Amanda Scott (31 page)

“I wish I could be sure of that,” her aunt said with a sigh.

“Really, it is not like you to dramatize such a thing,” Cristina said. “‘Beware of Mariota,’ indeed. Unless, of course, you fear that Hector may think his own flesh is weak and that she will seduce him.”

“Faith, what a thing to say!” Lady Euphemia exclaimed. “I did not warn you to keep an eye on your husband, dearling, but on your unpredictable sister. Mariota is spoiled and accustomed to getting what she wants. She never recovered from your mother’s death, and your father has indulged her beyond what is sensible. In a rage, she is capable of anything, so we must take care not to enrage her. Why, I believe she tried to drown that kitten at Lochbuie, merely because it is Hector’s.”

Shocked, but remembering that she had wondered about that herself, Cristina said only that she was sure that had been an accident. Lady Euphemia seemed ready to continue the discussion, but Cristina simply could not. She apologized again for Isobel’s behavior and excused herself. Then, hurrying downstairs, wanting only to escape the crowded castle and find somewhere peaceful, she crossed the courtyard and headed for the walkway between the great hall and the guest wing. She had nearly made it when she heard her father’s voice bellowing her name.

Closing her eyes, she halted in her tracks, drew a deep breath, and turned to face him. “Yes, sir, what is it?”

“What is it? That’s what you ask me! I want to talk to you, daughter. What is this nonsense I hear about another man? Some upstart scoundrel that Mariota tells me is mad about you and that you encouraged just as any light-skirt would.”

“I did not,” Cristina said, keeping her tone even, but wanting to shout the words at him. She knew he was the last person she should allow to ignite her temper, since he would certainly slap her and not care that they stood in full view of the entire castle. By the same token, she reminded herself, he did not care that he was taking her to task in view of anyone who wanted to watch.

He did not heed her denial in any case, launching into a stern and angry lecture, demanding that she honor the courtesies of her position and remain chaste. Every word flying from his lips offended her, but she held her tongue, letting the insults flow over and around her as she had done in the past, putting her energy into withstanding the flood rather than making what would surely be a futile effort to stem its course. By the time he finished, she could feel prickling tears in her eyes, more from the effort of remaining silent than from anything specific that he had said. But her throat ached, and her soul withered under the onslaught.

In time, he ran out of things to say, ending with, “I don’t want to hear any more such accusations about you, lass, so mind your ways.”

Her usual practice was to say “yes, sir” to anything he said in such a diatribe, but for once she remained silent, even when he stood grimly facing her, clearly waiting for her to show contrition or remorse.

At last, he said, “That’s all then. You may go. Just heed my words.”

She stood silently even then, looking him in the eye until he turned and strode back to the castle. Drawing a long breath, she let it out slowly, then turned and walked away toward the cliff tops above Ardtornish.

The air was heavy, clouds loomed to the west, and a chilly damp that might be fog by nightfall oozed from the ground and clung around her, but it was still better than being indoors.

Chapter
16

H
ector was beginning to think Robert the Steward ought to have stayed in Stirling, where he was surely safer than in the Isles. Only by the sheerest luck and the success of a clever trap, had he and his entourage arrived safely at Ardtornish.

Lachlan had sent half the flotilla with Ranald of the Isles, as he had said he would, but sent the second half shortly afterward to follow and watch for trouble. The attack had come just as Ranald’s boats were entering the harbor near the village of Oban, but when the rest of the boats had shown themselves, their attackers fled.

News of the event had swept through the castle after his arrival, and its aftermath—lengthy discussions of further security measures and plans to find and capture the attackers—had not only taken him and Lachlan from their supper the previous night but had deprived them both of a leisurely wakening that morning.

In the darkness before dawn, Hector’s man had entered the bedchamber silently to waken him and tell him MacDonald demanded his presence forthwith. He had scrambled into his clothes without wakening Cristina, and had hurried to the great chamber, where he found his twin and MacDonald already waiting.

Lachlan was pacing, fairly twitching in uncharacteristic impatience.

“Faith, brother,” he exclaimed, “did you intend to sleep the day away?”

