“Ah, aye, aye, true enough. A gift from God, is it?”
“Do ye really think the devil would give a woman the gift to heal or to see the truth or any other gift or skill that can be used to help people?”
“Nay, of course he wouldnae. So why do ye doubt the Ross woman?”
“Because there are too many women who are, at best, a wee bit skilled with herbs yet claim such things as visions or the healing touch in order to empty some fool’s purse. They are frauds and oftimes what they do makes life far more difficult for those women who have a true gift.”
Walter frowned for a moment, obviously thinking that over, and then grunted his agreement. “So ye willnae be trying to get any help from Mistress Ross?”
“Nay, I am nay so desperate for such as that.”
“Oh, I am nay sure I would refuse any help just now,” came a cool, hard voice from the doorway of Tormand’s hall.
Tormand looked toward the door and started to smile at Simon. The expression died a swift death. Sir Simon Innes looked every inch the king’s man at the moment. His face was pale and cold fury tightened its predatory lines. Tormand got the sinking feeling that Simon already knew why he had sent for him. Worse, he feared his friend had some suspicions about his guilt. That stung, but Tormand decided to smother his sense of insult until he and Simon had at least talked. The man was his friend and a strong believer in justice. He would listen before he acted.
Nevertheless, Tormand tensed with a growing alarm when Simon strode up to him. Every line of the man’s tall, lean body was taut with fury. Out of the corner of his eye, Tormand saw Walter tense and place his hand on his sword, revealing that Tormand was not the only one who sensed danger. It was as he looked back at Simon that Tormand realized the man clutched something in his hand.
A heartbeat later, Simon tossed what he held onto the table in front of Tormand. Tormand stared down at a heavy gold ring embellished with blood-red garnets. Unable to believe what he was seeing, he looked at his hands, his unadorned hands, and then looked back at the ring. His first thought was to wonder how he could have left that room of death and not realized that he was no longer wearing his ring. His second thought was that the point of Simon’s sword was dangerously sharp as it rested against his jugular.
“Nay! Dinnae kill him! He is innocent!”
Morainn Ross blinked in surprise as she looked around her. She was at home sitting up in her own bed, not in a great hall watching a man press a sword point against the throat of another man. Ignoring the grumbling of her cats that had been disturbed from their comfortable slumber by her outburst, she flopped back down and stared up at the ceiling. It had only been a dream.
“Nay, no dream,” she said after a moment of thought. “A vision.”
Thinking about that a little longer she then nodded her head. It had definitely been a vision. The man who had sat there with a sword at his throat was no stranger to her. She had been seeing him in dreams and visions for months now. He had smelled of death, was surrounded by it, yet there had never been any blood upon his hands.
“Morainn? Are ye weel?”
Morainn looked toward the door to her small bedchamber and smiled at the young boy standing there. Walin was only six but he was rapidly becoming very helpful. He also worried about her a lot, but she supposed that was to be expected. Since she had found him upon her threshold when he was the tender age of two she was really the only parent he had ever known, had given him the only home he had ever known. She just wished it were a better one. He was also old enough now to understand that she was often called a witch, as well as the danger that appellation brought with it. Unfortunately, with his black hair and blue eyes, he looked enough like her to have many believe he was her bastard child and that caused its own problems for both of them.
“I am fine, Walin,” she said and began to ease her way out of bed around all the sleeping cats. “It must be verra late in the day.”
“’Tis the middle of the day, but ye needed to sleep. Ye were verra late returning from helping at that birthing.”
“Weel, set something out on the table for us to eat then, I will join ye in a few minutes.”
Dressed and just finishing the braiding of her hair, Morainn joined Walin at the small table set out in the main room of the cottage. Seeing the bread, cheese, and apples upon the table, she smiled at Walin, acknowledging a job well done. She poured them each a tankard of cider and then sat down on the little bench facing his across the scarred wooden table.
“Did ye have a bad dream?” Walin asked as he handed Morainn an apple to cut up for him.
