The Renegade's Heart (16 page)

It was when Murdoch pulled her closer,
tucking her head against his shoulder, that she saw the mark upon
his left wrist. He had lifted his head and was listening avidly to
something she could not discern.

Isabella caught his hand in hers and studied
the blue whorl in confusion. She had never seen the like of it.
“What is this?” It could not be a malady, for it looked so
deliberate in design, as if a scribe had drawn on his flesh.

Her question seemed to trouble him, for he
became curt. “It is nothing,” Murdoch said, putting her on her feet
with unceremonious haste. “I hear horses.” He strode to Hermes,
taking undue interest in the beast’s bridle.

“I do not.” Isabella stared at his back,
startled by his change of mood. She straightened her garb, though
she would have preferred to have lingered with Murdoch.

“Listen!”

Isabella followed him, less interested in
pursuit than his dismissive tone. “If it is a malady, perhaps I can
be of assistance.”

“It cannot be healed.” Murdoch spoke
dismissively, his eyes narrowed as if he would hide his thoughts
from her. She noted that he tugged at his left sleeve.

The mark troubled him.

Why? What was it?

“You cannot be certain of that until we try,”
Isabella said mildly. “Has anyone tried to heal it?”

“No. And no one shall, for it cannot be
healed.”

“Where did you get it? When did it
begin?”

“It is not of import!” he said through his
teeth, his eyes flashing. “You must ride out, immediately.” He
locked his hands together to create a step for her to mount Hermes,
and fixed her with a determined glance.

“But what of you?”

“I will ensure my own survival.”

Isabella could not understand his manner. He
spoke to her as if she were a stranger, not a woman he had kissed
and touched with such intimacy just moments before. He gave her a
hard look. “And when shall I see you again? Where shall I find
you?”

“You may not.” One moment he spoke of the
future as if it were assured, but the next he looked intent upon
fleeing her side. “Ride out, before it is too late.”

Isabella regarded him for a long moment, then
stepped into his locked hands and swung up into the saddle.

“Can you manage him?”

She looked Murdoch in the eye. “You cast me
from your side, yet suddenly show concern for my welfare. What ails
you in truth, Murdoch? Will you not confide in me?”

“I would if it would make a difference,”
Murdoch said, his tone softening. “It is cursed complicated,
Isabella.”

That he no longer called her his Isabella
made his intentions most clear.

“No, it is simple,” Isabella snapped. “Simple
enough that even I can see the truth of it. I have been useful to
you, no more than that, and now you would dismiss me. Was that
caress your payment?”

Murdoch had the grace to wince, but Isabella
was too annoyed with him to care. She clucked to the horse, which
recalled the way out of the fen well enough. Hermes sank to his
ankles once or twice, but they moved with enough speed that they
were soon cresting the rise again. Once level with the fields, she
realized it was Alexander’s party who rode toward her, her brother
at the lead. He looked to be terrified and urged his horse to
greater speed when he saw her.

Isabella smiled and waved to reassure him,
and did not look back. She would not give Murdoch’s location
away.

She would save him and she would heal him.
That mark on his flesh was at the root of his change of mood. And
Isabella was going to find out what it was.

One way or the other.

* * *

Murdoch could not court Isabella.

There could be no more telling reminder than
the marks that claimed his own flesh, yet in the presence of
Isabella, Murdoch had forgotten the Elphine Queen, the clutch she
had upon him, her possession of his heart.

And the reality that he was doomed to either
disappear into Fae or die at the next new moon.

He had no right to make sweet promises to
Isabella. He had no right to dream of a future with that maiden by
his side, to imagine that he could woo and win her, to make hot
promises of the pleasure they would give each other.

The only mercy was that he had not taken her
fully. He had not claimed her maidenhead, which surely would never
be his to possess.

Murdoch was angry then, angry with the
trickery of the Elphine Queen and the net in which she had snared
him.

He was yet more angry that he did not know
how to free himself. If only he could find Duncan’s relic and
restore it to Seton Manor, perhaps his fortune would change.

