“Nae lass, caw canny, there’s none but me and the Laird here,” Magnus took on the task of reassuring her, “and we won’t harm you. We were told one of the mercenaries was biding with you and were hoping to find him here.”
Her mouth flattened against what teeth she had left. “If yer after seeing Andrie, he’s gone, left in the middle of the night.”
At last Gavyn realised who they were looking for—Andrew Finlay, a lowland Scot who had been one of his mercenaries for five years or more. Afore he could question her, she leant on the pole of the besom with one hand, and laid the other on her cocked hip. “I suppose that Grogan’s been complaining about me putting him oot. Well this was my wee hoose afore I met him, he has nae right tae it.”
“Grogan’s dead, Flora. He was killed last night. Is that why Andrie left?” Magnus flung the question at her, giving her no time to hide her reaction.
Her jaw dropped and mouth hung open. The sound it omitted was neither groan nor scream. None of that mattered, as her knees buckled and the birch besom tried to take her weight and snapped under the burden, throwing Flora to her knees where she lay sobbing. At first the words spilling from her lips were sheer gibberish, then Magnus bent and dragged Flora to her feet, chiding her. “Speak clearly, woman, we can’t hear what yer on about.”
Tears left streaks on her dusty face, and before she spoke again she drew the back of her hand beneath her nose. “I never wanted him dead, I loved him in ma ain way, but he didnae like work, and I was fed up living on naught but air.”
“So you say, but what of Andrew? Did he want Grogan dead? Is that why he ran away in the night?” Gavyn ventured, hoping she would give her new lover away.
“Nae, Andrie wasn’t bothered by him. He could make two of Grogan.” Her eyes blazed as she accused Gavyn in return. “An’ ye should ken whaur he is, for yer lieutenant sent him off to relieve yon men patrolling Bienn á Bhuird.”
Served by his own lack of knowledge, he’d been confident Andrew Finlay would be the one. In the field, he would have been aware of every duty assigned to the men, but since arriving at Dun Bhuird, more and more had been left to his lieutenant—the one who had stayed with him—while he worked at being the Laird. There was a lot to learn, much more than he had envisaged.
That didn’t mean he would simply take Flora’s word for it. “He could still have murdered Grogan before he left.”
“Nae, he was wi’ me all the time until he left. It could nae be him.” She gripped Magnus’s shirt, begging. “Believe me, I would nae lie.”
Gavyn didn’t believe her for an instant, and her plea didn’t mean he wouldn’t send someone out in search of Andrew Finlay. He glanced at Magnus. Flora still clung to him and his constable looked anything but comfortable. “Let’s go back to the Dun, Magnus, I need to talk to my lieutenants, discover which of them ordered Finlay on relief duty, then send two others out to fetch him back.”
He could hear Flora sobbing and mewling behind them as they trudged back to the Dun, Magnus limping and he wondering whether Flora would stop wailing the moment they were out of sight.
His day had begun so well, and Grogan’s murder had sent it into a spin, a downward spiral that might have taken his marriage with it. If he were forced to be honest, he regretted his words to Kathryn more than Grogan’s death.
Chapter 15
According to Rob, they had missed all the excitement, sleeping through it in a corner at the far end of the hall. That was only one lad’s opinion, decided Nhaimeth as they peered down from the lip of the high ridge. “What do ye think, lad?” he asked, falling back into his role as a Fool. “Was he tripped or did he jump?”
“A man’s dead. I haven’t it in me to feel jovial.” His lips tightened as he took another peek. “There’s a lot of blood, but that’s not why I’m unhappy about this latest happenstance—not when it reminds me o’er much of how it felt to live under Doughall’s thumb. Folk had a habit of dying with no real explanation, one of them my grandfather. Gavyn has only been at Dun Bhuird a month and now this… He can’t feel very comfortable about this turn of events,” Rob took another swift glance. “Tell me how a man could lose his head in a fall; and I don’t jest, for someone just shoved that man’s head in a bag.”
“Och, Rob, do ye have tae?” Nhaimeth screwed up his face. “Ye make me glad the porridge cauldron was empty when we eventually woke up,” he grumbled and felt pleased of the interruption when Jamie spoke.