“At first I thought it was a dream, but now I am certain it was a vision, another one about that mon with the mismatched eyes.” She carefully set the apple on a wooden plate and sliced it for Walin.
“Ye have a lot about him, dinnae ye.”
“It seems so. ’Tis verra odd. I dinnae ken who he is and have ne’er seen such a mon. And, if this vision is true, I dinnae think I e’er will.”
“Why?” Walin accepted the plate of sliced apple and immediately began to eat.
“Because this time I saw a verra angry gray-eyed mon holding a sword to his throat.”
“But didnae ye say that your visions are of things to come? Mayhap he isnae dead yet. Mayhap ye are supposed to find him and warn him.”
Morainn considered that possibility for a moment and then shook her head. “Nay, I think not. Neither heart nor mind urges me to do that. If that were what I was meant to do, I would feel the urge to go out right now and hunt him down. And I would have been given some clue as to where he is.”
“Oh. So we will soon see the mon whose eyes dinnae match?”
“Aye, I do believe we will.”
“Weel that will be interesting.”
She smiled and turned her attention to the need to fill her very empty stomach. If the man with the mismatched eyes showed up at her door, it would indeed be interesting. It could also be dangerous. She could not allow herself to forget that death stalked him. Her visions told her he was innocent of those deaths, but there was some connection between him and them. It was as if each thing he touched died in bleeding agony. She certainly did not wish to become a part of that swirling mass of blood she always saw around his feet. Unfortunately she did not believe that fate would give her any chance to avoid meeting the man. All she could do was pray that when he rapped upon her door he did not still have death seated upon his shoulder.
Chapter 2
“Do ye intend to be my judge and executioner, Simon?”
Tormand watched as Simon struggled to gain some semblance of the calm and sanity he was so well known for. Despite how badly it stung to think that, even for one brief moment, Simon could believe that he could do such a thing to Clara, to any woman, Tormand could understand what prodded the man. Any man of honor would be horrified by what had been done to Clara and would ache to make someone pay for the crime. The brief insanity that could grip a man upon seeing such dark brutality easily explained why finding Tormand’s ring clutched in Clara’s hand would bring Simon to Tormand’s door in a blind fury. The fact that Simon had not immediately killed him told Tormand there was some doubt stirring behind Simon’s shock and fury.
“Why was she clutching your ring?” Simon demanded.
“I fear I have no answer for ye,” Tormand answered. “It was undoubtedly put there by the same one, or ones, who placed me in Clara’s bed.”
Simon stared at Tormand for a moment before sheathing his sword. He sat down, poured himself a tankard of ale, and drank it all down. A shudder went through his tall, almost too lean frame, and then he poured himself another tankard full of ale.
“Ye were there?” Simon finally asked in a much calmer tone of voice.
“Aye.”
Tormand drank some ale to prepare himself and told Simon everything he knew. He had not even finished his tale before he began to realize that he actually knew very little. All he could swear to was what he had see
n—someone had killed Clara—and what he knew in his heart—that someone was not him. He did not know how he had been captured and taken to the room. He did not even know how Simon had become involved. It could have been simple bad luck, but Tormand’s instincts told him that it was much more than that. Although he had no proof of it, he felt certain it was all part of a plan. He just had to figure out what that plan was.
“Why did ye go to see Clara?” he asked Simon. “Did her husband return, find her body, and then send for you?”
“Nay. I received a summons I believed had come from Clara.” Simon shrugged. “It told me to arrive at her house with some of my men at a very precise time and to do so as furtively as possible.”
“And ye acted on that? Did ye ken Clara weel enough for such a summons to make ye hie to her side?”
“I didnae ken her as weel as ye did,” drawled Simon. “But, I did ken her weel enough. She was a cousin of mine.” He smiled faintly at the shock Tormand could not hide. “Dinnae fear that I will demand ye meet me at sword point to defend her honor. She had little left to defend. The woman had been lifting her skirts for the lads, any lad with a fair face, since not long after her first flux. She was ne’er sweet, rarely honest, and felt the world owed her homage simply because God had gifted her with a bonnie face. Nay, I did as she asked because I hoped she was about to give me proof of her husband’s many crimes, ones I have been looking into most carefully for months now. It was a faint hope as she benefited from his dealings, but I couldnae ignore it.”
