“Aye, at Christmastide. ’Twas an anonymous gift,” she said with a shrug of her wide shoulders.
“They were made here at Dunakin?”
“Not certain, but there is a platemaker in the village. Several grateful folks probably commissioned them.”
“I would think they’d have taken credit for the gift,” Grace said, selecting one of the bowls that did not have an LM carved into the side. There was no residue in the bottom. She checked Rab’s bowl, too, since Keir said he was exhibiting the same symptoms. Sure enough, there was a fine coating on the bottom.
Grace pursed her lips as anger curdled within her. With each plate she studied, all of them dusted, her stomach coiled tighter until she felt sick. The bowls confirmed that this was definitely no accident. She spooned out some more broth into the clean bowl meant for someone other than the chief or his son, setting a napkin over the top.
Nora gave her two flasks of weak barley ale and set three oat bannocks, from a common plate, on top of the napkin. “There will be more closer to noon,” she said, “and perhaps some tarts tonight.”
“Thank you, and I’ll be sure to return to help you someday soon.”
“Aye, but take care of wee Master Lachlan first.”
Grace stepped out of the warm bakehouse into the chill and let her smile fade. Whoever had the dishes made was most likely poisoning them. By labeling LM or RM, the assassin could feed them each a little bit of arsenic without even being near them, making it look like father and son were slowly succumbing to an illness.
She opened the back door to the castle cautiously while balancing the bowl and bannocks. The dark hall was empty, and Grace released the breath she’d been holding. With brisk, even steps she hurried to climb the winding stairway, reaching the top with her heart pounding and breath coming hard.
“Afraid of the dark, are ye?” Dara said where she stood with Fiona outside Lachlan’s door.
Grace tipped her chin higher. “I hurried back with the fresh broth.”
“Aye, clumsy and a coward,” Dara said.
Grace, her spine straight as a needle, stepped before the woman who seemed to guard the door. “Pray tell, Dara, have I done something to offend you? Spoken ill of you to your clan? Revealed your sins to your priest? Pissed in your morning pottage? Because your bitter pettiness is making you a very ugly young woman.”
Dara’s eyes opened the slightest amount, but enough to tell Grace that she was surprised. Fiona grinned but kept quiet. “If you have no answer, or even if you do, move aside. Now.”
“Why ye little—”
But Fiona cut her off by sliding before her flushed granddaughter to rap on the door. She spoke in Gaelic, saying Grace’s name. The door swung inward, and Grace made certain to step carefully so as not to trip if Dara decided to retaliate. But the sight of Keir, his face a lethal warning, made his sister step back.
Grace walked past Keir, and caught only a glimpse of another large man near the hearth before she realized that Lachlan’s eyes were open. She hurried over, a smile on her face. “Hello,” she said. The boy didn’t seem likely to muster even a small grin. “I am Grace, and I’m here to help you grow strong again.”
Behind her, she heard the door shut, and she set the bowl on the table next to the bed. “Do you think you can eat?”
The boy’s eyes, cast in sunken shadows, glanced to the man near the hearth. Grace followed the gaze, and the man stood up slowly as if he ached. “And you are Chief Mackinnon?”
“Aye,” he said. “How do ye know the broth and ale are safe?”
She cast her eyes between the boy and his father, and then to Keir. “The lad knows now that he’s being poisoned,” Keir said, his voice soft.
Grace turned back to father and son. “I spoke to your head cook, Nora. It seems a set of bowls and plates were given at Christmastide to the chief and his son, each with initials engraved on them.”
“Aye,” Rab said, his brows drawing together.
“I checked the stack of bowls for each of you in the kitchen, and there is a fine dusting of powder in the bottom of each. My guess is that the plates and bowls are poisoned. Whatever gets put in them picks up the arsenic, and you two ingest it. This bowl was from a stack that anyone could use, and looked clean. I also wiped it out before I spooned the soup into it. I took the flasks from a common basket and filled them from a common butt of weak ale.”
She sat on the edge of the bed and uncovered the broth, setting the bannocks on the napkin next to it. “The faster we push untainted foods, herbs, and ale into you both, the sooner you will feel better. Hopefully, there will be no long-term effects, but that’s something I cannot predict.”