“I see you have heard about the murder.”
Surprised, Nhaimeth lifted his gaze to Jamie’s face, certain his eyes bulged. “So he didn’t fall off the rim?”
Jamie looked away, made a show of staring over the edge. “Is that what you were told?”
“Nae we were just guessing,” Rob chimed in his expression, eager for news as befitted his age. Certainly the lad had seen a lot in his fourteen years, but it would take a few more o’ them to add wisdom to the mix.
“All I know … is what I heard … in the stables,” he said, his glance dancing frae yin to the other without settling. “I looked for you but it sounded rowdy in the hall, so I spent the night there instead.”
“Huh, I thought you’d found a lass,” Rob quipped with a knowing grin that made Jamie colour up.
Nhaimeth nodded, “It was pretty rowdy. Sides were taken—Gavyn versus Harald, mercenaries against clansfolk.”
Quick as a flash, Rob finished for him, “As if that strike Harald made was unintended, naught but carelessness. Kathryn distracted Farquhar, and Harald was ever one to take advantage,” he snarled, now all indignation.
Nhaimeth shrugged as if it didnae bother him yin way or the other. “Aye, and if I hadn’t dragged him away, he would have been trying to convince them to banish Harald. He has been doing his best to get Farquhar to go against his wife’s ruling since he realised the man is living at the Dun.”
In truth, he thought as Rob did. The McArthur had been good to him, treated him as if he were a man, not a dwarf. However, he believed in fate, in the hand of the Green Lady who had put Rob in the right place to save his father’s life.
However, the conversation had turned over-serious, so he chuckled. “Is it any wonder I dragged him away afore he started looking for a shovel?”
“Don’t listen to him, Jamie. Harald wasn’t even there, probably afraid to show his face. And Gavyn spent the evening in his apartments with Kathryn, as she was taking care of him.”
“Heh heh, I’ll wager she was,” Jamie said. His low laugh would have been enough, but his comment went right over Rob’s head, thank the Lord. Any slur against his uncle was enough to start him off again. Nhaimeth had little notion who Jamie had been listening to, but whoever it was had swayed the lad’s almost sweet nature.
Feeling it was up to him to change the direction their natter was taking, Nhaimeth said, “I dinnae suppose Farquhar will be in the mood for training today. How does it sit with the two of ye to come guddling for trout. There used to be lot in the burn that runs out of the far end of the lochan?”
“Count me in,” said, Rob, which was not a surprise since the lad was always in the mood for adventure.
“Me too, for I know for a fact that the Laird’s gone off with Magnus searching for the murderer. If fortune is on our side, we can catch one or two trout and be back here afore Farquhar brings back the culprit.” Jamie looked from Rob to Nhaimeth. “Do they put them in stocks at Dun Bhuird?”
“For murder?” gasped Rob. “I expect it’ll be worse. It’s not as if it happened in a battle,” he finished, walking away from the rim, as if he knew all about battles when, to tell the truth of it, none of them had much notion what a battle was like.
Some might think she was hiding in her stillroom, herself among them, though the truth was she had plenty to keep her busy—herbs that had to be picked afore they flowered and lost their potency. Lhilidh stayed by her side, fetching and carrying, keeping busy.
Diligent, Kathryn kept moving, refusing to sit down for
a minute, though Lhilidh insisted she should. All the while her hands completed familiar tasks—stripping leaves from plants to use fresh, tying bunches to dry—her mind replayed the moments of contention betwixt her and Gavyn. It was only to be expected that disputes would lift their heads and have to be dealt with, though until Gavyn’s return, most of the time when she was called upon to apportion blame, the disputes had concerned someone’s cattle.
She had no experience of murder, at least none so close to home.
By now most folk would have heard of her quarrel with Gavyn. She would give them until evening meal to get over their curiosity. In her mind, a tiff betwixt husband and wife scarce came close to the blether value of a man’s death.
Her biggest problem was how many of them knew she had dismissed Grogan’s complaint but a day ago.
