Plaid to the Bone (7 page)

Days slid into weeks and somehow Cait managed to hide the way her heart tore in two a bit more with each sunrise. She nearly worshipped her father, but nothing he’d told her about Adam had been true. Not about Adam’s politics and certainly not about his character. He’d gone out of his way to woo her and make her feel, if not loved, certainly cherished. Each time they came together, he taught her some new breathtaking bed play that, while it should probably be counted a sin, felt more right than wrong.

A hot lump of caring for her new husband settled into her chest and, try as she might, she couldn’t will it away.

Adam Cameron was a kind, albeit firm, laird to his people, and while he still advocated the Duke of Albany as regent for young King James, no one could doubt his fealty to the crown. He wasn’t trying to supplant the true king as her father and Morgan had claimed.

Wallace Grant was misinformed. There’d been a gross misunderstanding. The chieftain of the Grant clan and her husband both wanted the same thing—protection of the child king by a nobleman who had young James’s interests at heart until such time as he came into his own.

If she could only send a message to her father and explain matters to him, perhaps he’d release her from her awful vow.

She’d written several versions of the note, wasting precious paper and ink. Even if Cait could pen the words that would make her father understand, there was no one she trusted to deliver the message. Barclay and Fife were under orders to remain at her side no matter what. Even if she begged, their loyalty was to Wallace Grant and only he could rescind that command.

She’d never liked Morgan MacRath. The man made her uncomfortable in her own skin. Now, as the days sped by and the time drew near when Morgan would expect her to accomplish her appointed task, she trusted him even less than she liked him. He wouldn’t do for a courier.

Grizel would attempt the journey if Cait asked, but her rheumatism was acting up. The wolf ’s bane poultice Mr. Farquhar made for her only gave temporary relief. Cait wouldn’t subject the old woman to the long weary road back to the Grant stronghold by the sea.

Callum Farquhar had pledged his service to her, but since he was unknown to her father, any message he bore would be discounted. Wallace Grant was ever a suspicious soul.

There was no one she could send.

And no words to convey what was really happening.

He’d think her a weak-willed ninny.

Cait rose from the small desk and scattered the tattered remains of her letter-writing efforts on the fire. She abandoned any thought of sending a note to Wallace Grant. She was on her own. She’d have to figure a way out of this tangle without his help.

A brisk ride would clear her head and help her think. If she could only see Adam, everything would seem less daunting. He’d left early that morning to see about a problem with the mill near one of the estate’s outlying crofts. If she headed that way, she was likely to meet him returning. She left the solar and made her way down to the stable.

Adam had decided the hill pony she came to him on wasn’t fine enough for her, so he’d gifted her with a spirited bay mare with lovely conformation and a sweet gait.

“Hold up, milady, and I’ll bear ye company.” As she crossed the bailey, Barclay appeared by her side.

She sighed. He meant well, but she’d rather ride with Adam alone once she found him.

The homely scent of fresh straw and warm horse greeted her when she entered the stable. There was something reassuring in the earthy smell.

“Saddle Epona for me,” Cait ordered one of the boys who worked there.

“Nae need,” came Morgan’s voice from behind her. He waved the lad back to his other duties. “I’ll see to milady’s mount. Ye may go, Barclay. I’ll ride with Lady Bonniebroch.”

She’d rather have had ten Barclays dogging her. The older man narrowed his eyes at MacRath, but when Cait gave Barclay a slight nod, her guard grudgingly turned away.

“Ye dinna have to accompany me, Morgan.”

“I know,” he said as he hefted the fine saddle of Spanish leather onto the mare’s back. Then he lowered his voice. “But I must needs speak with ye and the subject is no’ fit for anyone else’s ears.”

He glanced around the stable. The boys had retreated to the distant stall where the Brabant stallion was kept. Since the big dray horse wasn’t at all happy about the lads mucking about, he was fetching up a ruckus that should cover their conversation.

“Ye’ve yet to deliver on your oath,” he hissed.