Rab rattled off a long line of Gaelic words, some of which Grace knew to be offensive swear words.
“I agree,” she said. “To poison a child.” She shook her head.
“And a chief,” Rab added. “’Tis treason.” He nodded to Lachlan, who let Grace spoon broth between his lips.
“The bloody damned dishes,” Rab said, and rubbed his hand down his pale face. He sat back in the chair by the fire. “I don’t even know who gave them to us.”
“I will talk with Hamish, the platemaker in the village,” Keir said. “He will tell me who had him make the dishes as a gift.”
Grace continued to spoon the broth into the weak boy. “And the kitchen should be watched. Whoever poisoned the dishes might return to dust them some more.”
“Anyone entering the kitchens is suspect,” Keir said.
Grace broke off a bit of bannock and gave it to Lachlan. “Nora said that only she and the three girls work in there.”
“Did ye tell her she was serving poisoned food?” Rab asked, slowly chewing a bannock that Keir handed him.
“No.” Grace watched the boy swallow and glanced at the chief. “We should keep that a secret, or the assassin might stop, which will make him harder to catch.”
“I want this traitor dead, Keir,” Rab said, his teeth bared. “I want him forced to eat his own poison before ye disembowel and behead him.”
“God’s teeth,” Grace said, frowning. “There is a child in the room.”
“A child who must learn to judge and dole out punishment before he becomes chief,” Rab said.
“I’ve known a number of Scottish chiefs,” Grace said. “And none have ruled by brutality.”
“People only truly understand fear,” Rab said.
“I completely disagree,” Grace said.
Rab looked to Keir. “She’s an uppity bit of fleece.”
Grace stood. “And I’m no bit of fleece. I am a healer, a good one. I am saving your son’s life, and maybe yours, if you behave.”
Rab smiled at her. “Aye, see, even the healer sows fear to persuade me to comply.”
Grace felt her face warm. Ignoring the Mackinnon chief, she looked to Keir where he stood frowning, his arms crossed. “I will need coriander, the leaves in boiled water, and the seeds to crush. Also, fresh fish and cooked eggs will help sop up the arsenic already in their bodies. And plenty of fresh ale or water to wash the poison out.”
“And one of the three of us must be with Lachlan at all times,” Keir said.
Rab waved his hand toward the door. “I will sit and eat with the boy. Ye have punishment to hand out, Keir.” He grinned at Grace. “And if he doesn’t kill the lad, ye will have someone else to heal.”
Chapter Sixteen
Keir followed Grace out into the vacant corridor, shutting the door. She rounded on him. “You aren’t really going to kill a boy, are you?” Both of her eyebrows rose high. She poked him hard in the chest. “Keir Mackinnon, don’t you dare kill a child.”
“He’s fifteen, considered a man and old enough to know not to steal.”
“What did he steal? The bloody jewels from the Scottish crown? The king’s horse? A galleon perhaps?”
Keir frowned deeply at her. “My room is one floor up. There should be a clean gown for ye laid out by the maid.” Damn
ation. He didn’t want Grace to think he was… What? The Devil? That was exactly what he was. He raised his fingers to her cheek, marveling in the fact that she didn’t flinch away from him. Maybe it was her bravery to stand up to him, question his heart, that made him lean close, revealing a secret he never had before.
“The lad will be saved,” he whispered by her ear and turned away, not wanting to see his self-loathing reflected on her angel’s face. Keir stepped down the winding stairs, walking into the great hall where Fiona and Dara had retreated to eat at the table. Brodie poked at the growing hearth fire.
Dara frowned at him. “I don’t like her.”
“That doesn’t concern me,” Keir said, grabbing a dark roll. He used his knife to slather on butter from a crock.
“Even Seanmhair hasn’t heard of Spotting Sickness,” Dara said. “She may not know what she’s talking about. She’s not Mairi Maclean.”
Keir centered a hard gaze on his sister. Could she be the one who was dusting the bowls in the kitchen? She’d always liked to spend time in there to sample Nora’s creations. “I find it odd that ye would rather have me bring a woman here whom your betrothed wants.”
