The Highlander's Accidental Bride (18 page)

Blinded by panic, Mary fled down the stairs. Her arms outstretched for balance, she skimmed the wall with her fingertips as she ran. Pausing at the bottom of the steps, she brushed hot tears from her face, her lungs aching.

The great hall was empty but for a few servants setting out food and drink for the morning meal. She slipped around the edge of the room, avoiding all but the most curious looks, and walked briskly through the open doorway as though she knew exactly what she was doing. Nothing could have been farther from the truth. More tears gathered in her eyes and she wiped them away impatiently on the sleeve of her robe.

Where to go? What to do? The scheming, lying bastard hadn’t even been satisfied to wait until he could go to the witch’s room! She closed her eyes against the memory of Eaden lying on
their
bed, his head thrown back in his pleasure, and Isobel . . .

Mary’s eyes flew open, her face flaming hot as she realized what Isobel had been doing. Lurching across the bailey, she clutched her stomach against the sharp pain of betrayal.
He is my husband!
Isobel has no right to him!
She stifled a sob.

She would not share her husband. If he was not satisfied with her, Isobel could have him, and good riddance to both of them. Stumbling to a stop, she made a quick decision to return to Bellecourt where she belonged. She would not stay in this sordid castle a moment longer where the laird played on her innocence and trust, betraying her with another woman.

But, how to leave? Surely Eaden would follow her. Mary’s heart skipped a beat. Or would he?

She glanced around the bailey. People milled about, caught between waking and the beginning of their workday. Few looked her way. She strode to the paddock, coming to a halt beneath a gnarled oak tree. Concealed in its shadow, she clucked her tongue softly at the horses awaiting their morning grain. Starnie heard her and trotted over, nickering happily. Mary patted the long bone of his face.

“There’s a good lad.” She mimicked Eaden’s words of encouragement to the horse. “I’ll get your tack and we’ll be off.”

The armory door swung open and the master armorer stretched as he stepped through the doorway, pausing to blink against the sunlight. He scratched his crotch in an absent manner before strolling toward the great hall. Mary waited another minute to see if anyone else was about, then darted across the yard and slipped inside the building.

The odor of metal and oil mingled with the earthier scent of leather, and Mary wrinkled her nose as she peered around the room. Tack lay scattered everywhere and she eyed the array of leather goods with dismay. How to tell which fit Starnie? She slipped a bridle from its peg on the wall, then tried to lift a saddle from the rack, but found it too heavy for her. She would have to do without.

Her heart pounded. She had wasted far too much time in the armory and even now Eaden could be searching for her. Through the open doorway she saw an old woman sitting in the morning sun in the bailey, carding wool with slow sweeps of her gnarled hands. She heard a commotion on the far side of the bailey, but the sounds did not appear to come closer so she dismissed it from her mind.

Mary slipped through the door to the paddock where Starnie waited, his ears pricked forward at her approach. He accepted the bit without a fuss, though Mary’s hands trembled, clinking the metal sharply against his teeth. Slipping the headstall behind Starnie’s ears, she was relieved the bridle fit securely. She led the horse through the gate, closing it carefully behind them.

“Good lad,” she told him, her teeth clenched to keep them from chattering with nervousness.

She guided Starnie against the fence, clambering up the rails to gain the level of his back. Clinging precariously from her perch on the fence, Mary gathered her skirt about her knees and said a quick prayer. With a little hop, she slid onto his back, grabbing at his mane to keep from slipping off the other side. Surprised to find herself sitting on Starnie’s broad back and not sprawled in the dirt, Mary gathered the reins. Gripping his sides with her knees, she turned him toward the castle gate.

Head bent, looking neither to the right nor the left, she did not wave to the guard who glanced briefly down on her from the parapet. Much too interested in the milling crowd beyond the doors of the great hall, he let her pass.

Starnie ambled agreeably down the path from the castle. The morning sun slipped through the mist, lightly kissing Mary’s right shoulder, and she knew she headed north. She would wait until she traveled far beyond the sentry’s sight before she turned Starnie around and rode south.

Despite leaving the castle unchallenged, Mary knew she’d been watched, her description, if not her actual identity, noted. Eaden would learn of her departure soon, if he hadn’t guessed already. She should have changed her clothes, disguised herself in some way. She had been too hurt, too angry and focused on leaving as quickly as possible to think through all the difficulties of running away. She also had no provisions and no covering beyond her heavy velvet robe.

