The Renegade's Heart (3 page)

Murdoch cast a wry smile at his companion,
then unbuckled his belt and scabbard. Instead of surrendering it to
the gatekeeper, he handed it to his companion, then stepped close
to the gatekeeper.

Isabella leaned out the window to hear his
words.

“I leave both steed and sword in the custody
of my companion. Should he be divested of them in my absence, or
should he not be here when I return, I shall take word to the king
of the treachery that has claimed Kinfairlie.” Then he pushed aside
the spear with a gloved fingertip and marched toward the
portal.

Isabella’s mouth dropped open. He threatened
the gatekeeper? But he was the one who sought admission. Why was he
so resolved?

The gatekeeper turned and looked after the
knight, his astonishment clear. The older man, the companion of the
knight, appeared to be amused.

Why did the knight assume his message would
be refused?

Isabella had to know.

She spun and ran for the door, thinking she
would listen in the great hall as the knight made his argument. She
flung open the door, but there was no sign of Elizabeth. Isabella
had no sooner concluded that her sister must have descended to the
great hall when she heard boots on the stairs, approaching quickly.
It sounded as if a man took the stairs two or even three at a time.
She might have retreated but the dark–haired knight crested the top
of the stairs.

He slowed his pace to consider her. His eyes,
Isabella could now see, were a clear and deep blue and he was
ruggedly handsome. Even though she was tall, he was taller. He
strode toward her with such care that she thought of a wolf hunting
its prey. His gaze was unswerving and a crooked smile lifted one
corner of his mouth.

Isabella felt hot, right to her toes.

“The maiden from the window,” he murmured and
the appreciation in his low voice made Isabella flush. “Yet more
curious than I imagined.”

“While you, sir, are more bold than might be
expected.”

He smiled outright then, the expression
softening his features in a most attractive way. Isabella could not
avert her gaze. Indeed, it seemed she could not breathe.

“Sir!” Anthony shouted from lower on the
stairs. “Sir, I must insist upon speaking first to the laird of
your presence.” The old castellan could be heard huffing as he
climbed the stairs behind the new arrival.

Isabella would not be daunted by this knight.
She straightened, aware that Anthony would hear whatsoever she
said. “I understand that you are Murdoch Seton,” she said crisply.
“I, for one, would not keep you from delivering your missive. It
must be of great import for you to be so concerned of your
reception.”

“And so it is,” he acknowledged, his eyes
glinting.

Was he mocking her? Flirting with her?
Isabella did not know, but his manner flustered her in a most
unwelcome way.

“Then I shall not delay you further.” She
made to step past this rogue, but he touched a fingertip to her
elbow. The weight of his finger stopped her. She glanced up at him,
and was snared by the intensity of his gaze.

Had she ever seen eyes of such a vivid
blue?

“Perhaps the lady’s smile would be worth a
delay.” he said, his voice as soft as silken velvet.

“Perhaps a guest should not be so rude as to
make demands before he is welcomed,” she retorted.

“In normal circumstance, I would agree,” he
said, his voice dropping even lower. His fingertip slid toward her
wrist in a most deliberate and shocking way. Isabella stared at it,
surprised by the shivers than raced over her flesh, emanating from
that point. “Has the lady a name?”

“Of course,” Isabella said. “But I understand
the guest has a quest.” She stepped away, just as Anthony reached
the summit of the stairs.

The castellan glared at Murdoch. “My lady
Isabella, did this man trouble you?”

Murdoch chuckled and Isabella flushed that he
now knew the name she would have kept from him.

“No, Anthony,” Isabella said. “I merely
reminded him that it is common courtesy for guests to be
announced.”

“And so it is,” Anthony said with all the
considerable hauteur he could summon. “I will precede you to my
laird and if he wishes to speak with you, he shall.”

“Oh, he will speak with me,” Murdoch said
quietly. The threat in his tone caught at Isabella’s ears. “It is
not every man who wishes to hear of the grievances made against
him, but the Laird of Kinfairlie will hear mine.”

“We shall see,” Anthony huffed and marched
onward, beckoning the knight with a terse gesture.