“Do ye think he may have killed her?” Tormand began doubting that possibility even as he asked Simon the question.
“Nay. She was useful to him and, e’en if she had thought to betray him, she was cunning enough to keep him from discovering it, to make sure she could never be connected to that betrayal. As I said, I doubt she would e’er have betrayed the mon, for she fully enjoyed spending the coin he gained from all his crimes and lies. Yet, it can be no surprise that, upon seeing her butchered body, his was the first name that leapt to mind.”
“But then ye found my ring in her hand.”
“Aye.” Simon grimaced and dragged a hand through his thick black hair. “I couldnae believe it of ye and, yet, why was it there? And then I recalled that ye were once her lover. Jesu, I feared some madness had seized you and, like some rabid dog, ye needed to be cut down. I think a madness overcame me e’en to briefly consider that ye could do such a thing. ’Tis as if whoever did that to Clara left the stench of their insanity befouling that room and I breathed too deeply of it.”
Tormand nodded. “I ken exactly what ye mean. When I realized that Clara must have been alive during some of the horrors inflicted upon her, I did wonder if someone had tortured her because they thought she had some information they needed.”
“That is a possibility, although it doesnae explain why such an effort was made to make it look as if ye had committed the crime. There may be some cuckolded husbands who would like to see ye dead, but I cannae see why they would do something like this to strike out at you.”
“I dinnae cuckold husbands. Nay knowingly.” Tormand hated the defensive note that entered his voice, but forced himself to ignore it. “Yet, I cannae shake the feeling that Clara was killed because of me, because she had once been my lover. It seems vain to think it—”
“Nay. Ye were set there to be blamed for it and thus it must have something to do with you.” Simon rested his forearms on the table and stared into his tankard of ale. “Her husband didnae do it and he would have been a good suspect to look to. I ken where he was, ye see, and I ken he couldnae have come home, slaughtered Clara, and then returned to his mistress’s house near to ten miles away. As to torturing her for information? Weel, the mon certainly has enemies and many competitors who might think a wife would ken something about her husband’s business, something that would make it easier to crush him. But, I doubt Clara would have held fast to any knowledge she had beyond the first threat to her face. After that would have come a swift death, a stab to the heart or a slash across the throat. And in neither instance would ye have been dragged into the matter.” He looked at Tormand. “Aye, I think this is about you. The question is why?”
“And who.”
“Once we ken the why we can begin to look for the who.”
Tormand felt sick. No woman deserved to die as Clara had simply because she had once shared his bed, or he hers. What sort of enemy was it that crept around slaughtering innocents in order to reach the one he truly wished to harm? It made no sense to Tormand. If a man wanted him dead but was too cowardly to do it himself, he could simply hire some other men to do his killing for him. Sadly, there were a lot that would take the job. If the plan was to blacken his name beyond fixing before he died, Tormand was certain that that too could be done without slaughtering a woman. This murder put his enemy at the risk of being caught and hanged, the very fate the man apparently wanted Tormand to suffer. But, then, what had been done to Clara carried the strong taint of madness and who could ever make sense of that?
“My sins come back to haunt me now,” Tormand muttered.
“Ye believe ye have sinned, do ye?” asked Simon, a faint smile curling his mouth.
“Gluttony be a sin,” said Walter.
“Thank ye, Walter,” drawled Tormand. “I believe I am aware of that.” He grimaced. “Aye, I have heard it said often enough from my mother, my sisters, my aunts, and near every other female in my clan.”
“And, I suspicion, a few of the men.” Simon smiled more broadly when Tormand scowled at him. “Weel, ye truly have been a wee bit, er, gluttonous.”
“I like frolicking about atween the sheets with a warm woman. What mon doesnae?”
