Highland Scandal (18 page)

Lachlan gave a wave of his hand for Semias to speak.

“I knew you as a wee lad. I remember your appearance, your gestures…I can still see the boy you were and I see it again in her boy. Is there a chance that bairn is yours?”

Lachlan spun toward him. “He is not mine.”

“Lachlan, he does not share her coloring or that of Eacharn Murray.”

“Her brother Magnus has dark coloring, or perhaps Eacharn and her coloring blended together to create the boy you see before you. Besides, they were wed when she birthed the boy.”

“’Tis just that she continued the Murray line most expediently,” Semias said.

“God does bestow children upon brides on their wedding nights.”

“Through my years, I have learned God bestows bairns before the wedding night.”

“Be at ease, Semias. That boy is a Murray.”

Semias hesitated. “Aye.”

Lachlan gave him his back and splashed water upon his face. The lad could be his. A bastard…he could not do that to a child. For himself he must know. Rowen would not leave until he learned all.

Chapter Nine

For the next fortnight, Lachlan watched Kenny. He watched him eat, watched scratch his nose even watched him stand. Was Semias right? The boy was left handed as himself. The auld Laird MacLean wouldn’t allow priests or tutors to force him to use his right one. The old priest had told the laird that the left hand was the hand of the devil. The laird responded with, “Good. I want devils fighting for the clan.”

Rowen hadn’t changed it either, then again he had not started writing and there was still a chance. A hand did not proclaim his parentage. Lachlan’s own father was right handed. He ought to demand the truth from Rowen.

Not that the truth would change anything for him. For Rowen and Kenny…she would be a whore and him a bastard. He couldn’t allow that to happen. Kenny galloped around the hall on his riding stick horse. Lachlan had gifted him with it some days ago and he wouldn’t let the thing go, thanks to the honey on his hands.

The rest of Semias’ confession popped into his thoughts. The man loved his mother and put that love on Lachlan. He had saved his life. The bastard boy was valued by someone. There were some secrets Lachlan wished to unlearn. Whatever happened, Lachlan couldn’t return to the person he was.

Ianatan rushed in. “Laird, tracks have been found. ’Tis Jonty and his men. Ye can see the smithy’s mark.”

Lachlan leaped to his feet and crossed into the courtyard, ordering his horse. Minutes later, he was in the saddle, Ianatan leading him to the trail. This was where he showed his skill. His sword was at his side, a comforting weight.

Buttery sunlight cut through the forest to skip over the ground in a dapple pattern. Light glittered off the Scots pine branches. Its pine needles littered the melting snow. The birch tree trunks gleamed brightly like a polished sword. Its trunks were marked with moss that seemed to be seeing all that happened within its sight. Lachlan wished the damn things spoke and could tell him. The trail was muddy and each step of his horse, he heard the
pop
of its hooves pulling free from its sucking grasp.

“There, Laird.”

Lachlan looked down at the horse’s hooves. He followed the trail. Other tracks covered some, overlapped it in certain places, but each one headed in the same direction. It led away from the clachan. A horse could easily fit between the bare broadleaf trees to reach this trail.

“They are heading deeper into the forest.”

“There’s been a
sheiling
on
Broickhollis
. A good place for shelter.” Ianatan raised his gaze in the direction of the hill as if he could see the
sheiling.
The building was used during the summer when the men drove their cattle upward and where the men and their families spent the season until it was time to return with their beasts to the clachan.

Lachlan rose to his feet. A red grouse flew into the sky, coming from the burn he heard in the distance.

“My laird, should we na go an see?” Ianatan balanced on his toes ready to leap on his horse.

“Nay, it could be someone hunting, but this will lead us to them or their hiding place.” Lachlan climbed on Wulver.

“Do ye ken, Laird, that when the
coos
feed there they give a braw yield of butter?” Ianatan drew up beside Lachlan.

“Before we butter our bread, let’s deal with this threat.”

Snow swirled around the hilltop, thickening the gray mist sloping along the side. The tracks ceased, having been obscured by circling wind and the snow it deposited from its whirl.