Grievances? Isabella paused on the stairs to
the hall and glanced back, only to find the knight’s gaze locked
upon her. What complaint could Murdoch have of Alexander? Her
brother was well known for the fairness of his courts and the
justice of his administration. She had assumed Elizabeth was
correct, but now she wondered at Murdoch’s intent.

Anthony climbed the stairs to the third floor
and this time, Murdoch waited behind.

Because he was watching Isabella.

Almost as if he dared her to continue their
conversation.

Isabella glanced down the stairs, noted the
devilry in his gaze, then accepted his dare. She took a step back
toward him, mindful of Anthony’s proximity. “What complaint could
you have against my brother?” she whispered. “He is honest and
just...”

“Then perhaps my brother is in error,”
Murdoch said, his tone revealing that he believed otherwise.
“Doubtless your brother will tell me the truth.” He said this last
as if he did not believe it.

It was his confidence in Alexander’s poor
character that nettled her, for it was unfair.

Even though she did not know what had fed his
conclusions.

“Of course, he will,” Isabella said, keeping
her voice low. “My brother is true...”

“Sir!” Anthony shouted from the third
floor.

Murdoch bowed before Isabella. “To my regret,
duty calls, my lady Isabella.”

Isabella opened her mouth to tell this man
what to do with his presumption, then she saw the wicked twinkle in
his eyes. His fingertip brushed the tip of her nose playfully, his
gaze dropping to her lips. Isabella stepped backward in outrage at
his boldness, but before she could think of what to say, he leapt
up the stairs to the third floor.

He spun on the stairs, just before
disappearing from view, and blew her a cocky kiss.

The man had no lack of confidence in his
charm, that much was certain. Or in any maiden’s fascination with
him!

Isabella pivoted, her annoyance simmering,
and took two steps toward the kitchens where she would gather
ingredients for Eleanor’s posset.

Then she halted. If she went to the kitchens,
she would never know what accusation the knight would make against
Alexander. Her brother shared no confidences now that he was
laird.

And Isabella wanted to know this knight’s
complaint.

Isabella hurried back into the chamber shared
by the sisters, closed the door and waited until Anthony limped
back down to the hall. Then she raced to the third floor on silent
feet, flattened herself against the wall beside the door to
Alexander’s chamber, and listened.

* * *

All that has gone awry is your fault.

Duncan’s furious words had echoed in
Murdoch’s thoughts for the entire ride south to Kinfairlie. Their
father was dead, Seton Manor’s treasury was empty, the relic
Murdoch had once advised his father to purchase was stolen, and his
brother, Duncan, placed the blame for all misfortune squarely on
Murdoch’s shoulders. The fact that Murdoch had not brought wealth
home with him had only fed his brother’s fury.

Make matters right or never return.

In truth, Murdoch was not certain he wished
to return to the place that Seton Manor had become. But he owed
loyalty to the people he had known and loved, he would do honor to
his father’s memory, and he would see justice served.

Even if his sense that a trap closed around
him grew stronger with every passing day. Did he live a nightmare,
or were his memories of the Elphine Queen the dream from which he
yearned to awaken?

Murdoch had not given great credence to
Duncan’s conviction that the Lammergeier family must have stolen
back the relic that been acquired at the auction held by their
sister estate of Ravensmuir—at least not until he had seen the
obvious affluence of Kinfairlie.

An affluence that had no obvious source.

Could his brother be right? Murdoch would
find the truth. He was bent upon seeing the laird, upon surprising
him and seeing his reaction when he had no time to prepare.

He had not counted upon a maiden with
flashing eyes.

Isabella.

She reminded him of the old tale his mother
had told of a maiden with lips as red as blood and cheeks as white
as snow. But instead of hair as black as a raven’s wing, Isabella
had long curling tresses that could have been wrought of flame. Her
eyes were as green as emeralds, snapping with intelligence, and he
liked how directly she spoke.

She was bold, this one. Murdoch admired that
she did not hesitate to speak in favor of justice. They shared that
trait. She was curious, for she had been at the window. Murdoch had
much respect for people who kept their eyes open and did not shy
from truth.

She had been dressed in a kirtle of pale
green, the color accenting her eyes. The gown was almost austere in
its lack of embroidery or lavish detail, and the fit of it showed
her slender strength to advantage. A curious and practical woman
who spoke directly and dressed plainly was one destined to capture
his gaze.