A cold shiver washed over her, though the day was fair. Cait checked Epona’s girth to hide her tremble and gave it a tug to make sure MacRath had cinched it tight. “I havena had the proper opportunity.”

“Weel, that’s debatable, but ’tis no mind. I have one for ye.” MacRath reached into his sporran and pulled out a dirk with a distinctive Celtic knot carved into the hilt. “Use this to dispatch your husband.”

Cait knew how to use a knife. She’d been taught to find the spot beneath a man’s last rib that would drop him like a stone, though she’d never had cause to use the training. Stabbing a man’s living flesh was no doubt much different from practicing on sacks filled with meal.

“Father wanted an accident.” Cait straightened. Accidental deaths were not so easy to arrange, she’d discovered, for which she was becoming grateful. “No one will believe Adam tripped and fell on a knife.”

“It doesna signify. This knife belongs to Mr. Shaw, your husband’s former steward.”

“Former?”

“Aye, Lord Bonniebroch relieved him of his duties this morning. Something about his mishandling of the estate. The trouble with the mill was the last straw, I gather. But the point is Mr. Shaw stormed out of the keep, fighting mad and swearing a blue streak. He has reason to harm the laird.” MacRath forced the knife into Cait’s hand. “If this dirk is found sticking out of your husband’s chest, there’s enough folk hereabouts who heard Mr. Shaw making threats that none will doubt he did for Lord Bonniebroch.”

“But—”

“No buts, Cait. Ye swore an oath upon your own blood to end Adam Cameron.”

Cait’s spine straightened. “If I must choose between Adam and myself, the choice is an easy one.”

“I’d think twice if I were you. Failing to honor your word will cost ye.” MacRath leaned toward her menacingly.

“What about my word to be a good and faithful wife?” Surely words spoken in a kirk held more force than those said in some weird rite she didn’t really understand.

Morgan’s face flushed purplish with anger. “Ye canna bargain with the Powers and expect to trip away unscathed. Tomorrow makes one month since ye wed Bonniebroch. Either ye fulfill your vow, or I’ll have your father’s head. Aye, ye forgot about that part of the arrangement, did ye no’?”

Oh, God, she had. That dark ceremony had all seemed so surreal, so like a night phantom, she’d tried to put the particulars out of her mind. All she really remembered was that for once, Wallace Grant had seemed genuinely pleased with her.

“Do ye doubt my abilities, Cait? Even at this distance, all I need do is speak a word of power and one way or another Wallace Grant will find himself headless.”

Dread curled in her belly like a coiled adder.

“But, what if I canna do it? Morgan, dinna harm my father.” Cait overcame her revulsion and laid a slim hand on his forearm in entreaty. “Please.”

The corners of Morgan’s mouth curled upward, but no one would mistake the expression for a smile. “Very well, ye beg so prettily, I’m inclined to keep things simple. Either ye do for Lord Bonniebroch with Mr. Shaw’s dirk or ye present yourself to me in the dungeon at midnight tomorrow.”

“I dinna even know how to get to the dungeon.”

“Simple. Tip the statue of Kenneth MacAlpin on the fireplace mantel in the laird’s chamber and a secret passage will open. Take the staircase going down when ye come to it. Or ye can kill Adam Cameron in his bed and cry holy havoc. Do either of those things and I’ll let Wallace Grant live. Now, put that dirk away before someone sees ye with it and let’s ride.” He laced his fingers together and stooped forward to give her a leg up.

Cait’s hands were so clammy the dirk slipped from her grip at the last moment as she was secreting it in the deep pocket of her skirt. It dropped heavily, the sharp point penetrating the layers of her skirts and nicking her thigh. A thin ribbon of warmth trickled down her leg. “I’ve changed my mind about riding. It looks like the weather’s turned.”

Cait turned and strode out of the stable. She wished she could sprout wings and fly till she was no longer breathing the same air as Morgan MacRath.

 

Callum Farquhar peered over the edge of the haymow, careful to make certain he was unobserved. As she went, Cait left scarlet drops in the straw.

