Dara entered the hall from the back corridor, wearing a dark red dress, the color like old blood. But what tainted the air more than the grim reminder of the lives he’d taken was the man leading her in. Normond MacInnes was not someone with whom his sister should tangle. If Keir had been chief, Normond MacInnes would be in Dunakin’s dungeon right now instead of strutting across the room, a belligerent smirk on his face.
“No fighting, Keir,” Dara said, her voice sharp.
“’Tis a day to commemorate the beheading of a saint,” Keir said with a shrug. “Blood spilling seems appropriate.”
“Ye best get used to me being here, Devil,” MacInnes said and patted Dara’s arm. “I will soon be part of the family.”
Keir watched the man saunter off with Dara, parading as if he were waiting to swoop in and take over. Aye, Normond MacInnes dripped smug deceit.
Wooden plates were placed at each station, with a gold one set before Rab’s chair in the center of the long table. Keir would sit to the right of Rab and Dara to the left. Grace announced that Lachlan was still too weak to be from bed.
Keir walked along the table, scanning for the fine dusting that Grace had found on the plates in the kitchen, but the napkins looked clean and had been taken from a common stack, and Rab’s gold plate glinted with the candlelight. Grace’s plan was rash and could make them look like fools, but if it worked, they would unmask the bastard tonight.
Keir turned toward the steps, as if a noise had called to him over the sound of the musicians. When he turned, Grace stood at the bottom, staring his way. Had he felt her gaze?
She tipped her head to him, the delicate fall of pale blue silk of her hood sliding over her shoulder where it reached down her back, covering her hair, hair he knew to be soft with fragrant waves. She wore a blue bodice and skirt, to match the color of her eyes, a gown that his seanmhair said had belonged to his mother long ago. Just the sight of Grace sent strange sensations through his gut. He’d played a part his whole life, seeking confirmation of his success in the worried glances and pale faces of those he encountered. But Grace was the first person, since his mother, to see him for who he was, or who he hoped he still was. A man, not a devil. Perhaps… Was there a chance for a future with her? Hope cracked a small chink in the Devil’s mantle.
Cream-colored flowers were embroidered along the blue silk of her gown, giving her the appearance of a walking garden as she neared. An underskirt skimmed the tops of her slippers, the cream-colored silk embroidered with blue thread into the pattern of dragonflies. Small puffs of fabric sat at her shoulders, the material hugging her slender arms down to her wrists. She looked every bit the proper English lady. Only the mischievous tilt of her lips, her gaze meeting his, changed the angel to a siren. With her natural grace, the gown flowed around her as she walked forward, and the rest of the hall seemed to fade away.
Grace’s gaze traveled over his clean plaid. “You look good enough to eat,” she said, stopping before him. Bloody hell, he wished to sweep her away that very moment, loving her all night. Her cheeks flushed beautifully. “It’s an expression. I mean, you look quite handsome.”
His lips curved into a smile, one he rarely showed anywhere near his family. “Ye look like an angel straight from King James’s court.” He leaned in to her ear, inhaling the floral scent of her skin. “And ye look delicious, too.”
Her lips quivered on a little laugh. “I hardly believe there would be any angels at a royal court. I’ve heard from a friend, quite acquainted with the French court, that royal abodes are viper pits where slithering, gold-bedecked serpents breed and kill.”
Keir wished he could listen to Grace speak the whole evening, but that wasn’t the plan nor his duty. Letting his grin fade, he turned to take her elbow and glanced about the room. MacInnes stood with Dara, talking with the head of the archers, Edward Mackinnon, a distant cousin. Keir’s seanmhair came in from the kitchens, speaking with the cook, Nora MacDonald. “I see Rab made it down,” Keir said as his brother walked in from the bailey, his face still pale, though he looked better after two days of untainted food and ale. Brodie entered, talking with Will Mackinnon and Angus Macleod, two prominent men in the village who could possibly want Rab and his son out of the way.
“Yes, he looks better,” Grace said, the smile in her voice also gone. “As does Lachlan, although Rab will say he looks worse if anyone asks.”
