I am alone. Last harvest, the croft burned and took away my parents. I lived because I was here helping with the chores. But my siblings had wed. ”

“She lived near the edge of the lands near the burn,” Semias added. “Mistress Cullen is a relation of hers and added her to the household rolls. She has been here since.”

The laird kept his regard on her. She forced her gaze to remain steady even though she was unnerved. The man seemed to see into her.

“Did you kill him?”

“Nay.” He cocked a brow at her. “In my current state, why would I commit such an act? I would certainly starve. ’Tis not easy for an unwed woman with a bairn.”

“The world does not take kindly to women in your situation.”

“The laird had planned to send her away.”

She glowered at Semias. She knew he was the power behind the laird. Would this one follow his lead?

“His favorite way of dealing with a situation no longer to his liking. Away where?”

“He had arranged a marriage to a Gordon in the lowlands. It has since been called off. Laird, justice must be served to show your power and swift leadership.”

“Power from killing a woman carrying a child. That is not power. Who has accused her of this crime and what is the proof? Not you, Semias. Sheena.”

“I had come upon him. Sitting there.” She pointed to the laird’s chair. “He was leaning to the side but he was upright. I had thought he had fallen asleep. I called out to him but he gave no answer. I teased him a bit then I touched his shoulder and he shifted. I saw the dirk in his back of his neck.” She wiped her hands on her dirty, wrinkled plaid. “There was blood on my fingers.”

“Continue.”

She forced her attention on to the laird. “I must have screamed because the lairdess came running.”

“From the chamber?”

“Nay from there.” She pointed toward the archway leading to the stairs. “She smacked me and called me murderer. Ianatan and Eanruig came and dragged me away. I have been there since.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. The position emphasized the breadth of his arms. Could she truly believe that he would listened to her and unearth the truth? She met his gaze. She could read nothing on his face, not because he concealed his thoughts, but because he seemed shocked. She began to shake and curled her toes in a useless effort to stop it.

“See that she is cleaned up, fed, and given a warm, clean place to rest until I decide.”

“My laird, the council ruled on her guilt. You cannot let her live.” For an auld man, Semias moved swiftly to the laird’s side.

Laird calmly turned to him. “Do not tell me what to do.”

Sheena swallowed. His calm demeanor frightened her more than bellows or even the threat of death ever could. She had seen men such as him and knew the calculating deadliness in which they acted. What did it mean for her?

* * * *

Lachlan watched as Ianatan led Sheena to a small chamber beside the kitchens. A guard would stand outside both night and day. Though she was covered in dirt, with tear tracks running down her face, he saw more than her beauty. He saw his mother, pregnant, alone, and shunned. His mother could have been sitting in that chair, trying to save her child. He shook away that thought.

Sheena bloomed with youth and possessed the physical traits that excited his father. Funny, his father loved brown haired women with eyes that matched. He liked women who possessed softness, but who had iron will beneath their femininity. Yet his wife was blonde with blue eyes and her body was more like a beech tree’s trunk—straight and rough.

“Laird, we have other details requiring our attention.”

“Semias, do not fret. I am not departing any time soon. Let’s continue.”

Three men, undoubtedly prosperous tacksmen, appeared from the same archway Sheena had pointed to moments ago.

“Goraidh Gordon,” Semias said as the first man stepped up. “He is a cousin of yours, Laird.” He towered over the other men. He possessed a craggy, weather-beaten face and his hair was the color of the barren munro tops. He sneezed.

“Padruig Moir.” Torch light shined off his bare head. His ears stuck out and the thick lobes shook when he moved his head.

“Seathan Badenoch.”

He was a boney man with long, sharp features, especially his nose, which ended in a keen edge with large nostrils. Lachlan shared a drink with these men. When
uisge beatha
had been consumed, Semias shattered the cordial atmosphere.

“Shall we venture to the view the rolls?”

Lachlan followed Semias to the basement. Hell, he was laird. The families who once gave him a wide berth now depended on him for their lives. He entered the small chamber. Any heat his body held dissipated from the cold, dim space. The candle flames danced from the draft. The torch light gave some heat, but not enough to banish the cold that settled into the stones and sharpened the scent of old parchment and dust.

Lachlan plopped on the seat behind the simple table. Semias unfurled the rent rolls. Lachlan listened as the men told him about each family, their stories, their planting, and their animals. There was Fionninghua, a witch who lived with her daughter Raghnaid and her husband and their four bairns. Fionninghua was the midwife and once killed a goat with a look.

“’Tis the big wart on her nose. That thing moves,” Padruig said.

“She delivered you,” Semias said. Pride graced his face.

Lachlan sat back. Something came over him. He wasn’t sure what he felt. He knew one fact—his birth…his life held importance to this man.

“Raghnaid’s brother, Marc, has joined with Jonty,” Goraidh added between his sniffles.