She took her place beside Gavyn at the high board, as she did every night. To be honest, not much had changed from two days before when she had tended to his wound and believed matters betwixt them had changed for the better. What was wrong with her that she couldn’t keep her opinions to herself? A man would never learn to love a wife who had too much to say. As for her, she would have to learn to guard her heart as well as her tongue.
There was so much about Gavyn Farquhar she found appealing.
But it stuck in her craw that she had needed Harald’s idiocy to bring them closer together, if only for a day.
The thought brought to mind that she hadn’t seen Harald about the place that day. Mayhap he had gained a little wisdom and was playing least in sight after cutting Gavyn the day afore, or mayhap he merely feared being banned again.
She ate her meal in silence, ignored Brodwyn when she twitted her about Grogan.
“What did ye do to the wee man to make him jump frae the rim?”
Everyone knew well that Grogan hadn’t jumped, but that didn’t leave her cousin anything to pinch and prod about. Kathryn ignored her.
In the hall, folk seemed to have plenty to say, there was a buzz in the air, as if a hive of bees had been let loose in the hall. She didn’t join them. She ate, yawned occasionally and sipped her wine, watching, waiting, until Gavyn turned and said, “There’s no need to wait for me. Take Lhilidh and get ready for bed. I expect to be late.”
And just like that she was dismissed.
It was late by the time Magnus left for his quarters, allowing Gavyn to return to the apartments he shared with his wife. Walking through the hall, it struck him that, late at night, it appeared as if a giant hand had strewn the floor with men and women wrapped in their plaids. As was the custom, two housecarls guarded the entrance and another the rear, watching the space behind the Bear’s shield where two sets of steps led down to storage for food, ale and wine kept stocked in case of a siege. No matter that he had despised Erik Comlyn, the Comlyn Chieftain had been wise in ways of war. His only mistake had been in trusting Gavyn’s brother, Doughall—a man deserving of no one’s trust. Gavyn should know, for hadn’t Doughall sliced him with a sword, damning him to live not only with a face that would frighten wee bairns, but also without a memory. The only trait Erik and Doughall had had in common was vaunted ambition.
Lhilidh slept on the floor outside their apartments. He had banished her there the night he came back to Dun Bhuird. In sleep, her face was smoothed of care and for a moment he felt a pang of envy. His life had changed out of all proportion. Aye, he had always had his mercenaries in his care, but keeping a gang of rough fighting men under control was at odds with being responsible for men and women whose lives centred round the land—clansmen, who only fought when their laird called upon them, and then as his training bouts had shown, not over well—a fact brought to bear by Grogan’s murder.
Lhilidh’s eyes opened and blinked up at him as he slipped into his apartments, then, recognising him, she rolled over and went back to sleep. It had never worried him until that moment that, during his absence, he had placed his dependence on none but a young, innocent lass to keep his wife safe.
A fire burned low in the grate and added light to the few guttering candles in the bedchamber. He was used to dark halls and keeps with naught but arrow slits to let in the light, but at Dun Bhuird, the light reached the hall only when the big double doors were open wide, and sunlight seldom reached the Chieftain’s apartments.
Unless, a man were inclined to liken his wife’s hair to sunlight.
Kathryn’s hair had always fascinated him. Tonight, spread across her pillow, the fine strands of her braid glinted with shades of gold from the candles and red from the firelight’s glow. His fingers itched to loosen the braid, spread its silken flow over her shoulders, over his chest.
He sat on the edge of the bed. Her back was towards him, slim and fine-boned. He could almost count the small bumps in her spine through her thin, finely woven shift.
The hair prickled at the back of his neck and his hands curled into fists while he envisaged ripping her shift in two and running a finger down that long spine, remembering how she would arch her hips toward him. Urgency surged through him, pumping through his veins as intoxicating as strong red wine.
Kathryn may have turned her shoulder on him at the evening meal, sitting beside him, barely opening her mouth to eat, never mind speak. It mattered not. His wife did not need to talk for what he had in mind. He could speak for both of them.