She set her clay mug down with a hard tap. “He doesn’t want her. She’s a talented healer, is all.”
Brodie chuckled, walking over to grab a roll.
“What?” Dara snapped.
Brodie shrugged. “Your groom tents out the front of his kilt every time he talks about Mairi Maclean. I’d say he’d like a bit of her healing balm, if she be the one stroking it on.”
Dara’s aim was true as she threw her roll at Brodie’s head, hitting him with a thunk right between the eyes. “Dùin do ghob,” she yelled, stressing each word of the foul phrase.
Seanmhair grinned, shaking her head. Nothing shocked the old woman.
“I don’t know why ye’d want to marry the arsehole, Dara,” Keir said, gaining a glare from her.
“He’s a fierce warrior, Keir,” she said. “The scars he wears proves it.”
“There’s more to a fierce warrior than the evidence of battles,” Keir said. “It could mean he’s a terrible warrior, lucky to be still alive.”
Dara huffed, rolling her eyes. “He’s the only one around here who is strong enough to wed me.”
“I’m strong enough to wed ye,” Brodie said and grinned.
She made a pretend retching sound. “Someone I haven’t spent my life thinking of as a brother.”
Keir touched her shoulder, making her look up to him. Dara really was bonny when her face wasn’t pinched with annoyance. She had their mother’s expressive eyes and thick brown hair. “Ye don’t have to wed him, or anyone, until ye meet someone ye truly fancy. There are others in this big world.”
“None of which come to Skye.” She turned back to her plate where he saw her touch the edge, sliding her finger along the rim. Was she double-checking that she didn’t have one of Lachlan or Rab’s poisoned plates? The suspicion coiled like a snake in his gut.
Brodie came up to him. “Ye heard about Rachel’s lad out in the stocks?”
Keir walked toward the double doors. “Aye, for stealing bread.”
Brodie’s frown turned fierce. “Idiot.” He lowered his voice. “And Rab, in one of his fits, proclaimed he should be flogged until he passes out or dies. He was to be held there until ye arrived to see it done.”
“How long?”
“Only a day, and his mother’s been feeding him. Wrapped him in blankets last night. A group is gathered out there since they saw ye ride into town last night.”
Keir nodded. “Give me a space and then come out.”
“Aye.” Brodie’s face relaxed, and he handed him his black mask. “Make it good.”
Keir turned away, but paused to glance back at his friend. “If Grace comes down, stop her from seeing.”
Brodie looked to the still-vacant stairs. “Even if she doesn’t see the Devil in action, she’ll hear about it.”
“Seeing is worse,” he murmured and headed into the entryway chamber where he removed his shirt. After years of snow baths and showing he was impervious to cold, it hardly bothered him anymore. It was a discomfort that seemed a warranted punishment for the fear he was about to sow.
He grabbed the lash that hung inside the door, the braided leather handle rubbed soft by generations of Dunakin Devils holding it. Long black leather strips hung from it, several peppered with sharp metal teeth to bite into skin. Keir stepped outside the double doors.
At the top of the keep stairs, he braced his legs, crossing his arms over his bare chest where his ancient markings stood out like swirling serpents over his biceps. Several of his warriors looked up, bowing their heads in greeting and respect. He was their feared leader, the one who pulled them through battles when they were vastly outnumbered. His reputation alone evened the odds by striking fear in their enemies before the fighting began. It was a strategy, sharpened over the centuries, until the Devil of Dunakin and his fierce fighting men had become legend. The Devil was usually the second son of the chief or the son of the Devil of Dunakin himself, which was why Keir had never sought to sire a child. He wouldn’t raise a son to be the monster that he’d been trained to be.
Keir inhaled, filling his lungs, and let out a fierce yell. “Where is the thief?” His men pointed toward the gates, and he walked down each step, snapping the lash, the ends cracking in the air. Power radiated from each of his steps, his boots crunching on the pebbles in the heavy silence. Villagers lined the short path to the stocks beyond the gate. Tears sat in some eyes, tears he ignored. To acknowledge them would show he could be swayed from his purpose. Several older women held the boy’s mother back as if she would lose her mind and throw herself on the Devil.