Keir watched the village woodworker, Hamish Mackinnon, walk in, hat clutched in his hands. His wife stood beside him, both with wide eyes. They had to be wondering why they’d been invited up to the castle to dine. When questioned earlier in the week about the plates, Hamish said he hadn’t made any specific plates for Rab and Lachlan. Either he lied and was terrified at being caught, or the true assassin had carried them to Dunakin.
Keir’s gaze shifted to Normond MacInnes. The man had brought a trunk with him when he’d arrived last fall, and he’d made several trips off the isle since. Aye, he was the most likely traitor. But could Dara know about it?
The thought clenched inside his ribs. When his sister had discovered the truth about their mother during one of Rab’s drunken rantings, she’d questioned Rab’s sanity more and more. It was true that their brother took after Aonghus Mackinnon in temperament: rash, brutal, and quick to judge. But until his wife, Bradana, had died two years ago, Rab had been a fair chief. Now though, Keir agreed that some of Rab’s dictates were questionable, and he called on the Devil of Dunakin more and more.
“Let us sit,” Rab called, bringing people toward the long table. He made an exaggerated gesture toward his stomach as if it pained him, carrying on the ruse. Grace had instructed them on their rolls in this performance, but Rab had little talent for acting.
The platemaker and his wife took seats at the end of the table, farthest away, as was their station. With a nod from Keir, Brodie sat down near the couple, his merry disposition sure to put them at ease. Unless, of course, they were guilty of a heinous crime that would see them executed.
Keir claimed Grace’s arm, leading her with him toward the top of the table, which was reserved for family. The gentle pressure of her hand was like an anchor in the surging tensions and suspicions in the hall. Even the music seemed to be theatrically dark as Keir brought Grace to the chair next to his.
“Seanmhair should sit next to Keir,” Dara said from the other side of Rab. She frowned at Grace. Had his sister picked up on her betrothed’s interest in Grace, or was Dara still angry over their earlier interactions?
Keir ignored her and held the chair for Grace.
“Ye have your man, Dara. Let Keir choose his woman,” Rab said and threw his weight down into his chair. The solid strength of oak kept the chair from buckling. Fiona moved down to sit on the other side of Grace, nodding to her as they both pulled up to the table.
Grace leaned around Keir to frown at Rab. “Are you feeling well? You look pale,” she said without lowering her voice.
He dismissed her question with a wave of his hand, carrying off his performance with an authentic frown. Food was brought in, and Keir saw Grace run a finger over the surface of his wooden trencher, but she found nothing. He leaned toward her ear. “Rab’s gold plate is clean as well, and I watched the napkins dispersed from a common stack.”
Grace smiled as if he’d whispered something sweet. The lass could add acting to her list of talents, along with healing, cursing, and making his blood run hot. Her scent and the closeness of her soft skin were making it difficult to concentrate on their prearranged drama. Keir’s body had a different plan for the night, and he reached under to adjust his rigid member. Bloody hell, but Grace turned him into an undisciplined lad. He grabbed his ale cup, but Grace’s gentle touch on his wrist stayed his hand. They were not to eat or drink at this meal.
Nora, the cook, stood near the archway, watching the male attendants bring out the courses of roast venison and goose, dark and light rolls, cheese, and cooked vegetables. She looked anxious, and Keir studied her
for several moments. Food was placed upon plates by the servers, starting with Rab as was custom. Everyone waited for his short blessing and watched for him to take the first bite.
Obviously irritated, Rab looked around the room. “We will share food tonight.” He gestured toward Grace. Keir felt her arm go rigid against him. Rab hadn’t recited anything that she’d told him to say.
In the stilted silence, Grace inhaled and slowly spoke, her lips set in a calm smile. “How gracious.” She bowed her head toward Rab and looked at the confused diners. “I was telling your chief about a custom we adhered to in York, to celebrate the day of St. Valentine.” She folded her small hands before her, resting them on the table. “My father, the Earl of Somerset, would pass around his own plate to those he favored. It was a cherished practice.”
Rab nodded. “Aye, ’tis a noble gesture.”
“’Tis an English gesture if an English earl practiced it,” Angus MacLeod said, his frown fierce.
“Aye,” said Will Mackinnon. “It sounds dangerous. Don’t Englishmen poison those who are a nuisance?”
Rab coughed and cleared his throat. “But we are Scotsmen.” He met Will’s stare. “We lop off heads, not kill in the shadows with poison.”
