Highland Sacrifice (Highland Wars Book 2) (19 page)

“Wait,” Ceana said calmly. “Before you leave, Nigel. Will you not tell the prince and myself what
really
happened to Councilman Leonard?”

Macrath stilled, stunned by her words. He slanted her a glance, not wanting the men to know that he was just as clueless to his wife’s unexpected shift as they were.

Ceana let out a short, fake-sounding laugh. “’Tis just that, well, look at her. How could poor, sweet Mary stab Lord Leonard in the heart?” She raised her brow in question.

“Not in the heart—” John stopped himself short.

Ceana shot forward, a knife glinting in her hand. She poked the blade at John’s ribs. “Where was it, John? Was it here like this?”

John paled. Nigel’s mouth fell open. Macrath could feel his blood drain and then surge again. Had Ceana witnessed the killing?

“Who really killed Leonard?” she asked, her tone daring him to challenge her.

Mary whimpered, wrapping her arms around herself.

John swallowed audibly. “It was her. I saw it with my own eyes.” He flinched as Ceana’s blade dug against his ribs.

“That’s odd, Sir John, because you see, I watched him die, too, and I did not see Mary anywhere near him. In fact, she was not in the bailey at all.”

The man’s face could not go any paler. Nigel started to back away, but Marrec was behind him quick, along with Tobin, keeping the man where he ought to be.

“’Tis dark out, you couldn’t have seen anything,” Nigel protested.

Ceana whipped her head toward him. “Oh, I could not, but you could? That is where you are wrong. You see, the moon is full tonight, and I got a very good view of all that happened in the courtyard, including an exchange at the gate, which I’m sure you’ll want to tell your prince and your fellow clan members about yourself.” Ceana glowered at the men. “What did you do, rip poor Mary from her bed and smear the blood on her clothes?”

Nigel and John did not speak, nor did they deny what they’d done. But Mary caught his gaze and nodded.

“My laird,” Ceana said, glancing at her husband. “I watched the three other male council members attack Lord Leonard and then before making their escape through the front gate, they tossed these lads a heavy bag of coins.”

Macrath did not have to ask if his wife spoke the truth, he knew she did, and he didn’t put it past the two men to have done this. Mary was an innocent who jumped at the slightest sound. She’d not the heart to kill a fly let alone a man.

“Have we not seen enough death? Do you not want to put an end to the suffering at Sìtheil?” Macrath toyed with the sword at his hip, itching to yank it out and thrust it through the two men’s hearts. “You walked among us. Trained with us. Helped us remove the debris from the fire. You made yourselves a part of this new reign, and this is how you have thanked us? Have you anything to say?”

The men kept their lips firmly clenched, which only fueled the anger burning through Macrath’s veins. They were a lost cause.

“Marrec, Tobin, take these lads to their new accommodations belowstairs. Come the morning, we’ll show them our thanks for their treachery.”

Chapter Twenty

LEONARD’S body was wrapped in thick linens and taken to the ancient stone burial circle north of the castle grounds—the same place Laise had been buried three days past. Ironic, and sad. Though he was a traitor, Leonard had once ruled Sìtheil, earning him a place within the Morrison tomb. Macrath hated to think that one day he’d be buried beside the arsehole.

There was no one to mourn Leonard—save Beatrice, who had yet to make her appearance.

After seeing that John and Nigel were taken to the dungeon, Macrath nodded to Marrec and then turned to his wife. The sun was just beginning to pinken the horizon and white clouds swirled in the vibrant sky. At least they would not have snow quite yet.

He put his arm around Ceana’s shoulder and tugged her close. “We have to notify Beatrice that the three have left and murdered Leonard on their way out.”

“Do you think she does not know already?” Ceana asked, skeptical. “Remember, Beatrice knows all.”

Macrath nodded. “She might, but we have to officially inform her in any case. Even if she knows there is a battle coming. Even if she is the one planning the war.”

Gods knew he did not want to inform her, didn’t believe she deserved the courtesy. But, in actuality, he was looking forward to rubbing it in that she was alone with no allies in the castle—given that her two henchmen were currently rotting in the dungeon.

“I’m going to see that Mary is cleaned up. As soon as the sun rises fully, I’ll have the women continue preparing for a siege. We were nearly finished as of yesterday. We need to increase our supplies of water and food, but we’ve finished with the healers’ supplies, extra blankets. I’ve also been teaching the women where to strike with a dagger and have seen that they’ve each been provided one in case…” She trailed off.

Neither of them wanted to say that there was a chance the enemy could breach their walls.

“Aye. We will need many provisions,” Macrath said. “You’ve done well.”

Ceana smiled. “I only wish we did not have to face an army so soon.”

“Me, too, love.” Alone, he pulled her against him and kissed her slowly, gently.

