Highland Scandal (23 page)

“I would fight for you and am. But you cannot do the same.”

“Don’t you understand what is at risk? Even now, Sheena has learned something that will change everything.”

She expected him to understand the sacrifice she made for him. Instead of him railing against her, he seemed as if he entertained her and her denial. “And this news…”

“’Tis about your mother.” She looked up at him through her lashes. She expected anger, yet he blinked. “She has told me—”

“Nay, I’d rather hear her tell me.” Lachlan grabbed her hand and started to Sheena’s chamber. He entered first. He dropped her hand and ran across the chamber.

“She’s been choked.”

On her neck, a ring of oval scarlet marks marred her flesh and deepened to a bloody color before Rowen’s inspection. Scratches cut the swollen flesh and thin lines of blood were bright against her skin.

Lachlan shouted her name.

Rowen fell to her knees beside Sheena.

He tapped her on her face. She groaned. “Let’s get her in bed.”

Sheena sprawled on the floor. She wasn’t moving and water spread around her legs. Rowen dropped to her side and grasped Sheena’s hand. Blood caked her nails. At least she fought. Sheena’s eyes fluttered open. She grimaced.

“She’s in labor. Call the midwife. It shall be fine.” Rowen stroked her face. Sheena’s witchy green eyes were bloodshot. Bloody splotches spread across her face.

Lachlan scooped her up and put her on the bed. He went from the room and bellowed for a guard. Rowen heard him bellow for the midwife and Mistress Cullen.

“Who did this, Sheena?”

Sheena palmed her belly.

“Sheena, did Semias do this?” Lachlan leaned his fisted hands flat on the bed and loomed over her. Sheena nodded.

Lachlan sprung away and charged from the chamber. Sheena rolled to her side and clutched her constricting belly.

“Shh, the midwife is coming. I will not leave your side. Let me see how you are faring.” Rowen pried her hand away and lifted Sheena’s drenched
leine
. She wasn’t crowning so there was still time. Just as Rowen finished her inspection, Mistress Cullen swept inside.

“Everything is being seen to.” Mistress Cullen went and built up the fire in the hearth.

“All shall be well.”

Sheena grasped Rowen’s hand and held tightly.

A line of female servants entered, bearing buckets of water, kettles, pots, linens, and medicines. Mistress Cullen came over and produced a piece of iron. She slipped it in the bed to protect against
sithean.

“I ken ye’re na a fairy,” she said to Rowen.

“You may be the only one.”

“Nay, we ken ye na.” Rowen looked up at the small voice holding strong. The servants nodded.

The childbirth preparations began. Candles blazed about the chamber. Water boiled. Linens were laid out and medicines prepared, ready for when needed. The window’s oiled-skin was shut, sealing out the air and light. Smoke thickened about the blackened beams and grew thick in the space. The heat began to rise and all were wet with sweat.

As the midwife hurried in, she brought in cool air. The freshness whipped around and died too fast to be of any relief to anyone.

“I’m frightened.”

“It shall be fine.” Rowen patted Sheena’s shoulder. “I was scared when I birthed Kenny, but do not let it overtake you. We all shall help.”

Sheena tried to nod, but a contraction halted it. She leaned back as it faded away.

The candles burned away and more were lit. More water had been sent for and it seemed as if everyone had melted away. Yet, no baby had appeared. Sheena was still racked with contractions. She was losing strength. Her throat had swollen so any sound she made was a gritty grunt that pained her as much as the birthing pains.

“First births are the longest,” Rowen explained as her midwife explained to her. It hadn’t offered Rowen comfort at the time and most likely Sheena felt the same way. Rowen needed to say something in assistance.

“I can see the head,” the midwife’s muffled voice sounded. She popped her head up. “Naw, ye bear down.”

Rowen put her hands behind Sheena’s back to support her. She tried to give her all her strength. Sheena squeezed out tears from the corners of her eyes.

Sheena let out a scream. The shrill, piercing cry filled the air and died on a throaty wail. A heavy, thick silence pressed the remaining air from the room. The midwife bent over the limp form of a baby. Rowen saw the little, foot, its white sole, and five toes.

The midwife wrapped the baby in a linen. The limp, tiny, shrouded body was pressed to her chest.