Isabella’s assurances about her brother’s
intent did not let him rest easy either. Murdoch followed her as
swiftly as he could and climbed the rise, lying in the snow as he
watched Hermes run toward the party that had given chase.

It was her brother in the lead, for Murdoch
recognized the insignia on the younger man’s tabard. Isabella rode
directly toward him, confident in her brother’s good nature.
Murdoch fingered the hilt of his knife and wished they had been
close enough that he could throw the blade in defense of his
lady.

But the laird leapt from the back of his own
steed and lifted his sister down. He embraced her with a relief
that could be seen even at a distance, then set her on her feet and
framed her face in his hands. His affection for his sister was
evident, as was his intent toward her.

The lady’s confidence in her own welfare was
deserved.

The laird clearly questioned her, his gaze
rising to a point on the horizon far to the north, then back at his
sister again. When he turned and led her back toward Kinfairlie,
his arm cast over her shoulders, Murdoch knew the truth.

Isabella lied for him.

And Murdoch would take a southward path back
to Kinfairlie’s forest.

The party rode back toward the village, the
other horses surrounding Hermes and Isabella. Murdoch laid in the
snow for a long time, ensuring that he would not be spotted when he
moved. For the first time, he was assailed by doubt. Was the Laird
of Kinfairlie as innocent as his sister believed? Who then was
responsible for the theft of the relics? Did the brother Ross act
alone? Who else could steal so many relics with such efficiency,
claiming them from behind locked and guarded doors? How could any
other soul know the locations of the relics without resorting to
the accounting of that auction, the records now kept in the laird’s
chamber of ledgers?

The locked room that only he visited. It had
seemed a most reasonable conclusion to make, that the laird must be
complicit, but now he wondered. Was Isabella right about her
brother?

And how could Murdoch discover the truth?

* * *

Isabella had the strange sense of being a
traitor within her own home as she rode back to the village beside
Alexander. She had lied to her brother with an ease that had
alarmed her, and Alexander had believed her so readily that she was
doubly surprised. His men were in good spirits and joked with each
other now that their fears for her safety were allayed.

She felt as if she had a secret, not only in
knowing Murdoch’s location but in the memory of his sure touch. She
felt flushed and warm, convinced that what they had done was right
– and that they would do as much and more again. She knew Murdoch
had meant the pledges he had made to her in that moment. It was the
mark that meant something, something ill, something that frightened
him. All she had to do was discover the source of that mark and see
him rid of it.

Cured of it.

“Routed!” one of Alexander’s men gloated. “We
saw that brigand run out of Kinfairlie’s forests.”

“Aye,” agreed another. “And his camp
destroyed. Should he return, he will not find it easy to
remain.”

“If he has any wits about him, he will not
return,” concurred Alexander. “But I fear it will be only a matter
of time.” Isabella looked straight ahead, giving no indication of
her concern for Murdoch.

“Fortunate he was to evade us, that is
certain.”

“You shall see he pays the price for
threatening any soul on our roads, my lord.” The men laughed,
confident of Alexander’s sure and swift justice, and the entire
party rode into the village to cheers.

Isabella knew she had to ensure Murdoch’s
safety. It was only a matter of time before he acted again – unless
she unveiled the truth first. She had to visit Kinfairlie’s chapel
immediately and search its crypt.

“I must check upon the Siobhan’s son and his
cough,” she said to Alexander, for it was true and would also
ensure that no one accompanied her. “I pledged as much to Eleanor
before this all began.”

Alexander’s eyes narrowed slightly. Isabella
had time to wonder whether she dared risk a trip to the chapel on
her way back to the hall when one of the smith’s apprentices
appeared beside Hermes.

“The smith would speak with you, my lady. He
feared for your safety when we told him what had occurred.”

“You may tell him that I am well enough and
thank him for his concern,” she said, not slowing her course. “I
must visit the baker’s son.”

“The smith would see as much with his own
eyes, my lady. I know it to be so.”