He didn’t want to leave her in the great hall without protection. If the gate guards could be persuaded to the dark side, there was a possibility that more had already turned as well.

Tobin returned from the dungeon and Macrath and Ceana regrettably pulled from each other’s embrace.

“’Tis done, my laird.”

“Good. See to the princess’s protection while I go notify Lady Beatrice of what has transpired,” Macrath said.

The two men inclined their heads and Ceana tightened her grip on Macrath. “Be careful,” she warned.

“Worry not,
mo chridhe
. I shall return quickly.” He tucked her hard against him and kissed the top of her head. Those around averted their eyes, small smiles on their lips.

Macrath had to remember that a few bad eggs did not ruin the entire basket. Or so Cook had tried to teach him as a boy when Victor and his brood of friends were cruel to him. He’d thought all boys were just as mean.

The gnawing in his gut grew worse. They had to go see Beatrice now, before it was too late.

“I’ll see you shortly,” he whispered, and then he was off. Headed with long strides toward the stairs. Marrec melted from the shadows to follow right behind him.

They climbed the steep, circular stairs, taking them two at a time. The corridor that housed Beatrice’s chamber was quiet. Eerily so. He half expected to see mist form around the edges to swirl ominously about his feet. But there was none. A single torch was lit on a wall sconce halfway from the stairs. It flickered shadows on the stone walls, making it seem like a score of spirits followed right beside them.

They walked quickly, but silently, to Beatrice’s door, flanking it. Macrath wrapped two knuckles on the wood paneling, then nodded to Marrec.

“My lady?” Marrec called. “I must speak with you. ’Tis urgent.”

There was some rustling beyond the door. A good sign that Beatrice was within. Thank the gods they’d not missed her. The rustling stilled.

“My lady? I must speak with you,” Marrec repeated. “Something grave has happened.”

They heard something thump against the door.

“My lady?” Marrec called, worry in his voice.

Macrath was truly concerned about what was happening behind the closed doors. The bar slid from its place and clattered against the floor.

They couldn’t wait. Macrath signaled to Marrec. He grabbed hold of the door handle and lifted slowly, but when he attempted to push it open, something heavy leaned against the back. He pushed a little harder, feeling whatever—or whomever—it was shift slightly.

Macrath put his shoulder to the door and Marrec did the same. With the both of them, shoving the door all the way open was not an issue.

But what lay on the floor was Rhona, Tobin’s younger sister.

The poor lass was bloodied something awful. Her clothes torn. As if she’d not been through enough already with Gowp, now this.

Marrec dropped to her side, his hands trembling slightly as he lifted her. Her eyes were swollen shut, her lip split, and a cut above her eyebrow trickled down over her temple onto her cheek. Her body was limp, her breaths ragged and shallow. She’d been brutally beaten.

“Who did this?” Macrath asked her, his voice shaking with anger.

“Beatr…” she managed to push past her lips.

“Gods, she can barely speak,” Marrec said. “Why did she do this?”

“A… man…” Rhona whimpered. “He… I saw him in the corridor and…”

“Shh…” Marrec said. “You do not have to speak quite yet.”

Rhona must have seen Beatrice’s prisoner as they tried to make their escape. Poor lass had been in the wrong place at the wrong time. Macrath circled the room, lifting the mattress, flipping back the tapestries and throwing open the wardrobe. The room was empty.

“Where did she go?” he growled.

“Gone,” Rhona answered.

“She couldn’t have gone far,” Marrec responded. “We were only gone for a little while.”

Rhona weakly pointed toward the wall.

Macrath looked at her finger then followed the line to a tapestry he’d flipped back a moment before. There had been naught on the wall, and even now when he looked at it, he did not see anything. He slid his hands along the stone, feeling for cracks in the mortar, but he came across nothing. And then his boot caught.

Just the slightest wrinkle in the rug. He bent down and flipped it back, exposing a panel in the floor. A secret access.

But this didn’t make sense. He clearly remember that when he’d been brought into the castle by Beatrice during the games, that they’d gone up one flight of stairs, then down a winding corridor until she’d opened a door—not a hatch.

Macrath stared hard at the square access. This was wrong. All wrong.

He thought back to the day that he’d tried to block from his memory, pushing himself to remember. Beatrice had led him up one flight of stairs. Or was it two? Or had it only been one and a half and then through a door he’d not seen before into a corridor he did not know?

Ballocks!

He wanted to punch something. To string the bitch up. Why couldn’t he remember?

There was only one way to find out what was behind the panel. He tugged at the iron ring, but the door did not budge.

“Is she down there?” he asked Rhona.

The poor lass shrugged. “I do not know. I only just woke now when I heard you knocking at the door. But I remember her opening it.”

“The main door was barred from the inside,” Marrec reminded him. “She couldn’t have left through it.”

“Aye.” So the only way out appeared to be down.