* * * *

The dank space smelled of mold, damp earth, and bodily fluids. Lachlan swore he could feel the thick, cold air weighted against his skin. Every exhalation misted before him. Torch light provided no heat and failed to brighten the confined space to halt the scurrying of vermin.

Semias shivered. The right side of his face was swollen from where Iananta had struck the blow that pitched the man into darkness. One cloudy eye blinked.

“You put an innocent, pregnant woman in here to protect yourself. You have lost any honor you might have once laid claim to. I could kill you. And most likely will, but how you die is your choice.”

Lachlan fisted his hands. In his life, he had killed. Never before had he thought of taking another life; warriors killed to defend and for survival. Standing before Semias, Lachlan wanted to kill a man just to wipe him from this earth.

“This is your one chance to redeem yourself.”

Semias shook his head. The first time Lachlan had seen him, he stood erect, a man confident in his status and power, yet the man before him was broken. He stood hunched. His eyes were downcast and seemingly blind to the world around him.

“She planned to tell my secret.”

All of Lachlan’s stubbornness stopped him from telling him she had already shared it. Though not with him.

“You killed the laird.”

“Nay, I would never betray my laird in such a way. I admit I was thrilled when he died, but it was not from my hand.”

“Then why attack Sheena? What is this damn secret?”

“It is one I vowed never to speak to your father or you. It was to save a life. But I shall tell you. Do you have any memories of your mother?”

Memories, he had those.
Her hand running over his head. Her humming a song that was her own.

Lachlan curled his hand around his blade. “What importance does that hold?”

“She haunts me. The same as she did your father. That was who whispered in his ear—calling him to her. The truth was that at the end she wanted no man. She hadn’t wanted to live for her sin against you. She had thought it was the only way. You must forgive her.”

Lachlan drew his blade and pressed it to Semias’s throat. “Enough with this. What is your secret?”

“Your mother is alive.”

Lachlan’s hand shook. The blade pressed into Semias’s throat. Blood spread across the keen edge.

Semias hissed. “’Tis true. I have kept this secret until the day of my greatest folly. Too much drink and an old man’s pride.”

He snatched it away, but pointed the tip at the old man. His stomach revolted. He gagged, but kept from retching. If anyone else had told him such a simple statement, he would have laughed. Lachlan saw the truth in his defeated, crumpled face and heard it in his heartbroken tone.

“Your father would speak of her through the years. He would tell all who listened that Agnes loved him and he her. That was a lie. The rage built up in me and added to my jealously. I boasted that night. Not to him, but to myself, but he heard me. Demanded I tell him all I knew. I could not. He had been losing his wits, so I blamed that and as he went mad, it became easier. He knew the truth.”

Why had she faked her death?
Why had she let him think her dead?
Where was she now?
Those questions pushed against the back of his throat, demanding to be spoken and choking him as he gulped them back.

“Then your father was dead and I believed that was the end of it. But that whore found out. Your father spoke her name. I couldn’t let her tell you. I couldn’t see you hurt. I love Agnes. She is the wife of my heart. You, Lachlan, you are the son of my heart. I could not see you hurt.”

“Where is she?”

“Leave her in peace,” Semias begged.

“Where is she?” Lachlan bit out each word. His jaw ached from the effort to stop from roaring.

“I cannot tell you.”

“You speak of love for her. Sounds to me as if you wished to possess her, keep her to yourself. Do not speak of love for me.”

“I did all in my power to make you Laird.”

“I never asked for it. Sheena was right. You wish for power. Do not confuse that with love. Answer me.”

Lachlan leaned forward to catch the whispered words before they were snatched away.

For many years, Lachlan had been so near to her. He had never been aware of it.

* * * *

The clachan bustled with activity in preparation for the spring harvest. The smithy had his fires burning to repair tools. Some men gathered about inspecting their tools while women went about their daily duties, caring for the home, bairns and the men.

Rowen loved this time of year when there were chores to be done instead of wasting the days away. Her impatience blended with dread. When the weather warmed, the fighting began. Soon, the Murrays would rush across the strath. With Jonty still roaming the land, the Gordons would face a fight that could leave families starving.

A lass halted. She set her pail down and stared at Rowen. She wasn’t the only one. In mid-chore, the clan folks stopped and fixed their eyes on her. She felt their gazes boring into her. Her skin twitched and she wanted to swat away the looks like midges on a summer’s day.

