Amanda Scott (10 page)

As he gently rubbed sand from her feet, warming them between his big hands, he said, “Why did you come here this morning?”

She hesitated but could think of no reason to distrust him. “I came to see where Elma MacCoun died.”

He frowned. “Do you know then exactly where that is?”

“No, but they say she may not have been murdered at all, but instead may have fallen off a cliff and been washed ashore.”

Thoughtfully, he said, “I wondered what made them so sure, but one would think that if they weren’t, they would have hesitated to charge Ian Burk.”

“I thought of that, but I thought of something else, too,” she said, adding as he picked up one of her soft leather boots and slipped it onto her foot, “The cliffs are in the wrong place.”

His eyes danced again, but he said only, “How can that be?”

She knew she had phrased her thought badly but went on without hesitation. “The only cliffs easily accessible to Elma, if she walked as they say she did, are just north of us here. The tide comes in from the west, so had she fallen hereabouts, it would have carried her eastward toward the Sound of Isla.”

“And the ebbing tide would have swept her out to sea, where she’d have sunk to the bottom, her fate forever unknown.”

Mairi nodded, grimacing at the image his words produced.

“So knowing the exact place they found her matters only if such knowledge will lead us to her killer, but we do know now that the killer must exist.”

“Aye.” Hearing the statement spoken aloud made her shiver, but a moment later, both boots back on her feet and securely tied, she stood, shook her skirts into place, and went to the gray, stroking its muzzle as she untied its reins from the shrub. She turned then to lead it toward a rock onto which she could climb to mount, but two strong hands caught her at the waist and lifted her onto her horse.

Settling herself, she let him straighten her reins, thanking him politely when he handed them back to her.

“Do you dislike saddles, lass?”

She shrugged. “Ladies’ saddles are cumbersome things, good only for a palfrey’s ambling gait. I prefer to ride astride so I can more easily sense my horse’s movements. I have ridden so since I was a child. My brothers taught me.”

He chuckled. “Do you hunt, sail boats, and swim, too?”

“Aye, of course, but ’tis no odd thing, sir. Many Isleswomen swim and sail, and noblewomen everywhere hunt, I believe.”

“Perhaps, but I’ll wager that you do all those things better than most.”

Modesty forbade agreement, so she kept silent, but the compliment shot a surge of satisfaction through her. Watching with approval as he swung himself onto the bay, she decided that he, too, probably swam and sailed as well as he rode. Indeed, Lachlan Lubanach struck her as a man who would make a point of doing well anything that he did at all, but she would certainly not tell him so. He was far too sure of himself already.

They rode in silence along the beach until they reached the track leading up the heather-clad hill, when he said, “I should apologize for startling you when I rode up behind you earlier. I thought you had seen me.”

“Why would you think that?”

His lips twitched. “I could imagine no reason other than a strong desire to avoid me that would send you darting off along the sand like a frightened deer.”

Refusing to take umbrage at that unfair image, or to reveal how much she enjoyed the unladylike pastime of running barefoot on the sand, she said only, “Had I wanted to flee, sir, I would not have dismounted first.”

“I thought you were afraid to ride your horse through that wee hindrance of boulders,” he murmured provocatively.

“Did you?”

“Whatever your reason, you did try to run from me.”

She nibbled her lip at the reminder, having no wish to admit that darting away as she had, had most likely been an act of unwise, instinctive flirtation and nothing more. She would not give him the satisfaction of hearing that, however, nor would she repeat such foolishness in future. If she had learned anything about the man in the past twenty-four hours, she had learned that if it served him, he would take advantage of any weakness.

He did not pursue the topic, for which she was grateful. Instead, some minutes later, he said, “Were you living here at Finlaggan while your father was in Flanders earlier this year?”

“Nay, my mother prefers Ardtornish from November to mid-January. The walls are thicker there, the hall fires warmer, and the outside air is colder.”

“Aye, privies don’t stink so much in an icy winter, ’tis true.”

She chuckled. “Do you always say exactly what comes into your head?”

“Don’t be daft. Of course I don’t, and I hope you don’t either.”

