Surrender to the Highlander

by Lynsay Sands

  Bessie glanced to where the boy was trying and failing to pull the bowstring far enough to propel an arrow more than a foot or so before it flopped to the ground. "Despite his being Adeney's, Glynis loved that boy. We both did. He was the one bright spot in our lives. But even so, he was no' enough. She killed herself this past spring. Threw herself from the cliffs behind the castle." Mouth twisting bitterly, she added, "With no care at all as to how it would affect me."

  Edith had to dig her nails into her hand to keep from commenting as the woman continued.

  "The men had barely got her body back up from the rocks and laid her on our kitchen table when Adeney arrived to see if 'twas true she was dead. He took one look at her broken body and then shrugged and announced that Ronson and I had to leave Adeney. Come noon the next day the cottage would be set afire whether we were in it or no'."

  "So ye packed up Ronson and headed here," Edith said.

  "Aye. I had nowhere else I could think to go," she said resentfully. "I had no one to help me, no one to care, and then I got here and me own brother did no' even recognize me. He just looked over me and Ronson like we were a couple o' beggars, passed us off to ye and went about his merry way. He had you and his boys and this fine castle and I had nothing. No home, and naught but me grandson to feed and the clothes on me back. I had no one!" she shrieked.

  "Ye had no one because o' yer own cowardice and selfishness," Edith snapped, tired of the 'poor me' tales.

  "What?" Bessie gasped, taking a furious step forward, but pausing again when Edith moved the sword forward until it nearly touched her. Scowling, she said, "I've been sore done by me whole life and ye dare to judge me? None o' this was me fault. None o' it was--"

  "I'm sorry, did I misunderstand?" Edith interrupted pleasantly. "I thought ye went to Adeney hoping he'd take yer maidenhead so ye could flout yer father's wishes and force him to break yer marriage contract."

  "Aye, but--"

  "And after that, did ye really expect yer father to just say, 'Aye, daughter, well that's fine then, let's have some wine and pastries'?"

  "He threw me away like rubbish!" Bessie snapped.

  "He gave ye to the man ye'd apparently chosen," Edith countered grimly. When Bessie just stood there glaring at her furiously, Edith added, "Through yer whole story I heard nothing but 'poor me' and ''twas someone else's fault.' Ye do no' see any o' yer own actions as even playing a part in yer downfall. 'Twas yer father's fault, and Adeney's fault and even Glynis's fault." She said that last with disbelief and then shook her head.

  "Ye chose to go to Adeney's room and he did exactly as ye wished," she said firmly. "Mayhap more roughly than ye would have liked, but he did it. And then ye suffered the consequences, but ye blamed yer father and Adeney fer yer misery the whole while. And then after years o' apparent wretchedness as Adeney's mistress, ye met a man ye said was kind and good and gentle, who wanted to take ye away, but ye were too cowardly to do it. Or mayhap ye just did no' wish to leave yer fine cottage that Ronson says was bigger than all the others in the village. Why trade that fer an uncertain future, even if 'tis with the man ye claimed to love," she said harshly.

  "Ye as good as killed him yerself. Ye must have kenned Adeney would find out. And do no' try to tell me ye did no'," Edith said heavily when Bessie opened her mouth on what she suspected would be a protest. "Ye ken as well as I that there is nothing that happens in a castle and village that the laird does no' find out about eventually. William was in yer bed fer six months. I'm sure he was seen coming and going by dozens or more people at Adeney, and at least half o' them would happily run carrying tales."

  Mouth tightening, she added, "If ye did no' ken Adeney would find out, 'twas only because ye did no' want to ken it. Ye were comfortable enough in yer miserable life that ye did no' wish to risk leaving it fer the unknown . . . and that was what got William killed. Yer own cowardice and selfishness and the fact that ye did no' love him enough to see past it."

  Edith shook her head grimly. "The poor man must have loved ye a great deal to no' have abandoned ye and fled when ye refused to go with him. Because I guarantee he kenned he would die fer being with ye. As fer Glynis," she added with disgust. "Ye blame the child fer killing herself because o' how it affected you?" Edith shook her head. "Ye killed that poor child as surely as ye did me father and brothers."

  "Me?" Bessie cried with disbelief. "'Twas no' me fault she killed herself."