Keir kept his face neutral yet quickly scanned the guests. Dara looked down at the napkin lying in her lap. Coincidence, or did shame make her bow her head?
“In fact, I think ye, Will Mackinnon, will be the first to receive my reward,” Rab said and gestured for the liveryman to take his gold plate down the table to the man.
Will chuckled. “I have no doubt that you’d dispatch your Devil to lop off my head, Rab, if ye wanted me dead.” He stuck his eating dagger into a slice of venison and placed it in his mouth, chewing. The room seemed to wait, but Will smiled as he swallowed. “Quite flavorful.”
Beside him, Keir heard Grace curse under her breath. Rab hadn’t followed the plan. While he called upon Normond MacInnes to eat next, they knew the food wasn’t tainted.
“I am honored,” MacInnes said with a lopsided smile and shoved a large piece of venison between his lips. He chewed without worry, as if he knew for certain the meat was untainted.
Once Rab’s plate was refilled, the others began to eat. MacInnes pushed back his chair and stood, helping Dara stand. The man cleared his throat. “Since this is a feast to celebrate St. Valentine’s sacrifice in the name of mortal love, Dara and I have an announcement.”
There was a pause, and Keir watched concern flicker across Dara’s smooth features. Gone in an instant, she smiled sweetly. “Normond and I are betrothed.”
MacInnes laughed. “Go on, woman. Tell them the rest.” She glanced at him with wide eyes, and he looked along the table. “We are already wed.”
Chapter Twenty
Normond MacInnes stood tall, the gash across his face stark in the candlelight from the chandelier overhead.
Grace’s stomach tightened at his words. Dara had no idea what type of monster she had pledged to be true to until death. And from the shock on her face, she wasn’t expecting the revelation at tonight’s feast.
Keir shifted, ready to stand, but Grace placed her hand on his arm. Amazingly, he stilled, waiting with all of them to see what happened next.
“We can still observe a church wedding,” Dara said, her gaze shifting from Rab to Keir. “But we thought it best to take our vows now.”
“Already consummated,” Normond said with a flourish and a leering grin, which brought a rare blush to Dara’s cheeks.
“We haven’t finalized the bride price yet,” Rab said, his voice low.
Keir perched his tight fists on the edge of the table but didn’t stir. He reminded Grace of a horse, waiting with determined focus for the start of a joust.
Normond waved off Rab’s concern. “A conversation for later tonight. First, my love and I bring ye a gift together.”
Dara smiled and stepped away from her chair to pluck two cloth-wrapped items from behind a reed basket in the corner. She brought them forth, setting one before Rab and one before Keir. Dara bent near Keir’s ear, and Grace barely heard her whisper. “I would not forget my true brother.”
Rab was the first to open the cloth, revealing a polished pewter goblet. The candles before him, reflected flames in the mirrorlike side. Grace gave Keir a little nudge with her elbow, and he unwrapped an identical goblet. “It is a set,” Dara said. “I have one, too.” She raised a hand, and one of the liverymen brought a third goblet from the archway.
Normond placed a wooden cask on the table and untied the leather cord holding the wineskin on top. “I obtained this wine from a monk who felt it was holy in its deliciousness.” He grinned. “I would share it with you all to lift in celebration over our union.”
He handed the small wooden cask to the liveryman near him and indicated their cups. “See that it stretches to at least the family,” he said. “And don’t forget Dara and me.”
The man poured the wine into Normond’s cup, then Dara’s, moving down the table to Rab. Before he reached Keir’s cup, Grace picked it up, glancing inside. Blast. She couldn’t see the bottom of the vessel in the low light. She set it down, frowning, and squeezed her nails into Keir’s leg. He must assume there was arsenic in the bottom. Would he follow Grace’s risky plan or not, for fear of looking foolish?
“I am not fond of wine,” Rab said. “Whisky is a Scotsman’s drink.”
Normond brought his cup to his lips and took a long swallow, his tongue coming out to lick a red drop from his bottom lip. The gesture turned Grace’s stomach. Her friend, Mairi, had fought against the man for months. What a horror.
“’Tis from a sweet vine,” Normond said. “For your sister, Rab, raise a cup to her health.”