“I don’t suppose I do. Why did you ask that, about where we lived?”

“I like to know things, and I knew that your father had served as Royal Envoy to Flanders. In fairness to our Davy,” he added, “he has made numerous, albeit unsuccessful, efforts to please his grace, such as naming him his Envoy.”

“Oh, aye,” Mairi said. “Years after my father persuaded the English to release him after he stupidly invaded England, he expressed his gratitude by naming him Constable of Edinburgh Castle. Last year it was Envoy. But titles won’t please him, because David is stupid. Three years ago, he decided that an English prince would make a better successor to the Scottish throne than a Scot who bears his own blood and that of the Bruce. Do you want the English to rule Scotland, sir?”

“Nay, lass, I do not. Clan Gillean supports your grand- father to succeed Davy, as do most Scots. Little likelihood exists that we’ll ever bow to an English king.”

“Aye, but only because Parliament honored the Bruce’s will over David’s objections by naming my grandfather his successor.”

“Aye,” he agreed, “and one can only imagine what a defeat it was for Davy, but even so, he sensibly named MacDonald to assume your grandfather’s position as High Steward of the Royal Household.”

She shrugged. “I don’t know how sensible it was. More likely, he was being practical because he dislikes change, and whilst my father holds the title, my grandfather still tends to the duties. Had David appointed anyone else, that man would doubtless have insisted on taking control.”

“I still think Davy has made more attempts to please his Lord of the Isles than MacDonald has made to please his king.”

“My father does not recognize David as his sovereign, sir, as you must know. He is King of the Hebrides as well as Lord of the Isles, but when he refused to make or allow such exorbitant ‘contributions’ as David demanded to pay the ransom he had refused for eight years to pay, Parliament declared against my father and accused him of fomenting rebellion. And they did that at the King’s instigation.”

“The English have been pressing hard to get their ransom,” he pointed out.

She shot him a challenging look. “That has naught to do with the Isles. We have ever supported the position in which we most strongly believe.”

“Or the position his grace most strongly believes will benefit us,” he said.

“By heaven, sir, do you dare—”

“Peace, lassie,” he said, grinning at her. “I’ve no wish to fratch with you.”

“I’m not fratching!”

“If those daggers in your eyes were real weapons, I’d be a blood-covered mess by now,” he insisted. “I meant that last bit as a compliment to your father.”

“It did not sound like a compliment.”

“In troth, lass, and despite anything I may have said during this interesting discussion, I believe your father to be the greatest politician and diplomat in all Scotland, if not in all Britain, and I mean to learn as much as I can from him.”

“Truly?”

“Aye, because he united the Isles as no one had since the days of the great Somerled, and has ruled them peacefully for forty years through often difficult and turbulent times.”

“A magnificent accomplishment, indeed.”

“Aye, sure, and he succeeds because he never commits himself too far to one side or the other. He plays a clever game instead, increasing or consolidating his power with every move he makes. His legal institutions alone should sustain the Lordship of the Isles for centuries to come.”

“You
do
admire him,” Mairi said, pleased.

He nodded. “Your father is blessed with an acute political sense, lass. He always knows which way to jump, and like a cat, he always lands on his feet. A wise man can learn much from him.”

They continued conversing in this vein until they topped the last rise and saw Finlaggan below. Only then did Mairi realize how swiftly the time had passed. Although her father nearly always answered her questions and had provided her with an education nearly equal to that of her older brothers and such nobles’ sons as fostered at Finlaggan, she could not recall ever before having enjoyed so easy a discussion of such subjects.

She had long been fascinated by history and politics, because she adored her father and had always longed to know what he did and where his travels took him. From the time she had learned to talk, perhaps even before, MacDonald had spent time with her on his return from any venture, relating exciting tales of what he had seen and done. Her interest in his stories had soon stirred a passionate curiosity to learn more about the world beyond Finlaggan and the Isles.

Her brothers teased her when she tried to question them about royal politics or take part in their discussions of history. Their tutors, although patient with her questions, tended to dismiss her ideas and opinions. Niall Mackinnon had punished her the one time he had caught her eavesdropping. And her mother, although well versed in her own role as a pawn on the political game board, did not talk about politics or history, believing such topics were solely for men to discuss and decide.

