Plaid to the Bone (8 page)

“Would ye care for a bite?”

He unwound his plaid and pulled his shirt over his head. Then he sat on the bed and flopped back, his feet still on the floor. “Maybe later. Just let me close my eyes for . . . a wee while . . . Cait, did I . . .”

He was breathing so heavily, she was sure he’d drifted off between one word and the next. Cait knelt by the bedside, unbuckled his boots, and tugged off his stockings. Then she lifted his legs onto the bed. He jerked in his sleep and his eyes opened. He looked down at his bare feet and smiled drowsily.

“I wouldna have thought it, proud and cold as ye were at the start, but ye’ve become a bountiful wife to me, Cait,” he said slowly, clearly working at putting the words together with exhaustion pulling at him. He reached toward her and she settled a hip on the bed beside him so he could wrap his arm around her waist. “We’ve been acting as if we loved each other this past month, we two, and do ye remember I promised I’d tell ye when the action turned to feeling?”

She nodded, holding her breath.

“It’s happened. For me at least. I realized it as I was riding home to ye. I couldna wait to be with ye. To feel ye close and sink into the rest of simply being beside ye. Ah, wife, ye do me good just by being yourself.” He traced the hollow of her cheekbone with his fingertip. “I love ye fine, Cait. With all my blood. With all my bones. Everything I am. I love you . . .”

His arm dropped and his hand came to rest on his chest as he lost the battle with fatigue and slipped back beneath the surface of sleep. Cait watched as his chest rose and fell and the pulse point at his throat throbbed.

She pulled the dirk from her pocket and unwound the linen. If ever she was going to do it, now was the time. Adam was so deeply asleep, he’d die before he had time to open his eyes and see the betrayal on her face.

Her hand shook.

Her father’s face rose accusingly in her mind. She’d sworn. He’d never forgive her for failing. She lifted the dirk, held it poised to bring down hard on the pulsing vein in Adam’s neck.

But that damnable lump of caring began to glow warm inside her. It filled her chest and radiated outward until she was overflowing with inconvenient tenderness. She couldn’t help it. She couldn’t change it. It simply was.

I love him, too,
she realized.

Cait let her arm sink. The dirk slipped from her grasp and clattered harmlessly to the floor. A muscle in Adam’s cheek twitched at the noise, but then relaxed and he slept on.

It would be midnight soon. She rose, picked up the dirk, and crossed to the fireplace to tilt the statuette of Scotland’s first king that rested on the mantel. There was no sound, but the tapestry on the wall wavered a bit. Cait peeked behind it and found the secret corridor Morgan had told her about.

She struck steel to flint and lit the candle in the wall sconce just inside the opening. Then she lifted the candle to light her way. Her other hand was buried in her pocket, her fingers still wrapped around the dirk’s hilt.

Determination straightened her spine. If she had her way, she knew exactly whose chest Mr. Shaw’s blade would rest in by midnight.

Farquhar peered from the dark stairwell into the dimly lit dungeon. Morgan MacRath had set up an altar on the north wall of the chamber before the open, and still blessedly empty, barred cells. By the light of a ritual candle, Farquhar could make out a pentacle propped against the wall along with other symbols he didn’t recognize. Incense burned, a stinging sweetness hovering in the musty air. There was probably a bowl of salt and an
athame
—a black-handled double-edged iron blade—resting on the altar as well, but Farquhar couldn’t tell for certain from this angle.

What he could tell was that Morgan MacRath was an adept. The sorcerer was standing before the altar, deeply entranced by a shallow scrying bowl. Morgan frowned at the images he was seeing in the shallow water, then his head jerked in surprise and he gave an evil-sounding chuckle that reverberated around the room.

He’d already cast a magic circle by gouging the sandstone floor around the odd looking glass hanging in the middle of the room. Whatever spell MacRath was preparing to cast must be a powerful one and since the mirror would only amplify his malevolent purpose, Farquhar couldn’t suppress a shiver.

Nothing in Elymas’s grimoire had prepared him for this. When he couldn’t find a magical answer for MacRath’s plans, he did the only other thing he could think of and that was to station himself in this dark place and watch for Lady Bonniebroch to appear.

Farquhar was no warrior. And he couldn’t meet MacRath on fantastical terms, but perhaps a way to help her would yet present itself. Trusting to luck didn’t seem the best course, but Lady Bonniebroch had been lucky for him. He only hoped he could return the favor.

MacRath began chanting, a guttural rhythmic sound, but the soft swish of kid soles on stone crept into Farquhar’s ear as well. Someone was coming. Farquhar stole into the dungeon and scuttled to hide behind the iron maiden in the corner. From that vantage point, he had a clear view of both the stairwell and MacRath.

Lady Bonniebroch appeared in the spot he’d just vacated. He read fear on her lovely features, but then she squared her shoulders and schooled her expression into a bland mask.