As Isabella had done.

Murdoch found himself yearning for a taste of
Isabella, if only to discover whether such a pragmatic mortal might
truly be as enchanting as an otherworldly one.

But he had a quest to fulfill.

He pushed the image of her from his thoughts
and concentrated on the task before him. He had to note every
nuance of the laird’s response to assess his honesty.

Alexander of Kinfairlie was younger than
Murdoch had expected. The laird could not have seen thirty summers,
although his dark hair had a few threads of silver. He did not look
like a man who had ridden frequently to war, though his gaze was
steady. Murdoch was tempted to trust him, in defiance of what he
suspected to be true.

Perhaps, like the Elphine Queen, this laird
was not what he seemed to be. Would a family said to be comprised
of sorcerors and thieves not know how to foster trust?

The laird’s youth annoyed him. Murdoch felt
they were unfairly matched and did not look forward to any dissent
between them.

The men greeted each other, then the laird
waited, his expression expectant.

“I have come to Kinfairlie with a complaint
from my family.”

“Indeed?” The laird frowned slightly. “You
and I are not acquainted. Have I met your family?”

“My brother Duncan is Laird of Seton Manor, a
responsibility he assumed upon the demise of my father.” Murdoch
noted that the laird seemed to not recognize the name of his family
estate. Trick or truth? He could not say. “Before his death, my
father attended an auction at Ravensmuir, your sister estate, at
which he purchased a religious relic for our chapel.”

A shadow touched the laird’s eyes and he
looked out the window. Guilt? Regret? Murdoch’s suspicion pricked
at this glimpse of evasiveness.

“As did many,” the laird acknowledged. “My
uncle was pleased with the success of that event. He wished to be
rid of that legacy in an honest and correct way.”

The comment intrigued Murdoch. “He is pleased
no longer?”

The laird grimaced. “Tynan is dead.” He
crossed himself and Murdoch did the same.

“Recently?”

The laird surveyed the correspondence before
himself, his evasiveness growing. “He died shortly after that
auction. I miss his counsel.”

Murdoch could well understand that. Grief
could explain the other man’s reaction and he felt a moment’s
compassion for this young laird.

But a moment later, that feeling was
dismissed.

“Is your family not satisfied with the
acquisition?” the laird asked, something in his tone making Murdoch
feel he had already guessed Murdoch’s complaint.

“My father was,” Murdoch acknowledged,
watching the laird with care. “Indeed, Seton Manor has become
accustomed to receiving many pilgrims at Eastertide, when the relic
is shown to the congregation. There have been several healings
attributed to its powers.”

The laird relaxed slightly. “I am glad to
hear of it.”

“You will not be glad to hear the relic has
disappeared,” Murdoch said. The laird paled. This was not news to
him and Murdoch knew it well.

Murdoch continued, forcing his tone to remain
even. “Much less that it has been stolen from my brother’s
treasury, a treasury kept both locked and guarded.” Aware he was at
the very heart of Kinfairlie and could readily disappear if he
insulted the laird, he said what had to be said. “There have been
those who recalled the reputation of your family once they heard
the tale. I have come in pursuit of the truth.” He arched a brow.
“Or the return of the relic. Either will satisfy me.”

“You think I stole it back? Or that my family
did?” The laird pretended to be shocked, but he was not entirely
so.

“I fear you might know more of its location
than you might choose to confess.”

The laird’s eyes flashed. “I do not!”

Murdoch saw no reason to be coy. “Yet you are
not surprised by my accusation.”

Their gazes locked and held over the laird’s
correspondence. The laird bit off his next words. “That does not
make it true.”

“Your denial does not make it false.”

The laird flushed and might have spoken but
Murdoch held up one hand. “You should know that Scotland is full of
tales of disappearing relics, all bought for good coin from
Ravensmuir. I have heard a dozen similar stories on my recent
journey south.” The laird paled and sat down heavily. “Rumor
abounds that the Lammergeier have returned to their old trade in
relics, whether those relics are honestly acquired or no. Rumor
abounds of the Lammergeier’s talent with sorcery, and there are
suggestions that such dark arts have been used to conjure those
relics from their rightful places.”