Thus had Mairi learned long before Lachlan Lubanach had ordered her to keep her opinions to herself that if she wanted men to let her listen to their discussions, as much as it frustrated her, it behooved her to stay silent. She longed to tell him so now, but she believed that after she had so easily betrayed her opinions to him, he would not believe her. She longed to talk more about Elma’s murder, too, but since he knew little of Isla and less about its inhabitants, such discussion would avail her nothing but the pleasure of conversation, and she feared he would think it odd of her to ask him what he thought about it.

The clouds had broken, and from the top of the rise, they saw splashes of sunlight beaming down on landscape and loch, and paused to enjoy the view.

After a long moment’s silence, he said quietly, “Do you have any notion who Elma MacCoun’s killer might be, lass?”

Startled by the abruptness of the question after her own shift of thoughts to the murder, she said, “What made you ask me that?”

He shrugged. “I told you, I like to know things. Curiosity is my besetting sin. So, who do you think did it?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “I’ve been away for a month, but Mellis MacCoun is a quarrelsome man. You heard him yourself when he said he’d have clouted Elma on the head if she had not fixed his breakfast that day.”

“What do you know of Ian Burk’s accusers, or the man who found Elma?”

“Ewan Beton found her. He is the son of Agnes Beton, our herb woman, and he is very kind. As for Gil Dowell, Shim MacVey, and Fin MacHugh, they are loyal men, I believe. Shim is Niall Mackinnon’s man, and Gil and Fin were born on Isla. I don’t know them as well as I know Ian or Ewan, but I know nothing to suggest that they might be dishonest. Doubtless, they were just mistaken about when they saw Ian and Elma,” she said, adding, “We should go, sir. I am very late.”

He nodded and lifted his reins to ride on toward the palace complex.

“I wish we could linger,” she said, “I have enjoyed our conversation.”

“I, too,” he said, meeting her gaze. “I know of no other woman who possesses such a diverse knowledge of the world beyond her own walls, lass. Moreover, I believe you have inherited much of your father’s astuteness.”

Mairi’s voice seemed suddenly to have deserted her, because no one had ever said such a thing to her before, and she had no idea how to reply. Merely to say thank you would not express a thimbleful of what she felt. She looked at him searchingly, wondering if he had meant it or had said it only to flatter her.

When he met the look easily, she said, “You are kind in your compliments, sir. I shall never develop a particle of his grace’s skill, but it is good to know that I have not made a fool of myself, conversing on such topics with you.”

“You’ll rarely make a fool of yourself in any conversation, lass, but you do seem bent on condemning yourself to a tedious future.”

“Indeed?”

“Aye, because Alasdair Stewart is a man of little brain or knowledge of the world. His interests lie solely in adventuring, and nearly always concern conquests of the fair sex rather than political intrigue or understanding.”

“You should not speak so to me,” she said, sounding so unduly prim to herself that she surprised herself by adding curtly, “Does he have so many women?”

His grin flashed wide. “You make my point for me,” he said.

“Then I have missed your point, sir.”

“’Tis plain enough. Would you have dared ask anyone else that question?”

Aware that she was blushing warmly, she found it nonetheless easy to answer him. “By my troth, sir, I ask you because I do not know anyone else impertinent enough to give me a plain answer. Does he?”

“He does, and is faithful to none of them. You would be wiser to marry me.”

She swallowed hard, wishing she could think. “Even if I wanted to marry you, sir, I could not.”

“Ah, but we make progress now, I’m thinking,” he said with satisfaction.

“You continue to prate absurdities! How can that be progress?”

“Because ’tis plain now that you are no longer strongly opposed to the notion. I call that excellent progress.”

She stared at him. “You are daft. I have just said,
again
, that I cannot marry you, that my father will never allow it.”

“Nay, lassie, you said that even if you wanted to you could not. Were you so strongly opposed to the notion, you’d have told me to go and boil my head, and you’d not be so plainly enjoying our conversation.”