There was some grunting and rustling in the stall beneath him and presently, Morgan MacRath appeared, bearing a saddle. He deposited it on the rack and stalked toward the doorway, his aura writhing and red.

Then he stopped short and turned around. Farquhar jerked back so MacRath couldn’t see him, hoping the sorcerer would think the rustling in the hay above him was just a rat or two. Farquhar didn’t even draw breath until he heard MacRath’s heavy tread retreating into the rain that had begun to fall.

The morning had dawned exceptionally fine. Farquhar had evaded anything resembling work and settled into the haymow with a couple of apples and the rare copy of Plutarch he’d pilfered from Lord Bonniebroch’s surprisingly well-stocked library. He’d planned to while away the day in the company of crisp fruit and the nimble mind of that ancient philosopher.

But he couldn’t retreat into the book any longer.

He’d sworn his life to Cait Grant. He retraced the incident with the wolf ’s bane in his mind and saw it now in a very different light. But even if she wished her husband ill, he owed the lady his fealty and there was no taking it back.

However, he owed the laird of Bonniebroch as well. If Adam Cameron hadn’t backed the lady’s mercy with some of his own, Farquhar might have ended up with much worse than an ear that sported a gaping hole.

From what he could tell, magic bound Lady Bonniebroch in this wicked circle, and magic was the only thing that could hope to undo it. He sighed as he tucked Plutarch back into his doublet, shinnied down the ladder and out of the loft. He’d spend the rest of the day closeted with Elymas’s grimoire.

Farquhar hoped the old sorcerer had recorded an incantation there that would unmake a spell of making. If his virulent aura was any indication, Morgan MacRath was far more powerful than Farquhar in magical realms.

 

Adam didn’t come home in time for supper. He didn’t return to sleep in his own bed that night. The next morning a messenger came with word that the mill wheel still wasn’t turning and his lordship wouldn’t leave the work till it was made right.

Cait breathed a sigh of relief and hoped the mill would take a week to fix.

That evening she retreated to their chamber with a basket of sewing and a spool of black thread. She planned to embroider the life out of a pair of detachable cuffs and hoped the intricate black-work pattern would distract her from the coming deadline at midnight. All it did was strain her eyes and make them burn.

The bell in the castle chapel chimed eleven times. She knew serious trouble for the estate was keeping her husband away, but whatever had disabled the mill, she blessed it. So long as he wasn’t in Bonniebroch, Morgan couldn’t very well hold her to account, even after midnight came and went.

“Stay away, Adam,” she murmured as she rose to stretch after sitting so long. Mr. Shaw’s dirk was still in her pocket though she’d wrapped it in a length of linen to keep from cutting herself on it again. She knew it was only her imagination, but the blade seemed ponderously heavy on her thigh. Perhaps it was merely the weight the dirk added to her soul.

Footsteps sounded in the corridor outside the laird’s chamber and the door swung open. Bedraggled and bleary-eyed with two days’ growth of beard on his cheeks, her husband sagged on the threshold.

“Adam.” Her heart dipped suddenly to her toes. “I thought perhaps ye wouldna come home again since it’s so late.”

“I was tempted. We worked on that mill wheel for the last two days and nights without stopping for anything but an occasional heel of bread.” He dragged a hand over his face. “There’ll be more to do yet. Shaw neglected its maintenance something fierce, but at least ’tis turning now.” He stretched hugely as he covered the distance between them and gathered her into his arms. “The miller and his good wife asked would I stay, but I told them I had my own good wife to get back to.”

He kissed her and the sweetness of his mouth on hers made the back of her throat ache.

She slipped out of his arms and made for the bell pull. “Shall I ring for a bath for ye?”

“Dinna bother. I was under water more than I was out of it these past days.” He crossed to the washbasin and pitcher and splashed his face. It didn’t keep him from yawning. “Besides, tired as I am, I’m like to fall asleep and drown in the tub.”