MacDonald smiled at Hector. “Good morning, sir,” he said. “I warrant you earned your rest, and I deeply apologize for disturbing it, but we’ve need of you.”

“I came as soon as my man roused me,” Hector said. “What’s amiss now?”

Lachlan grimaced. “I’m certain we are harboring the instigator of the Steward’s ills under this very roof, but I’ve not a scintilla of evidence against the man other than his known dislike of us.”

“You speak of Fingon Mackinnon, of course.”

“Aye, his eminence, the Green Abbot, who has been far too friendly with your new sister, sir, or whatever that lass is to you,” Lachlan said with more curtness than he was wont to use with his twin.

Evenly, Hector said, “Mariota is naught to me other than my sister-in-law, as you ken fine, my lad, so let me hear no more such implications from you.”

“I beg your pardon,” Lachlan said. “But I’m at my wits’ end and scrambling for answers. The plain fact is that the attacking fleet came from the west, straight at us, as if they knew our exact location.”

“Doubtless they suspected Oban as the meeting place from the outset,” Hector said. “But if they did not, it would have taken no great skill for one of the boats in the first half of your flotilla to fall back and get word to the attackers.”

“But how would they guess his destination?” MacDonald asked.

“With respect, your grace, the Steward’s intentions have been known all over the Isles for weeks now, and with travel by water being as unpredictable as it is this time of year, the most sensible place to meet him was Oban.”

“Aye, that’s true enough,” MacDonald said.

“What we have yet to determine is their exact intention,” Lachlan pointed out. “Had Hector not suspected the petrel business was a diversion, they might have triumphed. As it was, since our lads’ primary duty is to protect the Steward, most of the enemy boats managed to escape, and none flew any identifying banner. The lads on the one we did catch are not talking, at least not yet,” he added grimly.

“I’ll have some of my men question them,” Hector said.

Lachlan nodded. “Aye, that was my intent, but we must deal with this quickly and quietly. His grace does not want it known that the Steward faced danger from any Islesmen. And that’s the rub, since the news has spread already.”

“Say they were pirates,” Hector suggested. “’Tis easy enough if they flew no clan banners, and his grace can order you to find and hang every last one of them.”

MacDonald frowned. “Aye, that might work, and the suggestion of pirates would stir no coals with any feuding clans. I fear that some may take sides if it becomes known that organized opposition exists to Robert’s taking the throne.”

“Forgive me, your grace, but why should that matter now?” Hector asked.

“Because David is ailing,” MacDonald said. “If his enemies fear he is dying, the fat will be in the fire, and if the opposition manages to organize itself swiftly and David does die, Robert could face massive rebellion before he wins his crown.”

“But Parliament approved the succession laid out in the Bruce’s will.”

Lachlan shrugged. “Men do say that words written down forty years ago ought not to govern what happens now, particularly if the Steward proves too weak to hold what he claims is his. And as you know, many Islesmen believe that one of the more ancient clans deserves that crown more than the Steward does.”

“’Tis the very reason my father-in-law’s children began calling themselves Stewarts,” MacDonald said. “I’ve counseled against it myself, fearing that such a change reinforces the opposition’s belief that, nephew of the Bruce or not, the hereditary Steward of the Realm has no business to become King of Scots.”

“He is safe enough at Ardtornish,” Lachlan said. “I’ll send out word to gather the fleet in the Sound, Loch Aline, Loch Linnhe, and the Firth. We can say that far more boats than expected turned out to pay their respects. Then, with nearby waters teeming with Isles’ galleys and longboats, any enemy of his lordship’s or yours, your grace, will certainly think twice before stirring up more mischief.”

“Aye, I’ll not argue against that,” MacDonald said. “I do not look for battle, but neither will we shy from it, and I think some folks need reminding that I strongly support the Bruce’s will.”

Hector spent the next several hours setting Lachlan’s plans in motion, both to question the captured prisoners and get word to the Isles chiefs that MacDonald wanted their boats to patrol neighboring waterways. He knew that more would arrive before darkness and for days to come, as clan chiefs reluctant to show strong support but unwilling to offend MacDonald beyond forgiveness began arriving. So many men and boats should, he believed, deter further mischief while Robert remained a guest at Ardtornish, and would protect him during his return journey.