“’Tis settled, MacRath,” she said in a loud voice as she began walking toward him with her hand in her pocket.

Morgan turned, not the least surprised to see her. “Show me his blood on the blade.”

“I left the dirk where it lies,” she said. “How else will anyone connect the deed with Mr. Shaw?”

“How indeed? I only ask because I’m sensitive to metals, you see, and I perceive there is a blade on your person.”

“Oh, you must mean this,” she said as she continued to advance toward him. She reached into her bodice and drew a slim four-inch dirk from the busk. “Only for protection. A lady can never be too careful.”

“Neither can a magus.”

MacRath extended his hand toward her and sparks flew from his fingertips as he quickly intoned an obscure Latin phrase. The blade was ripped from Lady Bonniebroch’s hand and flew, turning end over end in the air. It finally stuck fast to the ornate iron filigree that framed the long looking glass. Then her skirt jerked toward the glass as well, until the hand in her pocket was pinned between her body and the ornate frame.

A giant lodestone.
That explained the faint hum Farquhar had heard when he stood before the mirror for the first time.

“Ye’ve a second knife, milady.” MacRath made a “tsking” sound. “Ye havena been entirely truthful with me. That will cost ye.”

He made a sign in the air before his body, his fingertips leaving a shower of golden shimmers to form a charm. Lady Bonniebroch cried out as her body was jerked by an unseen hand. It flipped her around till her spine was held flat against the mirror, her arms pinioned at the wrists against the iron filigree as if she’d been manacled. She struggled and the looking glass swayed on its chains, but she remained stuck fast.

“Let me go!”

MacRath shook his head. “I’m no’ holding ye. ’Tis your oath as does that. Ye swore on your own blood and now the iron in that blood has bound ye to the mirror’s frame.” He patted her cheek. “I have a few preparations to make before midnight, but I’ll come back to ye directly. Should ye wish to scream, please feel free. No one but me will hear ye, but I assure ye, I’ll enjoy it enough for a multitude.”

He turned and walked back toward his altar, chanting a bastardized version of the “Dies Irae,” the dirge of final judgment.

Farquhar seized his moment. He crept back to the stairwell and dashed up the dark stone steps.

 

A scream caught at the back of her throat. Cait bit her lip until she tasted blood, but she wouldn’t give Morgan the satisfaction of hearing her fear. She’d sworn a foolish oath and now she’d pay for her folly.

Why had she thought she could sneak up on a sorcerer and dispatch him with a dirk as if he were as insensible as that practice sack of meal?

She hadn’t been thinking clearly. She only knew she couldn’t kill Adam. And she couldn’t let her father pay for her unwillingness to live up to her evil bargain.

The mirror’s hold on her grew by the moment. It was as if a fist squeezed Cait’s heart and she struggled to draw a breath. Choking clouds of incense rose from Morgan’s altar. Her vision tunneled briefly, but then she pushed herself up on her toes and was able to gulp a lungful of the bitter air.

Tears streamed down her cheeks. She wept for the days of loving she’d miss with Adam. She wept for their unborn children. She wept for her all too short life.

Then Morgan’s head lifted, cocked like a hunting hound who hears his master’s whistled command. “’Tis time.”

He pushed the sleeves of his robe up to bare his arms and advanced toward her, his
athame
in his hand.

“Hold!” It was Adam’s voice coming from the stairwell.

Hope surged in Cait’s heart, but fear for him overwhelmed it. Before she could warn Adam away, he pounded across the chamber at a dead run toward MacRath, a wicked claymore raised to strike.

Almost as if he were bored, Morgan lifted a hand at the last moment and a shower of sparks flew from his palm. Adam lost his double-handed grip on the claymore’s hilt and it flew toward the mirror, narrowly missing Cait’s left arm as it attached itself to the magnetic frame.

“I told ye, milord.” Callum Farquhar stumbled after Adam, his face as sorrowful as a whipped pup. “No weapon of metal will prosper against the sorcerer whilst magic flows round that mirror.”

Morgan raised an appraising brow at the small man. “Very astute, Farquhar. Ye may have more understanding of these doings than I thought.” Then he glared at Adam, who’d been frozen in place since his sword was ripped from him. “And now for you, milord.”

Morgan made mystic symbols in the air before him again, and Adam backed inexorably toward Cait and the mirror.

“Flee, Adam. Save yourself,” Cait urged. Misery nearly choked her. “Dinna stay for me.”

When he kept backing toward her, she realized that he had no control over where he was sent. His muscles bunched and tensed as he strained to reach the sorcerer, but he couldn’t break the spell’s hold. Finally Adam came to rest before her, forming a shield for her with his own body.

“Oh, Adam. Why did ye come?”

“My heart is here with ye. My body had to follow. And even if I could leave ye, lass,” he whispered, “I wouldna.”