Isabella smiled for the boy, not wanting him
to be chastened for failing to do as he’d been bidden. It would
only take a moment to assure the smith that she was well, and then
she would return to the baker’s abode. Alexander nodded agreement
to this and Isabella dismounted, leaving Hermes to return to
Kinfairlie’s stable with the rest of the party.

The smith spared her a glance when she
arrived at his forge. It was much quieter there than earlier. The
messenger’s mare was tethered to the front of his workplace,
nibbling hay from the wagon.

“So, you are hale, after all,” the smith said
to her after a searching glance.

“Hale enough,” Isabella agreed with a smile,
wondering what the smith saw. She fought the urge to blush. “The
king’s messenger will be glad to have his horse returned.”

“No more injured than lacking a shoe,” the
smith noted with satisfaction. “The tale could have ended far
worse.” He held Isabella’s gaze, his own dark. “It is not every
thief who would ensure the welfare of a stolen horse, despite what
some might believe. I have seen horses sorely used by brigands and
renegades.” He frowned at his work, running his finger around the
new shoe. “My boy says the lad had coin, so perhaps he even
intended to pay for the shoe.”

“Perhaps he did.”

“This renegade in the forest could have sent
the horse to another village, one more distant where she would not
have been recognized. It would have ensured his anonymity, but
would have caused the horse pain.” The smith met her gaze again. “I
cannot find it in my heart, my lady, to despise a man who ensures
the welfare of a horse over his own.”

“Nor I,” Isabella agreed, her words
breathless.

“He did not need to ensure that the boy
escaped unscathed – and were he truly as black–hearted as one might
expect, he would not have done so.”

“Indeed.”

“It seems a selfless deed, to ensure the
welfare of a horse and that of a squire, even while risking one’s
own safety.” The smith nodded. “A selfless deed.” The words had a
curious resonance the way he uttered them, as if they were of great
significance.

But Isabella did not understand.

“A selfless deed? Of what import is
that?”

“It is an ingredient from an old spell. Three
selfless deeds will set a condemned man free, as I recall it.” The
smith turned back to his forge, poking at the fire to make it burn
brighter.

“Truly? What manner of condemned man?”

He flicked her a look. “Do you know what you
ask, my lady?”

Isabella guessed. “Does such condemnation
have to do with blue lines on a man’s flesh?”

The smith caught his breath in alarm. “So,
that explains it,” he murmured to himself.

“Explains what, Master Smith? What do you
know? I entreat you to share it with me.”

He eyed her for a moment, glanced up and down
the lane, then lowered his voice. “I cannot speak of it,” he
muttered. “Not without damning myself to some trouble or other. But
this I can say. My lady, the tidings from the hall is that you
learn skill with herbs, from Lady Eleanor.”

“Indeed, I do,” Isabella agreed, wondering
that he should note this.

“Have you learned of the powers of wild
thyme?”

Isabella shook her head and repeated her
knowledge, for thyme was no herb of mystical powers. “The thyme we
grow in the keep garden is primarily for the kitchen. It is best
paired with roasted meat, though Eleanor says it can aid with
nightmares, digestion and shyness.” She smiled. “It is a symbol of
chivalry, because of its association with courage.”

The smith did not smile. “It is the other
thyme I ask about. The one with smaller leaves that grows on hill
banks and creeps along the ground. There is a patch of it on the
banks of the millpond, which blooms pink in summer.” The smith
seemed determined to avoid Isabella’s gaze, which was most unlike
him.

What was so important about wild thyme?

And what did it have to do with the blue
marks on Murdoch’s flesh?

“I would think them much the same, perhaps
one stronger than the other,” she said with care. “It is often that
way with the wild plant and the variant grown in the kitchen
garden.”

The smith shook his head with vigor. “I
suggest with respect that you learn more of it, my lady, and do so
soon.” He gave her one last look before he raised his voice. “I do
hope that the matter of the renegade in the forest and his true
intent is well-investigated,” he said, seemingly for all to
hear.