“The king? How so?” Fergus turned to him fully now.
“She said she saw him being slain in his bed.”
“Christ’s teeth, those are treasonous words to speak even by repeating them.”
“Aye, you do not have to remind me. If she keeps this up, I will have the king and every witch-hunter in Scotland beating down my door.”
Servants entered with food and ale, lining the table in anticipation of the crowds who would gather to pay homage to Ronan.
Rorie took a trencher and filled it with meat, cheese, and bread. He filled his goblet with ale and downed it, then filled it again. A chair scraped on the stone floor behind him. When he turned to see who it was, he caught sight of the tapestry flicking on the other side of the hall. No doubt someone had been spying on their conversation. Until a steward was set up, there would be much speculation, and he doubted any chamber in the castle was safe from prying eyes and ears.
“May I join you, Laird MacKenzie?” a male voice said from behind him.
Rorie turned. The bishop filled his trencher with food and had already taken a seat next to him. “Since you already have, I suppose the answer must be, aye, you may join me, Your Grace.”
“Ahhh, you are a keen one, Rorie MacKenzie, chief who does not want to be chief.”
Rorie sat and took another long draught of ale. When he swallowed the last drop, he filled his trencher again and wiped moisture from his lips.
“What makes you think I do not want to be chief?”
“Tis whispered on the wind,” the bishop said.
“Is it now? And what else does the wind say?”
“That your lovely wife has a gift.”
Rorie stood and toppled his chair. “What would you know of it?”
“Oh, do sit down, MacKenzie. She is in no danger from me. If I wanted to harm the lass, I could have done so any time whilst she took sanctuary at the abbey.”
It was true. Rorie supposed he had no choice but to listen to what the man had to say.
“Very well. Why do you seek me out?”
“And what makes you think I seek you out?”
Rorie looked around the hall. There were only four other chairs occupied, and they were all well away from them and not within earshot. “Maybe because this table is not for want of space.”
The bishop smiled. “No, it is not, indeed.” He plucked a piece of cheese from his trencher and popped it into his mouth. After chewing for what seemed like ages then swallowing, he said, “You must protect your wife.”
“You do not need to tell me that.”
“No, I suppose I do not, but she is currently unattended and roaming the grounds. ’Tis not only protection she requires whilst on the road home, my Lord MacKenzie. ’Tis here within the walls of this castle, too.”
“What do you mean?”
The bishop leaned in closer. “There are those still loyal to the elder Sutherland. A cruel man, who would have had Freya and little Artagan run through the moment they learned Ronan was dead.”
“Are you telling me there is someone else who would lay claim to the earl’s title and chiefship?”
“A cousin, aye. And the fact that Artair Sutherland is Ronan’s father and not Muren’s will matter not. She is Ronan’s sister and, as such, is at risk. She is not safe here, MacKenzie.”
Christ’s bones, would it never end? Just when he thought he had a handle on one threat, another emerged. He needed to find Muren and secure her in a chamber, supposing he guarded her himself. And he knew without a doubt that she would be none too pleased about it.
Rorie located her down by the falconry. She’d told him about one particular golden eaglet whose wing had broken, probably on its first time out of the nest, so he wondered if he’d find her there. She was crouching low and speaking softly to the creature
“Muren, you must come with me,” he said.
Her head whipped around so fast she stumbled and landed on her behind.
“Why?” she asked, as she jumped up and swiped the back of her skirt.
Aye, she was still annoyed with him, and he could live with that, but he could not live without her, so she could pout all she wanted, but she was coming with him.
“We must speak in private.”
She put her hands on her hips and cocked her head to one side. “What about?”
Enough was enough. Rorie hoisted her over his shoulder and held her legs with one arm. “We will discuss this in private.”
“Put me down!” She pounded on his back, and he was surprised at the power behind her tiny hands.
“If I do, will you promise to come quietly and make no fuss? We have some things to discuss, you and I, and the sooner we come to some agreement, the easier this will be on all of us.”
Rorie continued to walk, and after a few steps, the pounding ceased. “Very well, I will come quietly, and I will let you have your say.”
“Good.” Rorie planted her on her feet so fast she struggled to stand. Without saying another word, he walked on ahead and did not break his stride until he was at their chamber door. He opened it wide and stepped to the side for her to enter. It was only then he realized that his height afforded him a much longer stride than hers. She was just coming around the corner when he looked back.
“What is so urgent that you make me practically run to catch up to you?” she asked, a little out of breath.
Rorie closed the door behind her and pulled her into his arms. He needed to know one thing before he laid down the new set of restrictions on her. He bent his head toward hers, noting how wide her eyes became and how they lowered once he brushed his lips across hers.
“You told me long ago that you trusted me,” he said and pressed light kisses along her jawline and down her neck.
“Aye, Rorie. I trust you,” she said with conviction, all the while tugging at the back of his neck to draw him closer.
He grinned. They still had this passion between them. An ocean of differences they may share, but they still had this core need for one another. He prayed it would get them through the challenges they would face in the months and years to come.