Having attended to the duties assigned him, he went in search of Cristina to warn her that he would likely be too busy to pay her proper heed until the Steward returned to Stirling. He did not mean to leave her to her own devices altogether, of course, certainly not before he made sure Fergus Love understood that he was to keep his distance. He had not had a chance yet to speak to the scoundrel, but he meant to make time to do so before either of them was much older.

He went to their bedchamber, but Cristina was not there. Nor was his man anywhere about, or her woman. Downstairs in the great chamber, he found Lady Margaret, Mairi, and a host of other ladies, but no Cristina.

“I haven’t seen her since we broke our fast together this morning,” Mairi said when he asked her. “She seemed tired and mayhap quieter than usual. I just assumed she’d not had much sleep,” she added with a twinkle.

Running Lady Euphemia to earth in the hall, he learned that she had spoken sternly to Cristina about Isobel’s behavior and her own, and much else that she had said to her, but she also assured him that Cristina had seemed her usual serene self.

“Do you know where she went, my lady?”

She looked astonished. “Goodness me, no. I am not her keeper, after all, and Cristina has always looked after herself perfectly well. Indeed, she is your wife, sir. I should think that if anyone should know her whereabouts, you should.”

“I know where she went,” Mariota said, coming up and tucking her hand into the crook of his arm and fluttering her lashes as she looked warmly up into his eyes. “Take me for a walk round the courtyard, sir, and I shall tell you all I know.”

“Sakes, lass, if you ken what’s good for you, you’ll tell me at once.”

She pouted. “If you mean to be cruel to me, Hector Reaganach, I vow I shall never marry you, seek you ever so many annulments.”

Recalling Cristina’s warning but feeling strongly that he should discourage Mariota’s false belief as much as possible, he repressed his irritation with her enough to say evenly, “I become daily more contented with my marriage, lass.”

“’Tis kind of you to say so, and I know Cristina must be grateful that you do not shout your intentions to all and sundry, but I do know your true intent, sir, and I support it, though mayhap I should not, since she is my sister. But this muddle in which we find ourselves is all her fault, after all, and none of mine.”

“Where is she?”

Mariota shrugged prettily. “You are being unkind now, but I shall tell you, because I am not. She went to walk on the hilltop. I warrant that by the time you set out to find her, she will be back in the castle, hungering for her midday meal.”

“Have you looked at the sky, lass? Storm clouds have been piling up just west of us these past few hours and more. Are you sure she left the castle?”

“Aye, sir, and why not? A little rain won’t hurt her, and I vow, I can hardly bear the noise and bustle of this place, as crowded as it is. Moreover, Cristina actually likes solitary walks, so who can blame her for seeking peace?”

A clap of thunder startled them both.

“Who indeed?” he asked dryly. “Forgive me, but I must go and find her.”

She pouted again but did not try to stop him.

He paced while a lad readied his horse but, as soon as the saddle was on, he mounted and gave spur. Beyond the shelter of the castle’s walls, a wind bearing the metallic scent of impending rain huffed around him as if it would blow him off his horse. Lightning crackled in the distance, and thunder grumbled close upon its heels, shooting icy prickles of fear up his spine. Despite a responsive, shuddering twitch along the pony’s withers, he spurred it on up the hill.

By the time he drew rein at the top, the sky was even lower, and blackening. Increasingly gusty winds had blown away ground fog and the wispy skirts of mist that had hovered earlier over the bay. Grumbling thunder rolled inexorably nearer and grew ominously louder as one flash of lightning after another stabbed the earth, stepping swiftly toward him—much too swiftly.

Surely, she was not such a little fool as to have come up here. No sensible woman—and Cristina had proven herself eminently sensible—would venture unnecessarily into the path of such a threatening storm. But since Mariota had said she was walking on the hilltop, he could not take the chance that he might be leaving her to the mercy of what was quickly developing into a howling, flaming fury.

He hesitated, trying to think, realizing that she might have taken any path, even wandered aimlessly through the woods, and that the vast area of Morvern lay before him. A fresh crackling in the air followed a scant second later by a searing flash of light and a deafening crash of thunder made him duck his head reflexively.