“Please,” Rachel said. “Have mercy. He’s just a boy.”
“He’s old enough to hold a sword, he’s old enough to know that no one is above the law,” Keir said, his words breaking through the gray morning. He stared at the streaked face of Niall Mackinnon. The boy had at least some bravery to hold his gaze for a moment before dropping it back to the dirt. “Niall Mackinnon, your chief has found ye guilty of thievery and has sentenced ye to be lashed until ye either pass out or die where ye stand.”
“Nay,” Rachel cried, but the ladies dragged her back when Keir’s gaze swung around to her. They obviously thought she would be next to feel the lash. Bloody hell, he hated this.
Gritting his teeth, Keir stepped up to the stocks. “Tie him to the lashing pole.” Two of his warriors came forward and lifted the heavy yoke of the stock that had held Niall all night through the freezing temperatures. He remembered how that felt, the aches in the back from bending. He remembered the humiliation when his father’s men had dragged him to that same pole, tying him to receive his beating. But instead of the lash, Aonghus Mackinnon had punched him in the gut and nose until he bled and vomited. Grooming him to be the next Devil of Dunakin had saved Keir’s skin from deep lash scars that would be evidence, later on, of his weakness. The internal scars were the same, however.
The crowd stood silent, faces grave, as Niall was tied and his shirt stripped to hang around his hips. Keir saw Normond MacInnes standing off to the side, watching. Perhaps the brutal show would make him pause if he ever tried to lift a hand against Dara. Keir flicked the lash out, making it snap like lightning. Several people jumped, and Rachel wailed until one of her friends, desperate to save her, threw a hand over her mouth.
A burst of movement near the gate caught Keir’s attention. Bloody damnation. Grace. She pushed into the crowd. Brodie ran out the gate two steps after her, but she’d managed to weave between people, dodging toward the front. He turned away from her. It was too late for them anyway, not that he could ever earn the affection of a woman like Grace, gentle, intelligent, and strong. He snapped the whip again, regret turning to fury.
“Prepare to feel the results of your thievery, Niall Mackinnon!” he yelled, bringing the whip down to hit the ground next to the
lad.
Brodie marched forward. “Ho there, Devil of Dunakin,” he called out and bowed his head low until Keir turned to him. “I would not interrupt your duty, but Rab has commanded ye come to him.”
“I am delivering justice in his name,” Keir said, raising his hand. Everyone around him seemed to hold their breath, not knowing the outcome he had already planned with Brodie, like all the beatings of children and minor offenses his cruel brother insisted upon. There were a few worthy offenses in grown clan members that Keir did deliver with brutal strength, but if Rachel had paid attention, she’d know that Niall would not feel Keir’s spiked lash.
“Forgive me, powerful Devil of Dunakin,” Brodie said. “But Rab demands your presence now.”
“Mo chreach,” he cursed and slammed the handle of the lash into Brodie’s hand. “Finish his sentence and cut him down. If he lives, he will learn never to steal again.”
“Aye, sir,” Brodie said, lowering his eyes as if the sight of Keir was frightening to him as well.
Keir turned, his boots grinding in the pebbles beneath his heels as he hiked toward the gate. Would Grace follow him? He whipped off the black mask, clenching it in his hand. Nay, not after witnessing the truth of his foulness.
…
A brisk wind sent snowflakes swirling down from the clouds to prick against Grace’s hot cheeks. She blinked against the tears threatening to spill from her eyes as she watched Keir stalk off, his hair in disarray from yanking off the hellish black mask. His skin, bared to show he was immune to the cold, showed his markings, the crosses of those he’d killed pocked across his back. She’d touched them all, yet now he seemed untouchable.
“Are ye the Maclean lass he brought back?” a woman next to Grace asked in a near whisper. “To heal wee Lachlan?”
Grace cleared her throat. “Yes, though I am not the one he sought, but I’m a healer, too.”
The woman passed the sign of the cross over her chest. “I will pray for ye, milady.”
The Devil of Dunakin Castle (Highland Isles) Page 14