***
To say she was confused was quite the understatement. Rorie was determined to get her alone, but his demeanour was not of a flirtatious kind. He’d urged her into a secret hiding place on many occasions, but this was something different. The urgency in him was not of a passionate nature, though if he continued to kiss her neck like that—and based on the growing erection pressing against her—she suspected that might quickly change.
But no. His reason for bringing her here was not to make love to her. She tried to reason it out, but his kisses stirred her, as they always did. If she had any chance of finding out why there were here, she would need to break this now. And whatever it was, she did not want to hear it after they shared their passion. She wanted to know before.
Muren pulled back from him and held him at bay with one hand. Holding up one finger, she said, “You wanted me to come here with you to discuss something very important.”
Rorie reached for her again, but she stepped back. “No, Rorie. I want to know why you would fling me over your shoulder like a sack of barley, for everyone to see.”
Anguish crossed his features as though he fought some inner battle and was losing.
Dropping his arms to his sides, he said, “You are still in danger.” Rorie walked past her toward the open window. A great view of the sea lay beyond. She had studied every inch of it in the years since she’d come to stay at Dunrobin.
“Aye, from witch-hunters. Rorie. I am not afraid of them.” And nor was she. Witch-hunters did not burn noblewomen.
“I am not talking about witch-hunters, Muren. This threat has to do with your family.”
Muren moved to stand by him at the window. “Because Ronan is dead?”
“Aye, love.”
Rorie turned toward her and gazed into her eyes. Just being near him made her braver. She was sure she could face anythin
g with his love to support her. And mayhap that was the lesson she needed to learn. That while she could stand on her own two feet, this was the man she was meant to be with and who made her stronger. The realization hit her like a blow. She’d been wrong to push him away when all he had tried to do was protect her. She would not be bullied by him, but she would listen to him, and together they would find the best way forward.
“Tell me, Rorie.”
“The bishop came to see me in the hall. He said you are in danger because there are still those within these walls who are loyal to the elder Sutherland.”
“Artair? No, it cannot be. Ronan worked very hard to ensure the loyalty of each man who remained here. He was very thorough, Rorie. Why would the bishop say that?”
Muren swallowed the rest of her words. It would do no good to rally against Rorie about something the bishop said. “I am sorry. Please continue.”
Rorie smiled at her and cocked his head. Thankfully, he didn’t probe. “These Artair loyalists may be out for Freya’s and her bairns’ blood. He does not think they will stop at immediate family. And though Artair was not your father, you, too, are Ronan’s blood. Apparently, there is a cousin who would attempt to claim the earldom and chiefship.”
“That will never happen,” she said and shook her head. Over her dead body would she allow anything to happen to Freya and the bairns.
“Freya has agreed to stay with Fergus until she is well, and you must travel to Eilean Donan with me the moment your brother is in the ground.”
Muren winced. His words were blunter than she had anticipated. Whether there was truth to the threat or not, protecting those deemed dear to Ronan–including herself now—was the only course of action that made sense.
“But what of the castle? The clan needs a steward.”
“Aye, that it does. The bishop has offered to oversee negotiations, and Fergus has offered to choose the man in Freya’s stead. ’Tis not likely much time will pass before the man is chosen. In light of recent events, it will not be easy for anyone to hold the position, but Fergus said he has some ideas of someone with enough mettle to take on the job.”
“So, that’s it then?”
“Not exactly.”
Something told her she would not like the next part of this conversation.
“Very well. When we return to Eilean Donan, what? You plan to lock me in my chamber, only to visit me for pleasure? Mayhap I will be allowed out for mass?”
Lord, she hated how bitchy she sounded. Even more, she hated that she had to hide and cower because someone might pose a threat to her. Yet when she approached Rorie with a threat that would happen to him, he dismissed her. Slowly, her anger built. It was not right that she was to take every word he said at face value, while her words were refused.
“Muren, you must heed what I say. I do not wish to upset you, but I will not risk your safety.”
Oh God, he was serious. “You really do mean to shut me in, don’t you?” Muren brushed past him and placed her hands on her head. Turning back toward him, she said, “For how long do you plan to keep me locked up? What if there is always a threat? I might as well be back on Rona, for at least there I could leave the lodge.”
Muren paced. Any allowance she’d given him that he would approach this topic in a logical manner fled.
“I do not plan to lock you up, Muren. But you will have to stay within the walls of the castle at all times unless accompanied by Ewen or me. On that note, I will not budge. You may rant and rave as long as you like, but I will not bend, Muren.” Rorie stepped closer to her. “If you push me, I can restrict your freedom to your chamber, if you like. As your husband, it is my right.”
“As my husband? The man to whom I gave my hand and my heart, who now intends to prevent me from walking about freely and speaking of things that are of importance to me. What’s next, Rorie? Will you restrict with whom I speak?”
“I will not place any restrictions on you that are not necessary. Of that, you have my assurance.” With that, he brushed past her and left the chamber, slamming the door behind him.
