Highland Hawk: Highland Brides #7 (17 page)

Marta shook her head in confusion. "I think too much time with these pale nobles has made you daft."

Details and fears and worries swirled together like dark water in Cat's mind. "He asked me to sneak him from the castle."

"The Hawk?"

"Nay. The king."

"God's balls!" Marta's voice was harsh in the dimness of their shared chambers. "However did you manage that?"

"I managed nothing." Going to the cage, Cat carefully set Caleb inside. Calum fluttered after to hover over his fallen comrade and Catriona. "I did not even suggest such an adventure," she added. " 'Twas James' idea."

"Then how did you answer?"

"I fell into the burn."

There was a moment of perplexed silence, then, "Why?"

"I did not mean to," Cat said and began to pace. Her skirts, still heavy with water, wrapped about her legs, seeming to drag her further into fatigue.

Marta watched her closely. "
My
great granddaughter fell?"

"I am out of my depth, Grandmother, floundering. I do not know what to do." She turned and dropped desperately to her knees, clasping Marta's cool, gnarled hand as she did so "I nearly ruined everything this day. I nearly told him the truth."

"The king?"

"Nay, the Hawk. He pulled me from the water, and I... I..." She searched for words to explain her weakness, but there seemed to be none. "What am I to do?"

Marta remained silent, her hand squeezed tight over Catriona's. "I see goodness in him, Catty," she said finally.

"Goodness!" Cat moaned. "Goodness is not on our side in this. Only necessity. I dare not trust him lest I end up like Caleb."

"The finch snared by the hawk," Grandmother mused, glancing at the cage. "But the finch is not dead."

"Nay, not dead, but perhaps mortally wounded." Catriona rose abruptly to pace again. "Certainly unable to fly. I cannot afford to be winged. Not now. Not yet."

Grandmother sighed, the sound rusty and low in the sinking light of the room. 'Then what will you do?"

"Tell me again that Lachlan is well," Cat pleaded, her heart twisted into a small painful lump.

"He is well, love. That I promise."

Catriona drew a deep breath, steadying her will, steeling her nerve. "Then I will plan to follow the orders given." She whispered the words. "But until I am certain there is no other choice, I will search for the culprit. And toward that end, I will need your help."

"Lord MacKinnon," Catriona said, stepping up to the young baron's side. At Marta's orders, she had bathed then slept for several hours. The arrival of dinner brought late and delivered by a servant bearing a well-laden board and two goblets, had awakened her.

Sleep and a hot bath had revived her somewhat. She'd dressed carefully, donning a deep blue gown with slashed sleeves that showed the white of her chemise beneath. She had dried her hair as best she could, then drawn it up to the top of her head with brass pins. It fell now in stray ringlets beside her ears and neck.

She'd felt nothing but relief when she'd found no guard at her door.

"Lady Cat." The young lord looked surprised as he turned toward her, drinking horn in hand. " 'Tis late. I thought you must have found your bed by now."

"I could not sleep," she lied.

He glanced uncomfortably about the vast hall. "Mayhap you should not be here at such a late hour."

Indeed, she did not want to be. The great hall bustled with life, but most of that life was male. She could feel dozens of eyes turn toward her, even while two men, bared to the waist, wrestled near a side door while well- clad noblemen placed bets and yelled encouragement. Several board games were being played at once, and beneath a pair of crossed spears, a score of men were participating in a loose variation of a time-honored sport known as wench-lifting. Judging by Lady Fayette's fey mood, she did not particularly care who carted her about and may very well have had an unusual prize in mind for the winner. Rory was nowhere to be seen, but Lord Hogshead seemed to have recovered from his earlier depression and was drinking and laughing with the others.

"Are you not the wench-lifting type?" Catriona asked, glancing toward the mob.

"Nay, I suppose I am not," MacKinnon said, and scowled toward the crowd of revelers. For a while he was silent, then, "She is not as... She is not what she seems."

Was anyone? Catriona wondered.

"Indeed," he said, "Lady Fayette has a good heart. There was a time after my wife's death that she cared for my daughters. They quite adored her."