Thanks to Kathryn, he barely noticed the wound Harald had given him as he stripped off his clothes. The plaid fell to the floor in a swirl of colour, and his shirt came over his head and lay atop like a patch of snow on the mountain.
He drew back the covers, climbed onto the bed and, kneeling, bent over her and kissed her behind the ear as he wrapped her braid around his fist, giving it a gentle tug; but she was deep asleep, so he placed a hand on her shoulder and rolled her onto her back and pushing her up, his hands on the ribs under her breasts, he knelt with his thighs either side of her hips.
Kathryn’s hand went to her eyes, rubbing the sleep away.
“It seems to me, lass, that you are over-dressed.
She blinked as his hands went to the hem of her shift and her mouth opened in surprise as he pulled it apart, baring her to his eyes. Beautiful, creamy skin with pale pink nipples cresting under his gaze. He wanted to feast. Bending from the waist, he drew one then the other betwixt his lips and tasted her flavour with the tip of his tongue. Though her skin was pale, she tasted richer, sweeter than cream. He definitely wanted more.
He took more, and could have drowned in the encouragement of her moans, which egged him on. No matter that so far they appeared to stand on opposite sides in most things to do with the clan, in bed they met on equal ground. She was already aroused, of that he was certain, he could smell it on her—feminine musk she exuded for him and him alone. His chest swelled in response, his shaft grown as hard and as long as it was able. Kathryn did that to him.
Sometimes he wished that she didn’t have this power over his cock.
This wasn’t one of those times.
Thank God his brain could observe as if from afar, except for that one moment when the earth stopped spinning and then they both flew off its surface into the stars together.
He placed both palms lightly against her shoulders and focused on her mouth. He had yet to kiss her lips, yet they were full, pouting, inviting. He savoured the moment until her eyes opened, dark blue and glazed by emotion, then she looked down where his prick weaved above the softness of her belly, impatient, and he realised it could get thicker, longer.
“Your side,” she murmured on a breath without a hint of the lass who had confronted him on the ridge.
“I don’t feel a twinge, my cock is the only part of me that’s in pain.” She took his shaft in her hand, softly ran her fingertips along his length. He groaned.
Her pink tongue pushed betwixt her lips and with a sweep, moistened them. “I have cure for that.”
“You have cures for many ailments. This,’ he said, looking down at her hand caressing h
im, “must be the most successful, yet my lips won’t be satisfied until they have tasted yours, the temptation is too great.” And though he felt a sting across his ribs as he bent to place his mouth on hers, he surrendered to temptation.
His tongue thrust between her lips and Kathryn welcomed its presence, danced with his as Gavyn’s circled the inside of her mouth. She firmed her lips to hold lightly and sucked hard. He let his weight rest upon her, trapping the hand she clasped him with betwixt her belly and his, the blunt head of his shaft pressing against her navel, hard against soft.
The taste of him made her head spin, yet she worried that the wound in his side might open. Releasing him she pushed him up, her hands insistent on his chest, his muscles firm to her touch and his dark male nipples pointing, marking her palm with their fierceness. “If you would make me happy, then let me do what I will to satisfy your…” she hesitated and finished with, “…lust this night. Lie on your back. I know how, for you have taught me well.”
To say he was surprised by her gesture was no small thing, and in answer Gavyn’s breath scraped the inside of his throat and his pulse pounded in his ears as he rolled over taking her with him. Kathryn straightened and towered above him like a goddess. The firelight limned her body in the red heat of its glow as she stretched her spine, an action that pushed her breasts forward, proud and firm. He reached for them and took one in each hand, circling her nipples with his thumbs, grazing them roughly across the tips until they were hard as pale pink cherries, not quite ripe yet sweet and tart to the taste.
“Now, she moaned, “take me. Fill me up.” Kathryn rose onto her knees. “Guide me onto you.” How could he resist?
Hot and wet, she slid down, enveloping him with feminine power. He surrendered to her every whim and let her take him on a ride of delight, clasping, letting go, pressure building inside him till he had to hold her down, large hands gripping the top of her thighs to slow the rush. Kathryn’s face glowed, radiant, ecstatic, as if quite content to remain on the plain above him.
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