Muren took off her shoe and threw it at the door just as a low knock sounded. Stomping across the floor, she pulled it open, a mouth full of oaths—something she reserved for severe occasions—at the ready.
They died in her throat when she realized it was Freya, and not Rorie, who stood on the other side. The woman was pale as a sheet. Muren ushered her inside and closed the door.
Once they were both seated near the fire, Muren asked, “Freya, what are you doing out of bed?”
A single tear slid down her cheek. Dark circles surrounded her eyes. Muren’s heart ached for her.
“They will not let me see him,” she whispered.
Though spoken in a soft voice, the words were powerful enough to make a lump form in Muren’s throat.
“That is not right. He is—was—your husband, and you have a right to see him.”
“They say I am too weak, and that I should wait until tomorrow when I am stronger.”
“Freya, you are weak, but you are the strongest woman I have ever known. If you want to see him, then muster your courage, and I will take you to him.”
For the first time in a long time, Freya smiled, though it did not reach her eyes. Muren feared the haunted look would last for a long time to come.
“I would like that, please, Muren.”
Muren took a cloth from her own washbasin and dipped into some cool water. She pressed it against Freya’s face and then unbraided, brushed, and then braided her hair. If Freya wanted to pay her last respects to her husband, it was not anyone’s place to tell her no, even if they were trying to protect her. Delaying her grief was not a kindness, in Muren’s view; it only prolonged the anguish. Mayhap the same was true for her and Rorie. Waiting for danger to come to them would resolve nothing. They needed to face it head-on and eliminate it.
Muren linked arms with Freya and walked to the chamber in which her brother lay. She drew in a steadying breath and knocked on the door. A stern-looking, elderly woman answered it and, when she saw who was there, stepped aside and opened the door for them to pass through.
The first sight of him nearly did Muren in. Her strong, kind, wonderful brother, who she wanted to rant and rave at sometimes, lay unmoving on the bed. He was dressed in a black tunic with a bright green crest on the front. His arms were folded over his long sword, and his hair was combed down straight. He looked at peace.
Beside her, Freya’s knees buckled. That was when Muren noticed Fergus. He dashed out from the other side of the bed and caught Freya, lifting her easily and bringing her to a chair to sit beside her beloved Ronan. Freya reached out and grasped one of Ronan’s hands and sobbed as it lay lifeless in hers.
“Can you both please give me a few moments alone with my husband?” Freya asked in a quiet, shaking voice.
“Aye,” Fergus said, and walked toward the door.
Muren followed but looked back before leaving the room. The sight that met her was one she’d seen before. Freya was sitting by the bed holding Ronan’s hand and weeping.
Chapter Twenty
Rorie gritted his teeth as Sutherland clansmen walked with Ronan’s body toward the chapel. Dense mist had begun at dawn and had not let up all day. His heart was filled with just as much bleakness. This should not be happening. Ronan should be celebrating the birth of his child, not about to be placed in a cold stone crypt for all eternity.
He covered the hand Muren had tucked into the crook of his arm with his own. Her body shook beside his, making him want to carry her in his arms, but she would not appreciate him picking her up again.
“I remember when we were children and Ronan would try to get me to guess which of three bags held a special coloured stone.”
“Something tells me you always got it right,” he said and looked down at her.
The corners of her mouth lifted a little. “Aye, even when he left the stone out of the bags entirely.”
R
orie knew the game well. He’d tried it on his sisters, but they were far too clever to be tricked. He suspected, though, that Muren’s victories were of a different nature than his sisters’.
“I miss him,” she said, her words torn from her lips in anguish.
Rorie wrapped his arm around her and held her hand. “I know, love. He was taken too soon.”
“I cannot imagine what will become of Freya and the bairns. Who will look after them until little Artagan comes of age?”
“We all will, Muren. Fergus will ensure a reliable steward is in residence and, between us all, we will be there to support her in any way she needs.”
“I curse the king for his brutality.”
“Be careful of your words, love. I know they come from your grief, but there are far too many ears here who would like to turn them against you.”
“I know,” she said in a quiet voice.
Could it be true? Could he have finally gotten through to her? God, he wished so. He did not want to face her vexation at every turn. It had been far too long since he held her in a quiet moment. They needed that. So much had happened over the past months that he was determined that when this was all over, he would hide away with her in their chamber for a fortnight at least. He could not help but let out a small happy groan at the thought. Muren squeezed his hand.
“What is it?”
“I am thinking of a happy time in the future when you and I can settle into our new life together, away from terrible games such as the ones we have witnessed of late.”
“Aye, I wish for that, too. Will you promise me something, Rorie,” she said.
He wanted to say he would promise her anything, but he would not if it meant she would be at risk.
“What, love?”
“Will you promise me that when the day comes that I think my vision of you may come true, you will trust me?”
Rorie stiffened. It was beyond hope that she had let that topic rest. He hardly wanted to know what she meant by trust her. What could she possibly do if it was predestined for him to be run through? And, dear Lord, when had he started giving credence to her visions? Nay, dreams. They were dreams and nothing more.
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