For a moment he looked so melancholy that Catriona was certain that he could not possibly be the man for whom she searched. But in that instant a memory burned her mind.

"You will not know us."

She tightened her resolve. He was probably not Black- heart, but his room companion... She skimmed her gaze over the hall's occupants and found Lord Drummond. He was intent on the wrestling match and had not yet seen her. She felt a panicky need to keep it that way.

"I wished to give you my apologies," she said.

"Apologies? Surely not," MacKinnon argued.

"Aye. You were kind enough to offer to accompany me at supper and I did not even give you a response."

He glanced away. "After Drummond's words I was unsurprised that you ran away."

Reaching out, she touched his sleeve. "I have wounded you. 'Twas not my intent, I assure you."

"Was it not?" His eyes were wide and earnest. Cat's heart twisted. Surely this couldn't be the one she called Blackheart. She should leave him in peace, but she had so few leads, and how could she know how a madman would act in the light of day?

"Nay," she assured him. "I merely thought of something I had to tell Lord Tremayne." 'Twas an uninspired lie, but a safe one, since James's old councilor had taken a moment to remind her that he was keeping an eye on her.

"I saw you speaking to Tremayne," he said. "There was no trouble, I hope."

"Nay, all is well."

For a moment he was silent, then, "I did not do it."

"What?" she said with her mind racing.

"I did not kill my wife."

Shock spurred through her. What the devil was he talking about?

"Oh." Something akin to relief spurred through her. "I never... I never thought you did."

"Did you not?" He stepped closer, his expression solemn. Judging by his breath and his unsteady pose, Lord MacKinnon had been drinking for some time. So luck had not abandoned her completely. "You are..." He paused, momentarily at a loss for words. "You are kind."

She lowered her eyes, though her heart was beating overtime, and her mind screamed that she must hurry. Already she sensed that others were approaching, and she could not afford to be interrupted. "You flatter me," she said.

"Nay. 'Tis not so, Lady Cat."

"Please, Lord MacKinnon—-"

"I would be honored if you would call me Samuel."

"Samuel." She kept her eyes averted. If he was Blackheart, he was an excellent actor. Thus, she must be the same. " 'Tis a good name."

He watched her in silence, then, " 'Tis warm and too close in here," he said.

She had heard that line before and well knew the next request, so she nodded while in her mind she reviewed her plans, making certain she had everything she needed—Marta's tiny vial and the rolled piece of vellum hidden away in the pouch on her girdle as it always was.

"Might I ask..." He paused. "Might I make so bold as to ask you to accompany me to the gardens?"

"The gardens would be lovely. But if you would not mind..." She forced herself to meet his gaze. "I would rather go straightaway to your chamber."

Chapter 13

Samuel MacKinnon stared at her. "To my chamber?" he murmured.

"Aye," she said and slid her arm through his, steadying him as she herded him toward the door. "I simply... I must have some time alone. Away from—"

"The crush of admirers?" he guessed, then frowned down at her. A bit of ale sloshed over the rim of his horn.

"Do you mind?"

"Nay." His answer was solemn and hesitant, his gait a bit unsteady as he turned to the left. "You are welcome to use me any way you wish."

"My thanks," she murmured, and seeing Lord Tremayne approaching from the right, turned her face to the left and prayed to be ignored. She forced herself to go several strides before glancing back, but when she did Tremayne was still watching, his expression pinched with disapproval.

"Lady Cat?" MacKinnon said.

"Aye." She turned back with a frown, her heart beating overtime.

"May I voice a question?"

"Certainly." One more glance assured her that Tremayne was gone. Raucous noise issued from the great hall and she hustled him away.

"Why me?"

"What?" she asked, distracted and jumpy.

"Why me? That is to say..." He tried to pull her to a halt, but she would have none of it. She had a mission and precious little time to accomplish it. "I am hardly the highest-born among the assemblage here."

"Mayhap I care little for titles."

He frowned as they hurried along. "It cannot be my features. Though I do not frighten small children, still, you..." He lost the words and fell into silence.

"Perhaps tis simply because you are a good person," she said and stopped by his door.

He scowled. "How did you know this room was mine?"

