Looking back at Gybbon, she saw him begin preparing some porridge. Mora sighed, but did so quietly so as not to insult the man. She liked porridge but suspected she would be desperate for something, anything, else by the time they reached Dubheidland.
“Do ye think my cousins are also sheltering from the rain?” she asked.
“Aye. I dinnae ken the men, but I would be willing to bet they tucked themselves up in a warm inn as fast as they could and are now enjoying a nice hot meal and an ale.”
“Bastards,” Mora muttered softly.
Gybbon laughed, revealing he had heard her, and Mora blushed.
“Exactly so.”
* * *
Murdoch watched Robert guzzle from his tankard of ale and tried to maintain his expression of calm with a touch of disinterest. His brother’s great plan was nothing less than madness, but he knew if he said as much he would die. What he could not think of was how he could get free of the plan and maybe even aid poor Mora.
He had liked Mora’s parents and had been stunned when Robert had confessed that he had killed them. Lachlan had later whispered the tale to him of how Robert had struck them down even as they smiled and greeted them cheerfully. It was fortunate he had not been there and had been too stunned to say anything when Robert had boasted of the killing, he decided. If he did not remain as completely in agreement with Robert’s plan as his eldest brother insisted all his brothers be, he would pay dearly. His brother had always held him firmly in place with a hard hand, and a part of Murdoch was growing very tired of it, especially now that he did not have his father to stand between them.
“Where do ye think our cousin has gone?” he asked Robert, and nearly winced at the fury on his brother’s face.
“She may already be at that damned Cameron’s keep with him and his horde of brothers. Her mother was so damned proud of her connection to that arrogant fool.”
“Then we have lost her.” Murdoch was proud of how he kept the hope he felt out of his voice.
“For a wee while, mayhap, but she willnae be able to resist going home. She also will need to get the boy if he isnae with her or want him to ken what she thinks is his now.”
Murdoch kept his eyes lowered to his plate as he forced himself to eat a little food. The land and house did belong to her and Andrew. Their grandfather had left it to David. He had left that in his last will and testament. It would still be in their uncle’s hands if their father was not so ill.
As he glanced toward one of the young maids scurrying through the room serving food and ale, he thought about his father’s sudden illness, one that looked certain to kill him. It had come on so suddenly, and no matter what healer they brought him, it clung to him tenaciously. A sudden thought as to how that might have happened made Murdoch feel color rush to his cheeks, a flush born of fury and shock, and he was glad he was staring at a buxom brunette so that Robert would not think anything of it.
“Ye cannae handle a lass like that, boy,” taunted Robert.
Murdoch gave his brother an angry look, then went back to staring at his plate. He could not banish the thought that Robert might have had a hand in their father’s illness. It would explain why he had killed poor Old William. From what little he had heard of their argument, it was possible the man had been about to accuse Robert of poisoning his father.
Murdoch’s brother was mad. He was now certain of it. A subtle look at Lachlan and Duncan told him they either knew it or had begun to suspect it, too. All Murdoch could do was try to keep all such suspicions to himself, not even hint at them by expression or word, and pray he could keep all blood off his own hands. It was cowardly, he thought, but he did not wish to be just another victim for his mad brother.
Robert reached out and curled his arm around the brunette’s waist, tugging her down onto his lap. He then nuzzled her neck and the girl laughed, although Murdoch could see fear and disgust on her face. Murdoch wanted to say something and must have been too obvious about it, because Lachlan kicked his leg under the table. He went back to studying the food he tried to choke down and wondered just how deep into Robert’s crimes Lachlan and Duncan were.
Robert soon dragged the girl off to his bedchamber and Murdoch looked at Lachlan. “Why did ye kick me?” he asked Lachlan quietly.
Lachlan studied him and said solemnly, “I wasnae in the mood to watch one brother kill another.”
Murdoch heard Duncan grunt and said, “He is mad, ye ken.”