Mistress Cullen told her Sheena’s sister, Luighseach, lived in the middle of the clachan. She drew to a halt. She asked a woman which was Luighseach’s home and gave her thanks when she was pointed to the other one across the tract. She knocked.

The woman who opened the door shared no resemblance to Sheena. She was red headed, brown eyed, and looked like a lass of ten than of ten and eight.

“I am Rowen Murray.”

“Aye, I ken.”

Rowen wasn’t surprised. The clan’s lips must have been smacking from all the talk about her and their laird. From inside the home, a bairn’s bubbly laughter rang out. He climbed out of his cradle.

“I am here to tell you about your sister.”

She glanced about the crowd gathered on the tract. “Ye must come in.” She stepped back to let Rowen inside her home.

A peat fire burned in the middle of the room. Smoke rose upward and slipped out the opening in the center of the thatched roof. The home was neat. The dirt floor had fine lines from the broom. A bed and few furnishings surrounded the room and through the other side was the byre where a cow let out a drawn-out call.

Luighseach snatched up the mending she left haphazardly on a chair. She balled it up and stuffed it in the basket on the ground.

“Is she weel?” She motioned for Rowen to sit in the grandest chair in the home.

“For the most…she gave birth yesterday. Her son did not live.”

“I ken. Sheena—she is—she is weel?”

“Aye, she is receiving the best care.”

Luighseach crumpled on a stool. She crossed herself.

Rowen laid a hand on her knee in comfort. “You can visit her whenever you wish.”

She looked out the small opening to the outside. The oil-skin was tucked back to let in light, not that any filtered in the small round opening. “Thank ye, but my husband wouldna like that.” She touched her neck.

Rowen glimpsed the white thread tied about her neck. She glared at it. Luighseach lowered her hand and wrung her work-worn hands together.

“Are you afraid I will harm you? That I bring death?”

Her eyes flashed then her cheeks reddened. “Ye are the MacKenzie banshee. People are saying ye killed Sheena’s bairn. Yer wail was heard.”

“I am not a banshee. I bring no harm to anyone. I do not proclaim anyone’s death.” Rowen kept her tone calm when she felt hysterical. It built within her, choking her from the inside out. Tears burned her eyes. Rowen jumped to her feet to flee.

“They say the laird is under your spell.”

“He loves me. I love him. I do not have the power to cast a spell.”

Luighseach grasped her hand and cupped her elbow in case she fell. “Ye are kind. Ye helped my sister when everyone turned against her.” She ripped off the thread and tossed the useless amulet aside. “I dinna mean to hurt yer feelings. I just wanna tell ye the truth. Some more men have joined with Jonty, thinking the laird and ye will destroy the clan. Ye must tell him. Jonty will kill my sister.”

“I shall.”

“I must do something for ye. I’ll try to quell the talk in the clachan.”

A burly man walked in—her husband—and he glared from Luighseach’s touch to Rowen.

“She has brought me news aboot my sister.”

He made a sound in the back of his throat. “She’d be deid soon, nay?”

“Nay, she did not kill the laird.”

Luighseach clutched her heart. Her husband let out a breath of relief. “’Tis been hard for my wife.” He pulled an arm around her. She rested her hand on his chest.

“Thank ye for telling us…um…Mistress Murray.” He grimaced from embarrassment, unsure of Rowen’s position.

The clan must have thought her Lachlan’s mistress. They were not wrong, and with the auld laird have a string of them, the clan mustn’t be surprised his son followed his lead. It must have been in the blood. Then with the fairy talk and her deemed a banshee by all of the highlands, she was faced with the danger Lachlan faced. She couldn’t ignore it or pretend it no longer existed. She said her farewells and hastened from their home.

She jumped onto the horse and hurried down the tract to the gawks of the people. She had lost her composure, that veil she had hid behind that protected her opened wound those banshee tales caused. Lachlan was laird and she believed that this time she could be with the man that she loved. She could have a life and deal with the chatter. As long she spent the rest of her days with Lachlan, she swore she could handle anything. She had put Lachlan in danger and she couldn’t have a life with him. She loved him too much to let him lose all he had.