“Where is this
sheiling
?”

“This way, Laird. Tamhas comes up here to feed his herd along with his father. I spent time here. The land is boggy and stones jut out from the ground. From here, ye have good sights.”

“And far away from people’s curious gaze,” Lachlan added.

They rode in silence. Each man was alert for any sound that had no place, waiting for their horses to pick up a scent that did not belong. This had to end, Lachlan knew, he was ready to ride off and hunt them down. Rowen and Kenny’s presence stopped him.

“There it is.”

With one glance, Lachlan knew the structure stood empty…for now. He went for an inspection. The lingering smell of peat smoke was the first sign of their presence. Flung about the square structure were the meatless carcasses of animals. In the corner was a half empty bag. He opened it. Cheese, stale bread, and a horn nearly empty were wrapped in the cloth.

He almost took their meager supplies, forcing them to depart the safety of this place in search of food. Instead, he decided to let them relish their false sense of security. Let them think that Lachlan had no knowledge of their whereabouts.

“Cover our tracks and all sign of our presence. Ianatan, I wish this place guarded and every move reported to me. And if one person speaks of this to anyone but me, I will have his head on the castle walls.”

* * * *

Rowen smoothed down her
leine
. Why had she made this one? The green hue made the blue tint of her ghostly skin appear bluer. She picked up her red
arasaid
and then threw it aside. She looked like a tree with its berries hanging plump and juicy. The saffron one would not do. She settled on the blue one. Maybe it would lessen her blue skin.

“Come here, Kenny.”

He ran to her, slamming into her legs. “Behave yourself for Ceit. I will return later.” She kissed him. Her lips pressed into his plump cheek.

Kenny hurried back to play with the maid and forgot all about her. She ambled her way into the great hall. A small crowd had gathered to hear the bard play the
clarsach.
Their conversations overlapped and sounded more like a beehive busy making honey. In a wave the talk ceased as their judgmental regard fixed upon her. Behind her, the hum of hushed and hurried talk spread. She couldn’t make out words, and then she heard it.
Banshee.

Lachlan rose from his seat at the front and took her hand. She pulled it free from his hold once she sat. Though her station required her to sit here, she knew that it pronounced her standing with their laird.

The harper sat upon the dais, the hearth flames aglow behind him. The beautiful, carved
clarsach
gleamed under the candlelight, and the gold and silver openwork of unicorns and Celtic knots shined. Rubies, pearls, and amber filled the knots’ centers.

Lachlan spoke her name. She flinched. He held out a filigreed cup to her. She smelled the wine.

“Take a slow taste. It will give you something to do and calm you as well.”

She did as he said. It helped so she took another one. “Do you know the trouble you are causing?”

Lachlan leaned toward her ear. He raised his hand to his mouth and said, “I do not act without being fully aware of the reaction.”

“They are calling me a banshee.”

“Not the first time you have been called such.”

“Nay, but if the man murdered your father for being under the spell of a fairy, what do you think may happen to you?”

“Mayhap, the sinner will act.”

“That is what you truly desire? Such action can work against you. More men may join Jonty.”

“It was not one of the followers. The person who killed him must have been someone he trusted enough to guard his back.”

“You wished for them to speak such things. You are endangering me and my son.” Her voice quivered.

“Rowen, I will protect you with my body. You are more than my heart. You are part of me…the only part that is worth anything.”

The harper plucked at the silver wire and Lachlan turned away. The man knew how to pluck her strings. Her hand shook, sending drops of wine on her
leine
. The liquid spread through the weave. He had done it again. A torrid of reactions racked her—her pulse raced—a delicious heat spread through her—she tingled.

She had felt this way countless times before. When he first proclaimed his love for her, she had been spinning in the hall when he came up to her and whispered those words in her ear. His breath was hot against her skin and tickled her ear. She shook in both pleasure and reaction.

She had peered over her shoulder to see him, strolling out of the hall. She had watched until the sunlight swallowed him.

 “I will not ask if you feel the same. When and if you want to speak of your feelings toward me, I will listen.”