Rab lifted his cup, and everyone around the table followed suit, including Keir. “Slàinte mhath!”
“Slàinte mhath!” followed from the people in the hall. Everyone raised their cups, and Grace held hers to her lips. Although she was certain her ordinary cup wasn’t poisoned, she performed the act she’d told Keir and Rab to follow. She slipped a small bit of bread into her mouth as she raised the cup. Keeping her lips tightly closed, she tipped the wine against her lips, but stopped it from entering her mouth. Instead, she let her throat work to swallow the bread and lowered the cup, quickly wiping away the excess with the napkin. Rab used his sleeve to wipe his mouth. Keir stared at Normond, watching, the stain of wine on his lips.
Don’t lick your lips, Grace screamed in her head.
Normond’s smile grew as he watched them all. Was he actually waiting?
“Uhhh…” Rab groaned, his mouth falling open, and with a thump, he fell forward, his arm hitting the goblet to spill red wine across the bleached linen. The platemaker’s wife screamed, and everyone jumped up, except for Keir.
He leaned back as if dizzy, his eyes shutting before falling off to the side of his chair to the floor. “Keir!” Grace yelled, dropping to paw at his lips with her napkin. When his eyes opened, meeting hers, she pulled in a breath to smother her panic. He shut his eyes again.
“No,” she yelled. “Keir.”
Chaos erupted around the table. “The sickness,” the older man that Rab had given the first bite to yelled. “They both have it.” He covered his mouth with his napkin, backing up. Keir’s grandmother dove down to touch Keir’s face. Would she give away the fact that he still lived?
Grace dropped to her ear. “We are catching a traitor. Keir and Rab are dead.”
Fiona’s wide eyes snapped toward her. Despite her age, she was as sharp in wit and mind as a young warrior. She stood, tears gathering in her narrowed eyes. “He is dead. They are both dead. Stay back.” She spread her arms wide.
Grace watched Dara’s openmouthed stare. Her eyes welled with tears, and she blinked rapidly as if trying to retain them. “Nay,” she said, hand to her breast. “Nay. They were well.” Unless the woman was a practiced actress, Grace read real anguish and shock in her expression.
; “The bodies will be burned,” Normond said, grabbing Dara’s arm to pull her away as if fearing a contagion. “And Dara Mackinnon, being the last of Aonghus Mackinnon’s children, and I, will lead the clan until Lachlan returns to health.”
Fiona stepped around the table, striding right up to Normond, her arm back. With power, she slapped him across his bristly cheek, mouth open, voice strong. “Mortair!”
Normond’s face contorted in rage with the sting of the woman’s slap. His fist came around and struck her, sending the old woman toppling backward even as Dara tried to catch her grandmother. “I will cut off your lying tongue, old woman,” he yelled.
“Nay,” Dara called back, but her word was overridden by the fierce battle cry from Keir as he rose behind Grace, pulling his sword.
“Traitor,” Keir said, and Grace watched Normond’s face turn from brutal conqueror to panicked prey. Without an ounce of dignity, the man turned to run, but Keir leaped up onto the table, his boots knocking off most of the dishes as he ran its length.
Grace dropped beside Fiona with Dara, her hand going to the line in the old woman’s neck in search of a pulse. Dara said nothing, just looked to Grace. Grace swallowed and met her anxious eyes. “She lives.”
Dara’s eyes closed, and she murmured something that sounded like a prayer, her inhale shaking. She opened her eyes to stare at Grace. “There was no Spotting Sickness, was there?”
Grace shook her head, and Dara blinked back tears, her eyes growing cold. She inhaled through her nose, nostrils flaring, and she turned to stand. “Normond MacInnes,” she yelled, but it was too late.
Grace turned in time to see Keir’s sword swing down, clanging against Normond’s blade, making it fly from his hands to skitter across the floor. “The Devil of Dunakin sends ye to Hell,” Keir said. His claymore changed directions, the blade whistling through the air as if time itself couldn’t keep up with it. The glinting edge met Normond MacInnes’s neck. The blade was lethally sharp, and Keir’s swing was so powerful that the head teetered upon his shoulders before finally falling as his body slumped to the floor.
The Devil of Dunakin Castle (Highland Isles) Page 18