  "Aye, it was. Because ye did no' leave Adeney the day he raped her. Instead, ye let him continue to rape her and just stood idly by calling him a bastard as if ye had nothing to do with it, when ye were condoning it every day ye remained there."

  "We had nowhere to go," Bessie snapped.

  "Ye could have come here as ye did when she died and Adeney threw ye out," Edith pointed out coldly. "Had ye done so, ye'd still have yer daughter. Instead, ye let her be raped by that bastard fer five years or better. I bet she wanted to flee too like William, but ye argued against it."

  A flicker of guilt on Bessie's face told Edith she'd hit the target on the nose with that guess.

  "Yer a selfish coward, Bessie, much like me brother Brodie. Ye've spent yer life caring fer yerself and yer own wants above those who loved ye, and they paid the price. Including me own father and brothers and everyone else ye've killed here."

  Bessie narrowed her eyes coldly.

  "As fer me father no' recognizing ye--ye arrived here bent and hunched, yer white hair scraped tight back and yer face covered with dirt and lines. Ye looked ancient. I'm no' surprised he did no' recognize ye. And while ye blame him somehow fer that, I blame you. Ye did no' tell us who ye were," she pointed out coldly. "Instead ye gave a false name and then proceeded to lay ruin to me family more cruelly even than Adeney did to you," she said grimly.

  "What?" Bessie glanced up quickly. "I--"

  "I took ye in, despite no' even kenning ye were kin, and ye repaid me by killing every last member o' me family and even trying to kill me," she said harshly. "And why? What excuse do ye intend to give fer that? 'Twas no' yer fault I'm sure. If Father had recognized ye all would have been fine? Or is the truth that ye hated him fer having Drummond and kin who loved him so ye wanted to punish him fer it and, incidentally, claim Drummond fer yer own?"

  Bessie's arm twitched and Edith noticed that she held a dirk in her hand that hadn't been there before. She watched the woman's hand clench and unclench around the hilt of the dagger like she was trying to decide where to stab her. Edith withdrew her sgian-dubh, but simply held it out in the open for the other woman to see that she didn't just have the sword and asked, "Will ye really make me kill ye with Ronson here to see?"

  "Do ye think ye can?" Bessie asked grimly.

  "I'm no' sure," she admitted. "But I'm younger and stronger and have a lot to live fer."

  "Aye, that husband ye love so much," Bessie said dryly, and then something in Edith's expression made her eyebrows raise. "Ye did no' ken ye love him? Or did ye no' realize it was plain to see fer anyone who bothered to look?"

  Edith remained silent, but her mind was working. Did she love him? It was a question she'd asked herself earlier, but never found the answer to.

  "Niece, yer so eager to please him ye slapped preserves on his fiddle and tried to play it with yer mouth," she said dryly. "If that's no' love, I do no' ken what is."

  Edith stiffened. Well, that answered the question she'd had earlier as to whether there were peep holes in the bedchambers, she thought grimly.

  "Wanting to please another is a sign o' love," Bessie told her. "As is caring fer their well-being more than yer own."

  Edith let her breath out slowly. If Bessie was right, then it seemed she loved Niels, because she wanted desperately to please him and make him as happy as he made her. And she was quite sure she'd throw herself in front of an oncoming bear or arrow to save him. She'd rather die in his stead than live without him. Aye, it seemed likely that was love. Edith just wished she'd realized it earlier and told him while

she'd had the chance. She might not get another one.

  "At least that's what me mother used to say," Bessie added now.

  Edith peered at her silently, unwilling to let this woman sully what she felt for Niels by talking about it. Determined to get the answers to as many questions as she could, she said, "Ye've been at Drummond since May yet did no' start the poisonings until a month later. Why did ye wait so long to start killing people?"

  Bessie shrugged and lowered her hand to her side so that her dirk was hidden in the folds of her skirts. Trying to lull her into a false sense of security, Edith supposed. The woman was like a snake waiting to strike and Edith was suddenly glad it was her here and not Niels. Her husband was very fond of Ronson, and if one of them had to kill the boy's grandmother, making him hate them, she'd rather it was her.

  "At first I did no' plan to kill anyone," Bessie admitted. "I was just so stunned that me own brother did no' recognize me, I . . ." She shrugged. "I just tried to get by day by day and see what was what."

  "And pretended to be half-deaf and near blind and much older than ye really are," Edith pointed out.