The watery sun, peeking through the evaporating mists, made her hope for clear weather.

Ranald hurried down the stairs, looking for Eaden. It was pointless to check on Isobel. As the crowd thickened around her, there was no question in his mind that she was dead. It was more important to let his brother know the woman had jumped to her death from his bedroom window. Ranald cursed under his breath. As bad as the morning had begun, things were quickly headed downhill.

“Did ye no’ see yer mistress this morning?”

Ranald heard Eaden’s voice, tight with worry, and hurried through the kitchen door. Eaden looked up, and Ranald saw the strain in his brother’s eyes. Pivoting on his heel, Eaden turned away from the girl, shoving a hand through his hair—a typical gesture that spoke of his frustration. Ranald opened his mouth to speak, but Eaden motioned curtly for him to follow.

“Eaden.” Ranald let out a gusty sigh, weary of talking to his brother’s back.

“Not now.” Eaden’s voice rumbled low with irritation.

“Now!”

Eaden whirled, rage filling his features. “What?” he snapped.

Ranald jerked his head over his shoulder, indicating the growing crowd a short distance away. Eaden took in the scene with a deepening scowl. He cut his gaze to his brother and Ranald sighed, not looking forward to breaking the news.

“Isobel jumped.”

“What do you mean,
Isobel jumped
?”

Ranald’s temper snapped and scorn ripped through his voice as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Two words, Eaden. Which do ye no’ understand?”

“Dinnae fash with me, Ranald. I’ve no’ the time to waste.”

“All right. Is this easier?” Ranald gestured toward the crowd. “There, on the yard next to the castle, lies Isobel, who leapt to her death from yer bedroom window.” He pointed to the casement two stories above. “Clear?”

“How could ye let that happen!”

“Ye left the window open.” Ranald checked the urge to pick a fight with his brother.

“Is she . . .” Eaden shook his head. “Nay. Forget I asked. I dinnae have time to discuss this.”

Ranald extended a hand, stalling Eaden’s move. “Ye’re going to have deal with it, brother.” He nodded toward the milling crowd. “There’s more than one person asking how the naked lass, who isnae yer wife, but known to have been yer mistress, managed to fall from yer bedroom window.”

Eaden glowered at his brother. “I havenae found Mary. I willnae waste time dealing with a dead woman.”

“As laird ye must.” Ranald sighed, his loyalty to his brother strong. He gripped Eaden’s shoulder. “We will find Mary. I swear it.”

Eaden was certainly no stranger to death, but the sight of Isobel’s ruined body hit him unexpectedly in the gut. This should never have happened. He should have been more direct with her, insisted she leave the castle days ago. He should have made it perfectly clear she was no longer a part of his life—and never would be again. A string of ‘should haves’ flew through his head, damning him for Isobel’s death.

The murmurs grew, and he saw for the first time the wary looks of the people gathered near. Eaden parted his lips to speak, but his words were forestalled by an accusing voice from the crowd.

“She fell from
yer
window, Laird!”

Eaden scanned the faces, but could not determine who had spoken. A ripple of sound rose and fell, bringing with it an edge of hostility.

“Tha’s Paedrus’ wife.”

“Aye. But the laird’s mistress.”

The gaze of the crowd grew speculative and Eden clenched his jaw. He stood next to Isobel’s body, sensing Ranald’s presence beside him, his eyes gauging the crowd’s growing restlessness. Faces looked from Isobel to the window above, their gazes lingering only a moment before sliding back to Eaden. His own visage grim, Eaden stood firm against the dark conjecture.

“Where is Lady Scott?”

“Aye!”

“. . . havenae seen her . . .”

“. . . saved my Ailie, she did . . .”

The mood of the crowd shifted again—this time dangerously—at the reminder of Lady Scott’s selfless heroism. And Eaden had no answers for them.

Ranald strode forward. “Lady Scott is in the castle,” he said, his voice pitched to carry across the sounds of the mob. Eaden’s gaze burned into Ranald’s back, wondering how far the prevarication would fly.

The crowd’s grumbling rose as Eaden raised a hand for silence. “Bring blankets,” he directed.