“Isn’t that precious?” Morgan said with a sneer. “Mark it well, Farquhar. ‘Flesh of my flesh’ is no’ just words to the laird and his lady. They’re warp and woof of the same plaid. Bound together—bone to bone. These two share one heart. When one stops, they’ll both drop.”

Standing just outside the gouged circle around the mirror, Farquhar looked sorrowfully at Cait and hung his head. If she had suspected him of being the religious sort, she’d have guessed he was praying.

Then Morgan began to chant in Latin again, but it was no liturgy Cait recognized. She peered around Adam as the sorcerer lifted his blade to the four corners of the room and then began to advance toward the magical circle. Murder blazed in his eyes.

“We havena much time,” she whispered furiously, “but I want ye to know, Adam Cameron, that I do love ye. I didna mean to, but I couldna help it. I should have loved ye better, but with all that I am, I count myself blessed to have loved ye at all, even for this short time.”

“Love is stronger than death, lass.” His voice rumbled through her and she realized he was trying to give her the last gift he could offer—courage. “We’ve naught to fear, you and me. Whatever happens in the next few moments, I’ll see ye after, aye?”

Cait pressed her cheek against his strong back and swallowed back a sob. She’d try to be brave for him. She could face anything so long as this man was beside her.

Then Morgan stopped chanting. She peered around her husband in time to see the sorcerer cock back the arm that bore the iron blade. Adam’s chest was bared. Morgan couldn’t miss from this distance.

He threw the
athame
.

Time contracted and expanded around them. Cait seemed to see every glint of candlelight on the dark blade as it sped toward her husband. She perceived the very air bending around the
athame
, curling around the knife in feathery wisps. Her vision narrowed until all she could see was the lethal tip hurtling toward them.

Then out of nowhere, someone broke the circle and leaped in front of Adam. It was Farquhar.

Suddenly Cait regained control of her limbs. Her dirk, Mr. Shaw’s larger blade, and Adam’s claymore all clattered from the mirror’s frame to the sandstone floor. Adam snatched up his sword and, roaring like a feral beast, he swung the long blade in a glittering arc toward the sorcerer.

It ought to have cleaved Morgan MacRath in two, but instead, when the claymore struck him, his whole body disintegrated into little black dots, like a swarm of midges. The dots seemed to try to coalesce back into a shape, but only managed a tangled mass. They floated up and flowed like a black river across the soot-covered beams above. Then a burst of light flashed from inside the long looking glass and the black dots scattered. They raced toward one of the cells and trickled through the iron bars to escape the light. The door to the cell banged shut of its own accord, and the bars flared white-hot for a few heartbeats before settling to pulse softly. The collection of dots shivered in the darkest corner.

“Weel, that’s the end of Morgan MacRath, I’ll warrant,” came Farquhar’s rasping voice. “He didna reckon on the mirror. It bent his own curse back on him. O’ course, your claymore had a mite to do with it too, Lord Bonniebroch.”

“Mr. Farquhar, you’re . . .” Cait knelt beside him. The hilt of the
athame
protruded from his chest.

Adam started to pull it out, but Farquhar stopped him with a hand to his arm. “Nae need, man. Let it lie. It can do no more harm.”

Cait positioned herself so she could cradle the older man’s head in her lap. A sob escaped her lips. “This is all my fault.”

“Hush. In the end, ye were willing to give your life in exchange for your husband. Dinna be surprised that someone else was willing to do the same for you. Though to be honest, I’d hoped MacRath hadna such a good aim.”

“No, no, no,” she chanted in misery. “You have to live, Farquhar.”

“Wish I could oblige ye, milady,” he said, gulping air between his words, “but I fear I’m after doing what we all must one day.”

“Stow that talk,” Adam said gruffly as he took one of Farquhar’s hands. “I’m without a steward here at Bonniebroch. I was planning to offer ye the position.”

“I’ll take it,” Farquhar said with a half-smile twitching his mouth. “Though I fear it’ll be the shortest stewardship on record.”

Cait didn’t try to stop her tears. They streamed down her cheeks and fell onto the old man’s broad forehead.

Farquhar’s smile faded. “Dinna weep for me, lady. I’d no’ have ordered this different.” He grasped both their hands and joined them together. “Ye two have been given a gift that few folk receive even if they live together for a lifetime. Ye both ken ye’d die for each other, and that’s no small thing.”

Adam squeezed her hand and she gave him a tremulous smile. If only love were enough to heal all wounds, Farquhar would be on his feet doing a reel from the depth of emotion that radiated between Cait and her husband.

“But there was treachery afoot here in Bonniebroch, so someone’s blood was meant to spill this night.” Farquhar’s voice fell to a whisper. “I’m satisfied for it to have been mine.”

His eyes closed. “My life hasna been my own since the day ye shielded me at the pillory, milady. Now, my debt is settled, my vow fulfilled. The long dark holds . . . no terror . . . for me.”

Then his chest fell for the final time and he was gone.