Panic galloped through her. "I... Someone said Drummond was the kind to keep his chamber locked." She held her breath and prayed. "Do you have the key?"

"Aye. This room housed Blackburn's spices, I am told. But with the crush of visitors it was fashioned into bedchambers," he said and fumbled around his drink for his leather purse.

"Here then," she said, forcing the panic into submission. "I will take your goblet."

He handed it over before turning back to the door.

It was almost too simple to slip Marta's potion into his ale. By the time he'd wrestled the door open, it had been well mixed. She was inside in a moment.

He followed her, pulling the door closed behind. The room was as dark as mud.

"Well," he said. "Here we are, then."

"Aye." She frowned into nothingness. "In the dark."

There was a moment of silence, then, "Your pardon?"

" 'Tis dark. Mayhap you could fetch a light."

"Oh." He bumped to life, patted about on a nearby surface, and soon produced a candle.

The door creaked open. Light streamed through the crack then followed his entrance.

She quickly closed the door behind him, turned, and handed him his drinking goblet.

"Lady Catriona," he said, not seeming to notice his drink as he stared into her eyes. "There is something you should know. But now, 'tis... difficult to say the words."

A confession? A clue? Was he Blackheart? Or did he, perhaps, know something about Lachlan's disappearance? "What do you have to say?"

He drew a deep breath. "Your—"

Footsteps sounded in the hall. Catriona froze. Momentarily distracted, MacKinnon glanced at the door. But the noise passed.

"My what?" she said, trying to relax.

"Your beauty astounds me. In truth, I have never seen a woman as enchanting as you. But—"

Disappointment swamped her. "Drink," she urged. Lifting the horn toward him, she touched her finger to the bottom of the goblet, tilting it toward his lips.

He finished the brew without more prompting. The room was utterly silent. Catriona stared at him, realizing suddenly that she had neglected to ask Marta how long it took for the herbs to take effect. Perhaps she should get him nearer the bed. If he landed on the mattress 'twould surely be quieter than if he hit the floor. She stepped in that direction.

He followed her slowly. "Are you real?"

"What?" She brought her attention back to him with a start.

He shook his head as if to clear it. "I mean no disrespect. But... there are those who say your beauty is not natural."

"Are you suggesting that I am a witch?"

"Not a witch. A fairy, perhaps."

"Nay."

"Then... how can you be so enchanting?"

" 'Tis a curse," she said and glanced quickly about the room. There were two simple iron-bound chests, a three-legged stool, and a small table. No small boxes that might house a favored medallion met her gaze.

"Your beauty is a curse?"

Honesty was hardly needed here, but he seemed so earnest. "I mean that my features seem to draw... the wrong kind of man."

He was silent for a moment. "Am I the right kind?"

She glanced impatiently toward the trunk again. "I hope so."

He stepped closer still, so that they stood side by side near the bed.

"There is a terrible truth, lady. But I must tell you."

"What truth?"

"I have not..." He paused. "What Drummond meant to tell you was...'Twas my wife Harrowhead was with, the night he was murdered."

She could not speak, could barely breathe.

"My wife... she was unfaithful. But I did not kill her. And I did not kill the old earl."

Dear God, she had never imagined that he had. Mayhap this man was no safer than Lord Drummond.

"She was returning from a night with her lover when she fell from her horse."

"I..." Emotions and questions and fears swirled around her. "I am sorry."

He smiled, but it did not touch his eyes. "I did not tell you for your pity," he said and cleared his throat. "The truth is this: I have not... I have been unable to... perform since I learned the truth."

If she had been forced to guess what he had been about to say, that would not have been her first supposition. She should say something, she thought. But nothing came to mind.

"With Fayette... Well, I owed her so much for her kindness with my daughters that I dare not disappoint..." He shrugged and took a scant step closer. "But I think perhaps with you it will be different." He caressed her cheek then leaned close. "Thank you," he whispered, and then he collapsed, draped over the edge of the mattress like a wilted carrot.

Catriona winced. "Lord MacKinnon?" she whispered, bending slightly.

He didn't answer.

"Lord MacKinnon?"