“Most men at least attempt to be somewhat, weel, prudent? Fastidious? Particular in their choices?”
“All the lasses I have bedded have been bonnie and clean.” Mostly, he added to himself.
“Your problem has always been too many choices, too much offered too freely.”
“Aye,” agreed Walter. “The lasses do flock to the rogue.”
“And the rogue accepts most of that flock all too readily,” said Simon.
“I thought ye were my friend, Simon.” Tormand felt an odd mix of hurt and insult.
Simon laughed softly. “Och, I am that, more fool me, but that doesnae mean I must blindly approve of all ye do. Aye, and mayhap I feel the touch of envy now and then. Tell me, Tormand, did ye like Clara even a little bit?”
Tormand sighed. “Nay, but the lusting blinded me for a wee while. She was verra skilled.”
“I am nay surprised. As I said, she was but newly turned thirteen when she began her lessons in the art. Oh, I confess that I am nay so verra particular at times, but I do prefer to at least ken the lass I lie down with, to enjoy a wee bit more than her soft skin and womanly heat.”
It occurred to Tormand that he could not think of all that many of his lovers who met even Simon’s mild standards. He refused to think that he really was what his cousin Maura had once called him—a stallion too stupid to charge coin for his stud services. After all, as far as he knew he had sired no bastards and was not that the sole purpose of a stud? Unfortunately, the longer he considered the matter, the more he began to fear that he had become as mindlessly greedy as Simon implied. Over the last few years it appeared that his qualifications for a bedmate were little more than that she be attractive, relatively clean, and willing. Mostly willing. It was such an unsettling conclusion that he was actually glad to turn his thoughts back to the matter of Clara’s brutal murder.
“Did ye find nothing that pointed the finger of guilt at someone besides me?” he asked Simon, ignoring the flash of amusement in Simon’s eyes that told him Simon was well aware of his attempt to turn the subject away from his love life.
“Nay,” replied Simon. “There was naught but your ring to show that anyone had been in that room with Clara. That and, of course, the simple fact that Clara could not have tied hersel
f to that bed and then cut herself to pieces. Her servants heard and saw nothing.”
“How can that be? Clara would have shattered her fine windows with her screams at the first glimpse of a knife.”
“True, but I believe she was gagged. I saw the signs of it in what was left of her face.”
Tormand forced himself to recall carefully all that he had seen. “Aye, she had to have been. And, I begin to wonder if she was actually tortured elsewhere. Considering all the damage done to her I should have woken up lying in a pool of her blood. There was a lot and I do have the feeling she died in that bed, but now I feel sure it was not where all of that cutting was done.”
Simon nodded. “I believe the same. Even with a gag on her, someone should have heard something. It was evident that she violently fought against the bindings on her wrists and ankles. The bed would also have resounded with the struggles she made and yet her servants had not even thought she was home.”
“Then her killer knew how to slip in and out of her house without being seen.”
“Aye, which means they knew her, e’en if not weel.” Simon grimaced. “Considering all the many lovers Clara had, I doubt all the secret ways into her home were e’er really that secret. The servants would never have considered any noises coming from her bedchamber worthy of concern save for some bloodcurdling screams. So, they truly heard nothing as they claim. I shall return to Clara’s home and see if I can find any blood trail that will confirm that she was brought in after she was tortured.” He took another long drink of ale. “In a little while. I sent word to her husband and would rather not be there when he first sees what is left of his wife. He didnae love her and she didnae love him, but he did appreciate her beauty.”
“I didnae love her, either, but the sight of her body fair to made me sick.”
“And Ranald doesnae have the spine to hold fast as ye did. That isnae why I wish to avoid the mon for a wee while, however. Once he recovers, he will act the great, important laird and demand I find out who killed her. He will also spit out a lot of useless information, as weel as a few threats about what will happen to me if I dinnae find Clara’s killer. He always makes me wish to shake the arrogance out of him and, mayhap, take some of the bonnie out of his face.”
Highland Sinner Page 2