Lachlan returned to listening to the bard as he launched into another ballad. Upon her marriage, she buried her love for him. Here with him, there was no reason not to profess her love for him. Except for her fear.

A commotion stirred at the rear of the hall. Artur rushed to Lachlan’s side.

“Laird, Jonty and his men are in the clachan. The horses are being readied.”

Lachlan jumped from his chair. He stormed into his chamber and returned with his sword at his side.

Once the door shut, the guests rose and began to mill out. Servants departed. Their heads bent together in whispering. She bade those near her a good night and safe journey to their cottars. The bard climbed from the dais.

“Semias, have you ordered more men on the walls and shut the castle gates? You may have a few more men ready to ride out if necessary.”

His thin mouth flattened and arched downward at the corners. “I am aware of my duties. You are not the lairdess and have no right to give me orders.”

“Not yet.”

Semias stormed off, leaving her alone in the hall. That was the most emotion she had glimpsed in the man.

“I am still lairdess.”

Rowen spun around toward the cordial voice. The lairdess, as she liked, ambled toward Rowen. She behaved as if they had gathered about the hearth for an amicable talk. Age had not wasted away her beauty.

“God has blessed me, sending ye here. Oh, I ken who ye are.” Her right brow arched up. “That bastard willna be laird.”

“Then you should not have killed the old one.”

She grinned, a sinister edge to it. “He deserved to die and be sent into hell. If that bastard exacted justice, that bitch would be dead.”

“For a charge she is guiltless in.”

“She is guilty of other sins, so all is balanced like humors. ’Tis important to keep that balanced.”

“Are your own humors needing balance?”

Her eyes became mere gray slits and emphasized her swollen under-eyes. “All is well. I have been blessed with a fortified constitution. Ye ken he will bring women to his bed without a care for your desires or hurts.” Her strong voice faded to a whisper.

“Why are you here?”

“I have my reasons. I wanna thank ye for helping rid us Gordons of that one.” She spat on the floor.

“How have I helped?”

“Being a banshee, I told the clan that ye have come to proclaim his death. Thank ye.” She rose to her toes and placed a kiss on her cheek. Rowen’s hand went to her dirk. Around her swirled the scent of a woman living roughly.

“Ye have a verra bonny lad. Watch over him weel. So many bairns die.”

Rowen curled her fingers into a fist and struck her in her nose. The woman cried out. Blood flowed from her nostrils. The crazed woman cupped her hand around her nose. Tears ran down her face.

“Stay away from my boy or I will kill you.”

“Na if I kill ye first.” She spun around and fled down the castle stairs. Rowen chased after her. Her long legs covered the distance in fewer steps. She flew down the stairs. Her arms scraped against the stone walls. She halted on the edge on the engulfing blackness. She heard nothing but her shallow breathing bouncing off the walls.

“I must run,” the lairdess called out. The Gaelic words shook the darkness in its cordial tone.

* * * *

Lachlan galloped toward the screams of terror coming beyond the clachan’s end. Moonlight dappled the ground and the men racing across it. A gathering of men twisted together. He gave a cry. The raiders turned and sprinted away. . Lachlan drew his claymore. The familiar weight of the sword centered him. He went on instinct, learned from years of training. His hand heated the hilt. The sides of his thumb and forefinger rested against the guard. The quatrefoil design on the hilt’s bottom was another reassuring touch. He’d cut someone down tonight. He planned on Jonty bloodying his sword.

He cut through the men, arcing his sword. A wounded cry rent the air. Then the clash of swords added to the night song and blended with grunts and groans. Lachlan leaped off his horse. His feet struck the ground. A man rushed forward, screaming the Gordon motto. Lachlan swung his sword. The metal
whooshed
, cutting into the night.

Two swords collided. The jolt recoiled through his arm. He leveled the blade and faced the man. His nostrils flared. Lachlan stared into the raging eyes of his enemy. He shoved him back, using his greater weight. Using the space, Lachlan curved his weapon through the air. He felt metal chop into flesh, clashing against hard bone. Then the smell of blood filled the air.