“He has a great deal of support among the men,” Lachlan asked.

“He has made promises, ones he canna keep,” Seathan answered. His large nostrils flared in emphasis. “He speaks of giving them more land to plant without raising rents.”

“They are foolish to believe him. He must be telling them more.”

“Jonty has no love for ye.”

“Do go on, Seathan.”

“He has hated yer since ye took his place.”

Lachlan’s brows jumped up, pulling his eyes wide open that he felt the wind dry his eyeballs.

“Ye went to foster with the MacLeans when he was meant to. Yer father followed ye, relishing the stories. Jonty is skilled with a sword, but na like ye. There are no tales aboot him. And yer father liked that the lasses liked ye, said ye had him in ye.”

Lachlan rubbed his forefinger over his mouth to hide his shaking and to soothe the rush of rage flooding him. That auld bastard had no right to take pride in him. Still, he felt a wee bit of retribution that he had.

“Speaking of lasses.” Semias caught his attention. The man reddened. Lachlan chuckled.

“The lady in your chamber…”

“Rowen. She is the sister of the Earl of Wester Ross and a friend.” The men shared a look. Lachlan understood. “Do not let her brother see you do that. She is most honorable and he will cut down any man who thinks otherwise, let alone shares that notion with another.”

“Ye winna be marrying her then.”

“Her brother must have other plans for her. Caelen wouldn’t tie her to a bastard.”

“You are laird.”

Lachlan guffawed. “Do not be insulted, Semias. All will be well. But let’s talk about the lasses. I assume you wish to talk about a marriage.”

“Such a union will tighten bonds, and with Jonty and the Murrays we may be needing stronger ties.”

“Ye be needing a woman to run the household.” Seathan looked to Padruig and Goraidh for support. They nodded as if they spoke with a wisdom gleamed from the ancients.

“And bairns,” Semias added. “Wee ones like you were once. Brave, strong when the world was against you.”

Lachlan stared at him. Semias must have felt his deep regard because he met his gaze. Tenderness shined in their murky depths the same a father expressed as he looked upon his son. Did Semias hold such affection for Lachlan? Did he have someone in his life that cared for him yet he never knew of his existence?

“I am not against that holy sacrament but now is not the time to parade bridegrooms before me.”

Lachlan dismissed the men. “Semias, remain behind.” Once the door closed behind the tacksmen, Lachlan rose. He came around the table. “Should I remember you?”

Semias lowered his head. He gave it a shake then faced him. “You were but a lad. I escorted you to MacLean. You were frightened, but did not let that show. Nay, you threw back yer boney shoulders and faced it.” His voice was laced with melancholy warmth.

“I do not remember you.”

“As I said, you were a lad and your mother had died a short time before.”

Lachlan inclined his head since it seemed as if Semias waited for his dismissal. Lachlan slumped in the chair. He folded his hand together and tucked them behind his head. He stared up at the ceiling. There was more to Semias’s story. He wasn’t sure if he wished to learn all of it. Yet, he knew he would. Was he ready for the story he had forgotten?

* * * *

Without disturbance, Lachlan made his way to the Laird’s Chamber. He shut the door without a sound. The bed seemed to be pulling Rowen into its depths, making her seem so small and frail. If not for her ragged breathing, he would have thought her dead. There was a chance of that. People died for fevers.

“What are you fleeing that you would risk your life and that of your son? I should send a messenger to your brother.”

“Laird,” Mistress Cullen came in. “I’ve brought some broth for the lass.”

“I shall take that. Where is her son?”

She grinned. “Filling his belly in the kitchens. He eats more than a grown mon.”

“Young boys do that.” Lachlan took the tray.

“Aye, he’d be needing a bath though he refuses it in a verra loud voice.”

“After his final meal then I shall see he is set to right. Now, why are you gawking at me for?”

“Ye’re the laird. Ye shouldna be doing such chores.”

“If we followed what should and should not, I should not be laird.”

She twisted her mouth. “Ye’ll be a fine one. I ken such things.”

“You converse with the netherworld?”

“I ken she is a banshee. Here to protect ye though it seems ye be protecting her.”

“Nay, Mistress Cullen, she is but a woman.” A woman that knocks him to his knees.

“Yer woman.”

He shook his head. “Nay.”

Mistress Cullen made a sound in the back of her throat before she departed in a flurry and rapid footsteps scraping against the wood floor.

“Let’s fill your belly.” He picked up the spoon and dipped it in the steamy broth. He blew on it before he placed its rounded edge to her mouth. He swore he heard the rip of her chapped lips as they parted. He dribbled the clear broth in her mouth. Some dripped down the side of her face.

“I do not think I am skilled in this.” He continued feeding her. She turned her head toward the spoon and made the most sensual grunt-groan he had ever heard. “I wish you were well. You will not know him, but Semias knows me. He may know times in my life that I rather forget.”