  "The deaf do no' have to answer questions they do no' like," Bessie pointed out with a smile that suggested she thought she was clever. "Besides, thinking me deaf, no one worried about talking in front o' me. They did no' think I could hear them."

  "And pretending to be half-blind and frail meant ye were allowed to sit and mend rather than being expected to actually work," Edith pointed out.

  "Aye," Bessie agreed unapologetically.

  Edith nodded solemnly. "Did ye poison the wine cask or pitcher the night me father died and me brothers fell ill?"

  "The cask," Bessie said without an ounce of remorse.

  "Ye poisoned the food brought to me when I fell ill," Edith added.

  "Every night," she admitted and then added bitterly, "Fer all the good it did me. Ye just would no' die." Her face and expression suddenly became furious.

  "And ye poisoned the ale Brodie's men took with them," Edith guessed.

  Bessie nodded.

  "Lonnie?" she asked.

  "I'd heard Brodie tell his wife they were going to the family lodge. I wanted to follow them to keep an eye on things. I worried that if one o' the men drank the ale ere the others, they may be warned off o' it. I'd put a lot o' poison in this time. Any death by it would no' have been mistaken fer illness. So, as I say, I wanted to follow and keep an eye on developments, but servants are no' allowed horses, which hampered me somewhat. So that evening, I took the tunnels out to watch fer anyone returning. They must have drunk the ale right away on arriving at the lodge. All but Lonnie, o' course. Because I barely got out o' the cave the tunnels open into when he came riding up. I ducked behind a bush, let him pass and then shot him in the back. Then I took his horse and weapons and rode out to the lodge." She shrugged. "The poison worked well. They were all dead."

  "Nessa?" she asked, thinking of Victoria's missing maid. "Where is she?"

  "In the well," Bessie told her with a smile. "I thought to blame it all on Victoria's maids, so I dragged the lass to the well and dumped her in so she would no' be found. I did no' consider that she'd float on the water's surface," she added with a grimace. "I was positive she'd be found as I rode back. When she was no' discovered, I felt sure the heavens were smiling on me."

  Edith's mouth tightened. It was more like the heavens had been weeping, and that had saved the woman from being discovered, she thought as she recalled that Niels had gone to the well, but the bucket had been sitting there collecting rain in the storm they'd been seeking cover from. He hadn't had to draw any water. He'd simply used the rainwater in the bucket. If he'd had to draw water from the well, he would have noticed Nessa.

  "What did ye do with Lonnie's horse?" Edith asked.

  "He's back in the woods a ways. I've been keeping him in the cave the tunnel opens into. I thought I might need him a time or two yet. I could no' ride him all the way out here today, for fear yer Niels would hear the horse approaching."

  "He probably would have," she acknowledged.

  "No doubt," Bessie said dryly.

  "Cawley? Why'd ye kill him? A half brother would hardly inherit Drummond if a full-blooded sister was discovered," Edith pointed out, finding she was growing weary at the thought of all the killing this woman had done. Or perhaps from Bessie's complete lack of compunction regarding those killings.

  She shrugged. "He had it easy here while I suffered when he was only a bastard half brother."

  "So ye killed him out o' spite," Edith said dryly, and then asked, "Effie? Ye threw her off the wall?"

  "Aye."

  "She was awake?"

  Bessie nodded. "She woke up the day after ye moved her. The men did no' notice at first and she heard them talking on how they suspected her poor Victoria being behind the poisonings. So the old fool feigned that she was still unconscious to avoid possibly incriminating her girl." Bessie glanced toward Ronson briefly and then continued, "I saw her up and about from the tunnels later that day when the healer went below to fetch more broth for her. So I slipped in and--"

  "How did ye ken about the passages?" Edith interrupted her to ask. Tormod had said that traditionally, only the Laird and Lady of Drummond knew about them.

  "I discovered them as a child while playing," she said with a shrug. "It was me secret place when I wanted to get away. No one ever used them. I'd walk through, looking in the bedchambers and watching me father and mother abed, or me sister sleeping or look down on the hall."

  Edith nodded, and then turned the conversation back to her original explanation. "So ye slipped into the room Effie was in and . . . ?"