“Just keep that thought to yourself, fool,” snapped Duncan.
“If ye ken it, why are ye nay stopping him?” Murdoch could not understand their loyalty to Robert.
“He will kill us without blinking,” replied Lachlan.
“Without hesitation and, I suspicion, without warning,” added Duncan.
Murdoch dragged his fingers through his hair. “But . . . there are three of us and only one of him.”
“And, as ye said in a too loud voice, he is mad. He can also wield a sword with far more skill than any one of us can.” Lachlan pushed aside his empty plate and picked up his tankard to have a deep drink of ale. “Ye are younger than the lot of us by many a year, so ye dinnae ken much of how he has always been a fierce and deadly fighter with a blade. Sword or knife.”
“Or both. The mon has a lot of blood on his hands. Tried to stop him from running off to kill some poor farmer whom he claimed had been insulting once and he cut up both of us,” said Duncan. “Stopped only because Da and Old William ran out and made him. That was when I understood why Da ne’er left ye without a guard when ye were small, e’en if it was only a woman who could send up a loud scream and alert everyone.”
“Yet he didnae protect himself weel, did he,” muttered Murdoch.
“I would say nay, yet I cannae believe Robert would have aught to do with what ails our father.” Lachlan shook his head. “’Tis a mortal sin, a heavy one, to set at his feet with nay proof.”
Murdoch finished his ale and stood up. “Weel, if we dinnae do anything, wee Mora and Andrew will be dead soon. I ken I will ne’er be able to stomach it. Mayhap ye should decide if ye can.”
Lachlan watched as Murdoch went to his bedchamber and then sighed. “I hate that I share his suspicions.”
Duncan gave a short, harsh laugh. “Weel, dinnae bother donning a hair shirt o’er it. It isnae needed.”
“What do ye mean?”
“I mean he has probably done just what the lad suspects. I saw the lad listening at the door when Robert and Old William were quarreling. ’Tis why Old William is dead. He was arguing with Robert about what ailed our father, about how he was damned to hell’s fires for trying to kill his own father. He demanded Robert tell him what poison he used and how he was getting it into the mon. That was when Robert killed him. Foolish old mon. William should have seen that coming,” he said softly, and shook his head.
“Why didnae ye tell me? Tell someone?”
“It seems I have a verra strong will to live and to sleep at night. Our brother would slip in and cut my throat if he thought I kenned it.” Duncan stared hard at Lachlan. “And heed this warning, Lachlan. If he e’er tries to get ye to go off alone with him, find away to nay go. Always study the danger if he tries to get ye to do something for him.”
Lachlan sat quietly for a moment. “We cannae do this. I thought if we rode with him we could keep it bloodless or stop something. We didnae stop a thing. Poor Rona and David were smiling at us one moment, Robert was smiling back, and then, with just a few swipes of his sword, they were both dead and our cursed brother was still smiling.”
“I ken it. See it when I try to sleep, but we cannae run from it either. That would be a sure way to die. And watch Murdoch closely. When he tried to stop Robert from killing the lassie’s goats, ye saw what he did to the boy, and trust me in this, he hasnae forgotten and will ne’er forgive Murdoch for interfering. He has always had a hate for the boy.”
“Ye are saying that the best we can do is try to stay alive.”
&n
bsp; “Aye, and to keep that fool boy alive as he is the best of us. Robert has always been jealous of how our da treated the boy.”
Lachlan signaled one of the girls to fill their tankards and then just drank quietly with his brother, his mind so full of troubled thoughts he suspected it would ache in the morning, if he got any sleep at all.
* * *
Mora finished scrubbing the pot Gybbon had made the porridge in as he walked around exploring what was in the house. There was not much to explore. It was ample comfort for a traveler and she was very glad of a roof over her head, but she desperately wanted a bath and there was also nothing to do as the night settled in.