Going against everything he remembered, Macrath pulled his dagger from his belt, slid it between the door and the floor and bent, trying to pry it open.

“You’ll need more than one,” Marrec said, adding his dagger to the effort.

Both of them worked to open the panel, but it didn’t move more than half an inch and their daggers were bending in way that would make them unusable again.

With an exasperated growl, Macrath slid aside the metal piece that covered the keyhole. He could see light, but little else.

Was it locked?

“Dammit,” he groaned, and glared around Beatrice’s too-clean chamber. Why was it so clean? Looked almost—unused. “I wonder if this is even her chamber, or if she’s only been toying with us the entire time.”

Marrec grunted. “I’d not be surprised.”

“This is not her chamber,” Rhona called. “At least not the one she sleeps in. She uses this one as a ruse.”

“What?” Macrath asked, not expecting to hear that at all. The idea had crossed his mind, but he’d not been entirely serious.

“Aye. Well, at least that is what her chambermaid told me in confidence. But I suppose it was all right for me to share it with you.”

“Aye, you did right by telling us.” He glanced at Marrec. “This door must lead to her true chamber.”

“In the Corridors of the Ancients,” Rhona murmured, her hand coming to her forehead and her eyes squeezing shut.

“Are you all right?” Marrec asked.

“Aye. Just a little dizzy.” She sat up straighter, leaning against the footboard, her knees pulled up against her chest, a permanent wince etched into her brow.

“Why don’t you lie down?” Macrath said.

She shook her head. “Not here.”

“Shall I take you to your chamber?” Marrec asked.

“Nay, you must find her first.”

“Corridors of the Ancients,” Macrath repeated. He’d never heard of it. Not been told of it either.

“’Tis a fairy tale,” Marrec said. “Or at least that is what I’ve always believed. This castle was built around Olaf the Black’s great fortress. The very center of the castle is rumored to be filled with spirits of the dead rulers of the past.”

“Is it possible that it truly exists and that Beatrice actually uses it?” Macrath stared around the room, looking for something,
anything
, that could help him get into the trap door.

“Aye. Anything is possible. Especially with that witch,” Marrec said with a shake of his head.

“The fire poker,” Macrath said. “It’s thicker than our daggers.”

He was not leaving this room from the door he’d entered—not without Beatrice in her special shackles.

MARY shivered in the warmth of Ceana’s chamber. Ceana had not wanted the poor lass to be anywhere else, save here, hoping that the enclosed, comfortable space would make her less afraid.

As soon as the warm bath was filled, Ceana had dismissed the servants in favor of attending Mary herself.

“I’m so sorry this happened. You must have been terribly frightened.”

Mary nodded, sinking into the tub, the bruises from her ordeal with Gowp having finally healed, only for new ones to mark her upper arms where John and Nigel had held her.

“I fear there are still a few rotten souls in the castle,” Ceana continued, dipping a linen into the bath and then smoothing it over Mary’s back. “But we will flush them out. I promise.”

“I’m sorry—” Mary’s voice broke, and she held her hand to her lips as if hoping she could stop herself from sobbing.

“Hush, now,” Ceana cooed. “You do not have anything to be sorry for. This was no fault of your own, lass.”

“I cannot help but feel it must be. First Gowp and now this? I must have
victim
branded onto my forehead.” Mary drew up her knees, leaning her chin on them.

Ceana came around the front of the tub and knelt so she could look her in the eyes.

“I used to think the same thing,” Ceana confessed. “My clan has always been poor. My father was ripped apart by wolves. My mother gutted by a vengeful bitch, my brother murdered and then the games—I cannot even begin to describe.” Ceana kept her face steady, resolute. “We all have our own personal hellfire, Mary. I’m not discounting yours by telling you mine, because I think by far you have had it harder. I simply want you to know”—she held out her hand for Mary’s, who hesitated for only a moment before grabbing hold—“you are not alone. I also want you to know that I am here for you. Should you ever need anything, you needn’t hesitate in asking.” Ceana looked away, frowning. “I’m so angry that we didn’t realize about Nigel and John before now. I’m so angry that you were not protected. We promised you safety after you came to us about Gowp. We have failed you.”

Mary’s lip quivered. With her chin still resting on her knees, she raised her eyes to Ceana’s. She gave a slight shake of her head. “Nay, my lady. Do not blame yourself for the evil hearts of men. I should have barred my door, but I was so tired that I forgot.”

“You should have been able to sleep without the need for a bar. But the truth of the matter is we have a bar, too. That is our fault. Our castle is not even safe from within. We’ve been so worried about outside fortifications and we should have been concentrating on the inside.” A great battle would take place soon, she could feel it in her bones, hear it echoing in the drafty shadows. “They chose you this time to punish you for coming forward. I pray you do not let this break your will, Mary. You are strong. I know you are. Do not let them lay claim to your spirit.”