  Bessie shrugged. "I pretended to be sympathetic and promised to bring her real food and news until we sorted out how to keep her lady safe. O' course, I only brought her news that would be useful to me. Fer instance, I could hardly tell her Victoria was dead else she would have had no reason to feign being unconscious anymore. I could no' risk her telling anyone about the passage I used to get in and out o' her room, or that she'd even spoken to me. And I could no' kill her until I succeeded at killing ye. After all, how could she be blamed fer yer death if she was already dead?"

  "Why'd ye throw her off the wall then?"

  "That was yer fault," she accused at once. "Had ye kept yer mouth shut about her having no feeling in her feet and legs, all would have been well, but the minute ye said that I kenned the men would go poke her somewhere else, realize she was awake and question her. Fortunately, yer husband was delayed just long enough for me to slip into the passage through the garderobe entrance and get above stairs to sneak Effie out through the tunnel to the laird's chamber. From there I took her through the second tunnel and up the stairs to the wall. I had her wait fer me at the top o' the stairs while I listened to as much as I could when ye all were in the laird's chamber. I had to duck into the stairs a couple times since ye all kept poking into the passage, but I heard enough that I kenned Effie had outgrown her usefulness."

  "So ye took her up on the wall and threw her off."

  "Aye." She gave a laugh. "I could hardly believe me luck when I glanced down and saw ye standing below. I thought the Fates were smiling on me again and pushed Effie over. But she missed ye," she added with disgust.

  "And now there is no one to take the fall but you," Edith said quietly, and then cocked her head as she heard a faint, far-off drumming. "I believe I hear me husband and the others approaching. Several horses it sounds like." Watching Bessie's knife hand, she added, "Failing finding ye at the keep, they must have realized ye'd come out here."

  Bessie turned the knife in her hand, her eyes flashing as she tried to decide what to do.

  "Everyone at Drummond kens who ye truly are and what ye've been up to," she pointed out, and then couldn't resist adding, "It was all fer naught. Ye'll never be lady. And Ronson, like all the others who have ever loved ye ere him, will no doubt suffer as a result o' yer actions. He'll mourn the gran he loves, but hate and be ashamed o' what ye did."

  Bessie stilled and protested, "Ye can no' hurt Ronson like that."

  "I have no choice," Edith said without apology.

  "Aye, ye do," Bessie countered. "The men all think Effie did it. Let them continue to think that."

  "Ye want to blame yet another fer yer actions?" she asked with disbelief. "And expect me to agree?"

  "Why not? Effie has no family to care or be hurt by it. No' like me Ronson," Bessie pointed out, and then added, "And I'm yer aunt."

  "Who tried to kill me," Edith said dryly, and then shook her head. "Besides, ye're no' me aunt. Both me aunts Ealasaid and Glynis died ere I was born. Yer the servant Bessie who killed me father, Ronald, me uncle Cawley, me brothers Roderick, Hamish and Brodie, Brodie's wife, Victoria, both her maids and the six warriors who rode out with them. That's fourteen people," she pointed out in an empty voice. "The only future fer ye is to hang, or be locked up in the oubliette fer the rest o' yer days."

  "Ye'd put Ronson through that?" Bessie asked with disbelief. "He'd hate ye fer it and I ken ye care fer the lad."

  "Ye've given me no choice," Edith said firmly. She saw Bessie's arm start to move and then Ronson was suddenly in front of her.

  "I hear horses, m'lady. Do ye think it's the laird? I'd really like to show him me new bow."

  "I'm sure 'tis the laird," Edith said, watching Bessie warily. She wasn't at all sure the woman might not try to throw her dirk at her despite Ronson's presence.

  "Ronson, come here," Bessie said suddenly, and before she could stop him, the boy had slipped away and to his grandmother.

  Edith tensed, half expecting Bessie to throw her dirk at her now that the boy was safely out of the way, but instead she handed the dirk to her grandson. "Take this. It's yers now too."

  "Really?" he asked excitedly, taking the weapon. "Oh, wait til I show the laird this."

  "Why do ye no' go wait fer him at the edge o' the clearing?" Bessie suggested.

  "Aye." He ran off toward where Niels had stopped his horse the last two times they'd come here, clutching the knife to his chest, and Edith was briefly distracted watching him with concern. She was hard-pressed not to yell at him that he should not run with the knife, but then realized she'd allowed herself to be distracted and glanced warily back to Bessie in time to see her lower her hand from her face. Edith narrowed her eyes suspiciously as she caught a flash of blue in her fingers.

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