As she wiped her hands dry she thought of how she should look at her wound. She had bandaged it while on the road and it had not looked like much more than a scratch. Yet now it ached all the time and she knew it was because of the walking, the riding, and the horse throwing her to the ground. She also suspected it was bleeding again.
“Do ye play chess?” Gybbon asked.
She looked at him where he stood, next to a set of shelves and holding a board in his hand. “Aye. Why would there be a chessboard here?”
“I wouldnae doubt it was left by one of my kin or a MacFingal.” He searched through all the shelves and sighed. “I cannae see any of the pieces needed to play, so ’tis only good for kindling or something to cut cheese on.”
She hurried to his side and took the board. It was a plain one, yet perfectly done. “Nay, I have something we can use.” She hurried over to her bag and dug out the small box she had packed her father’s chess pieces in. “My fither loved the game,” she said as she returned to his side and handed him the box while fighting back a wave of sadness.
“Did ye even pack any clothes?” he teased, and then opened the box.
“Of course. There were so many things I had to choose carefully. If I had brought all I wished to save, I would have needed a wagon.”
“These are magnificent,” he said quietly as he studied a pawn. “Shall we play then?”
“Ye can set it up and I wish to go up to the loft for a few moments.”
“The pot is in the far corner,” he said as he continued to look over the chess pieces.
Mora knew that she was blushing slightly as she hurried up the stairs, and told herself that was silly since everyone had to use one at some time. Once done with the pot, she sat on the bed, relieved to see there were two narrow ones. There would be no awkward discussion on how to share the bed, just a simple decision about who sleeps near the window and who sleeps near the stairs.
She sat on the edge of the bed nearest the stairs and undid her gown, pulling it down to her waist. That did not give her access to the wound at her waist so she stood up and allowed it to fall further down. She then grabbed the bottom of her shift and rolled that up until she could see what was happening with her injury.
Untying the torn piece of her shift she had used as a bandage, one she noticed nervously was wet with blood, she tossed it aside and looked carefully at the wound. It looked to be a wider cut than it had and she wondered if that was because she had fallen on it. It was possible that she had erred by not stitching it, but her stomach had turned at the thought of stitching herself up. She had enough trouble just seeing her own blood leaving her body. Ripping another strip of cloth off her shift, she carefully tied it over the wound and then dressed.
When she stood up she swayed for a moment and feared she was about to swoon, but the feeling passed. Grabbing up the bloody rag, she intended to slip it into her bag as she went by it. It would probably be a good idea to mention her wound to Gybbon, but she feared he would insist they stop and tend it, perhaps even make her take to a bed for a few days. She had no time for that. When she was safe somewhere and had her young brother safe beside her, then she would see to her own hurts.
She sat down across from Gybbon at the table, the chessboard between them. He won the chance to make the first move, so she focused all her thoughts on each move to make after that, determined to win. He was one of those players who had to carefully think over every move while making soft sounds to indicate all his deep thoughts. She was tempted to throw the pawn he lingered so long over right at his head, but she was closing in on him until he finally made the next move and won.
Mora did not like losing but had to admit he had earned the win. He was as good as her father and she had only beaten her father once. It would have delighted her father to match himself against another good player, she thought, as she picked up the pieces and carefully put them back in the box.
Gybbon watched her and could see the shadow of grief touch her face again. He suspected she had played against her father and thought of him. Such moments would come often, he thought, but he hoped she would soon reach the time when such fleeting thoughts warmed her heart instead of stinging her eyes with tears.
As soon as she finished putting the chess pieces away, he took her by the arm and helped her up the stairs. She was looking very pale and he suspected that loss of color had nothing to do with grief. He wondered if the small wound she had mentioned was worse than she had led him to believe. The moment they reached Sigimor and his wife, he would have her looked at. He would do it himself but suspected that would be bluntly refused. The only way he would be able to tend her wound would be if she collapsed from it.