The men shuffled their feet and one man leaned over and spat on the ground. His gaze locked with Eaden’s for several seconds before his gaze finally dropped and he sidled judiciously behind another clansman.

Two women broke away and hurried into the castle, returning a few moments later, their arms laden with heavy linens, one obviously a tablecloth pulled hastily from one of the long tables in the hall. Eaden nodded briefly, and the women knelt beside Isobel, gently rolling her body onto the makeshift shroud.

As they eased Isobel onto her back, Eaden forced himself to look at the ruin of her face. Features shattered and bloody, she was still recognizable, and Eaden crossed himself as he considered the depth of despair or madness that made her choose certain death over living outside the castle. In disgrace.

He knelt and gently closed her eyes, her body already leaching the warmth he’d once known. Her skin had begun to lose its resiliency and the gray hue of death crept up from her fingers and toes.

The thunder of pounding hooves broke into his thoughts and he pushed to his feet. He looked sharply at the two men who jerked their horses to an abrupt stop. People scattered out of their way with cries of protest. Eaden’s gut clenched as he recognized one of the men. Isobel’s husband had arrived.

Paedrus, baillie of Craigievar, slid heavily from his horse, his figure not as nimble as it once had been. Soft living had taken its toll, his girth already impressive for a man his age. Scarcely a pair of years older than Eaden, Paedrus, with his pasty skin and loss of muscle tone, seemed much older.

His black velvet cloak, draped with a double-linked gold chain and seal of his office, swirled about him. He grasped the edges of the midnight cloth, holding the voluminous garment in check as he approached his wife.

Eaden stood, impassive, as Paedrus knelt at Isobel’s side, brushing the white linen aside. He stared at his wife for several moments before he turned to Eaden with fury in his eyes.

“Ye’ve killed her!” His voice resonated, low but forceful, and carried easily through the silent crowd.

“Nay, Paedrus. I wasnae there when she fell.”

“Ye killed her!” Paedrus repeated, his accusation gaining volume as he lurched to his feet. “She married me an’ ye couldnae keep yer foul hands from her!”

“Hold, Paedrus!” Eaden thundered, a warning edge to his voice. For all the man was apparently crazed with grief, he would tolerate only so much. “Ye go too far.”

Paedrus flung an arm up, finger pointing accusingly at Eaden. “All of Craigievar knew ye were lovers! Even after yer marriage, ye wanted her in yer bed!”

Eaden’s quick perusal about the bailey told him he had but to say the word and the man would either be clapped in irons or dead at his feet. The men-at-arms along the wall had responded to Paedrus and the other man’s arrival by notching their arrows and training them on the two men. On the ground, Eaden spied at least four soldiers elbowing their way through the crowd, Ian among them. They would be at his side in a matter of moments.

The crowd grew restless beneath Paedrus’ harsh words. Eaden turned back to the distraught man, noting the wild eyes, how the morning breeze whipped his hair into a frenzy and snarled his cloak about his legs.

Eaden spoke firmly. “I will have a word with ye, Paedrus. In private. There is nothing to be gained by this, here.” Eaden jerked his head toward the great hall’s doors. “Take yerself inside.”

“I’ll no’ go inside the castle with ye,
Laird Scott
.” Paedrus tossed his head scornfully as he spat out Eaden’s title.

Eaden sighed. He’d not wanted to put Paedrus in irons, but ‘twas obvious the man needed time to cool down. He nodded once at Ian who now stood but a few feet away. Ian and his soldiers advanced silently on Paedrus, encircling him with their bodies and the still-sheathed threat of steel.

“Paedrus, ye leave me no choice. We will speak of this later.” Eaden watched dispassionately as Ian ordered his soldiers to take Paedrus in hand. No match for the trained soldiers, Paedrus nonetheless resisted, pulling a dagger from his belt in a ridiculous display of defiance. Finlay, Ian’s second-in-command, burly and completely loyal to Eaden, knocked the weapon to the ground with less trouble than batting away a pesky fly.

Finlay grunted. “An’ ye no’ want to accidentally fall on tha’ wee pricker, ye’d best leave it in the hands of someone who understands its use.” He kicked the dagger to one side, out of Paedrus’ reach, and jerked the man’s arms behind his back. Holding both of his wrists in one enormous hand, Finlay gave the man a gentle push.