Once in the room, he chose the bed by the stairs and left her to the window bed. He was somewhat disappointed that there would not be any sharing of a bed, but this was easier. And the bed by the stairs was the best one to take if one was concerned about intruders, he reminded himself. He went to pull the blanket down, then frowned at it for a moment. It had blood on it. Only a few spots, but a light touch told him it was fresh, for it was still damp. Her wound was troubling her and, if she did not say something soon, he would demand a few honest answers.
“I dinnae wear clothes when I sleep in a proper bed, so ye may wish to turn away now.” He grinned when she did so with impressive speed.
Once in the bed, he tugged up the covers and settled into a surprisingly comfortable mattress. Someone had made sure the bed was well kept. If he ever found out whom, he would have to thank them. Hearing nothing, he glanced over his shoulder and saw only a bundle of blond curls over the top of the blankets on the other bed. Turning back to face the stairs, he closed his eyes and hoped they would have a trouble-free day on the morrow.
Chapter Five
“How long do ye think it will take us to get to Dubheidland from here?” Mora asked as he helped her mount behind him this time. She tried to take her mind off how it made her feel to sit so close to the man, her arms around his waist.
“Weel, it may take near an hour to reach the place where we have to turn off and take a new path. At the pace we have been setting it could be another day and a half until we reach the keep. But I ken this path and there will be another cottage to shelter in. ’Tis also why I have set ye behind me this time. We may be able to set a better pace this way.”
“Would it be safe to use them? What if the ones who own them come round and find us there?”
“It will be safe.”
“Who owns them?”
“The Camerons. As soon as we take the new path we will be on their land. There used to be a lot more people, but the fever took so many and, sadly, many of the ones left behind arenae ready or willing to live in them.”
“Are there no drovers or shepherds or farmers to take them and work?”
“Oh, aye. A few have been placed, sworn loyalty to the clan and all, and carry on the work of the ones who used to live there, but when ye lose so many people and dinnae really trust some of the other clans’ men, it takes a long while to get back all that was lost. Travelers to Dubheidland use them and occasionally some of those damned MacFingals when they come round.”
She laughed. Every time he spoke of those men he got grumpy. Mora found herself looking forward to meeting them and rather hoped some of them were visiting when she arr
ived.
“I am surprised he doesnae have others just slipping in and taking the cottages over.”
“That rarely happens, and when ye meet Sigimor ye will understand why. He has allowed one or two to stay, but he is training others in what is needed so he can fill the houses with his own people as quickly as possible. It hasnae been all that quick, really, near on twenty years, but he wants to be absolutely sure of any person he allows to live on Cameron land.”
Mora shook her head. “I cannae imagine losing so much of one’s clan. ’Tis a miracle he didnae lose his entire family, only his parents and some of the other elder people. My mother was verra concerned as Sigimor was nay so verra old himself and had a lot of siblings to care for. As I told ye, after meeting him, she decided he could deal with it.”
“Och, aye, he dealt with it weel, though I suspicion his brothers might argue that. I will warn ye, Sigimor is no courtier. He is a mon who says just what he thinks e’en when he shouldnae. Just a wee warning so ye are prepared.”
“Weel, thank ye for that, but I believe my mother said much the same. My da thought he was a wonderful mon.” She could not stop the sigh that escaped her as she missed her parents more than she could say.
He felt her rest her head against his back and wished she was seated in front of him again so that he could pat her on the back. Instead he patted her on her hands, which rested on his belly. Her words carried the weight of the grief she suffered and he doubted a pat on her hand, no matter how well meant, would do anything to ease it. Gybbon suspected she would have done well enough if her cousins were not so determined to grab hold of all her parents had left behind and kill her and her only surviving brother, a child.
Gybbon could understand a man wanting to better himself. He could easily understand a man wanting a fine house and some land to bring his bride to. What he found difficult to comprehend was the ones who cheated or killed their own kin to gain such things.
Highland Devil Page 5