Paedrus tried to wrench away, but Finlay held him easily. With an irritable frown, he shoved Paedrus’ wrists upward, nearly dislocating his shoulders. Paedrus yelped but gave way to the pressure, stumbling in the direction Finlay pointed him.

“Ye’ll no’ get away with this,” Paedrus flung over his shoulder. His cloak slipped from his shoulders and hung askew, trailing its hem in the dirt and causing him to trip. Lurching suddenly forward, he fell from Finlay’s grip and landed face-down on the ground, unmoving. Silently, Finlay yanked him to his feet and Paedrus hung limp in the burly soldier’s grasp.

Turning to Laird Scott with a rueful shrug, Finlay grimaced. “Puir lad. An’ him drunk at this time ‘o day.”

Eaden gave the soldier a quelling look as he hoisted Paedrus onto his shoulder. When Finlay disappeared behind the doors of the castle, Eaden turned to the two women at Isobel’s side.

“Cover her and see she is laid out properly.” They curtsied to him and set about their task. At a nod from Ian, two soldiers stepped forward to help carry Isobel’s wrapped form to the chapel to await the arrival of the priest.

Maighstir Nevin’s hands were clasped inside the deep sleeves of his cassock, giving him the appearance of a man of immense patience. From past experiences with the priest’s refusal to tolerate willful disobedience, both Ranald and Eaden knew otherwise.

As the priest approached, Eaden edged him from the crowd, seeking privacy. After retreating a distance away, he nodded to Maighstir Nevin. “Ye will see to the burial.”

“An’ ye will tell me what this young woman was doing, unclothed, in yer room.”

“Ask her,” Eaden retorted, refusing to let the priest intimidate him.

“Ye have an obligation as laird to uphold the moral precepts . . .”

“An’ ye have an obligation as spiritual leader of these people to absolve them of their sins. Though I admit I have my share of sins to confess, I will swear adultery is not among them.” Eaden pinned the priest with a glare. “And neither is murder.”

“Explain to me what happened,” Father Nevin commanded, surrounded by the curious gazes of the crowd as they strained to hear the conversation.

“I will no’ discuss this now,” Eaden said. “And neither will Ranald. We have more pressing things. See to the lass.”

He turned his back on the priest and motioned for Ranald to join him. For once his brother did not waste time arguing and hurried past the crowd.

Eaden tried to disregard the men and women still gathered in the bailey beneath the open window, but the stain of blood on the ground drew his gaze.

“See to it they disperse,” he murmured to Ian as his steps slowed. The captain nodded and approached the crowd.

“. . . murder . . .”

“. . . mistress . . .”

Eaden did not flinch at the muttered words. Despite the fact he was their laird, an earl by the king’s own command, Isobel’s actions today would cost him dearly. It would take time to dispel the rumors, and some would persist no matter the truth.

There remained enough for him to straighten out. Sorting through this mess would have to wait. He started to turn to Ranald, but a cry from a sentry on the wall sounded across the bailey. Eaden jerked his gaze upward, following the wave of the guard’s arm. Through the open castle gates, he saw riders advancing at a moderate pace, banners waving boldly in the wind, their colors declaring them from the king.

Eaden swore under his breath. Could anything else go wrong this day?

The contingent from King Robert rode into his keep. Eaden took stock of his circumstances. His wife had fled, the stain of a dead woman lay a few feet away, her body in the chapel, and her grief-stricken husband sat cooling his heels in a secure room in the castle. Eaden ground his teeth and waited for the king’s messenger.

Outwardly placid, his insides churned impatiently as the king’s men stopped before him. They reined in their horses and Eaden inclined his head in greeting.

“We are here under direct orders from King Robert tae escort ye and yer wife to Troon. Our Sovereign bids ye come with all haste.”

Eaden’s jaw clenched and he took a steadying breath. “I am most grateful for the king’s thoughtfulness in providing an escort. Take yer rest. My wife and I will be ready to travel on the morrow.”

The king’s spokesman rose in his stirrups, his gaze traveling over the lingering crowd. “Where is yer wife? The king is most anxious to meet her.”

Eaden forced his lips into a smile. “She is about. Wait inside and I will fetch her.”

He jerked his head at Ian. “Send men to disperse this crowd and have the blood washed away. Make sure the king’s men are fed and their horses tended.” He dropped his voice to a low rumble. “And see the lady Isobel receives a proper burial.”