by Diane Darcy
She smiled. “That’s not what I heard.” When he didn’t respond, but looked surprisingly bashful, she relented and changed the subject. “I wanted to tell you that I love the memorial you erected in memory of your mother. It was a sweet gesture.”
He nodded once. “’Tis strong and will stand the test of time.”
“It will.”
“She loved birds and could whistle ’em from the trees.”
“She could mimic them?”
“Aye. I’ve forgotten her features, which grieves me deeply, but I remember her clearly when I hear a bird’s call.”
“Why was she accused? Do you remember what happened?” She’d always wanted to know.
He hesitated, then, gazing out at the lake, finally lifted a shoulder. “A priest came to the village where we lived and visited my mother. He attacked her, tried to force her, and she fought back, scratching his face and scorning him. He took his revenge by turning everyone against her. As she was English, and the Laird’s mistress, it wasna hard to do.”
Samantha, hearing the quiet rage in his voice, was sorry she’d asked, unhappy she’d brought the remembered pain back. “That’s terrible. I hope that horrible man got his in the end.”
“He did. He bled out at the end of my sword ere I’d reached a score of years.”
“Good.”
He raised a brow.
After all these years, this big, tough, ancient warrior was still heartbroken over his mother’s untimely demise, and it endeared him to her. No wonder he’d saved her life. She remembered the way he’d rushed down the hill with his ax and tears burned behind her eyes and she bent her head, trying to stem them.
“Let’s go.” He turned his horse, tapped his heels to the horse’s flanks, and put the pedal to the proverbial metal.
Not to be outdone, she followed, urging her horse to catch up. She heard a sharp twang, and watched as Ian’s saddle started to slide and him with it.
“Hey!” Samantha, almost even with him, made a grab for him.
An expression of pure surprise on his face, he lunged for her horse’s mane. He caught it, and held onto both horses as she urged her pony closer. “Whoa.”
He managed to get his footing. He ran between the horses as Samantha pulled on the reins. As a collective group of horses and humans, they finally came to a stop.
Wide-eyed, they both gaped at each other.
Samantha panted, her heart slowly returning to its natural rhythm. “Do saddles break all the time? Is that normal?”
“Normal? Nay, lass. Nothin’ so much.” He led his horse to where the saddle lay on the ground a good distance away and she urged her horse to follow. He turned the leather over and examined it. He lifted the saddle in the air to show the dangling straps. “’Tis been cut.”
She pressed a hand to her chest. “Cut?”
He exhaled. “Someone truly desires me dead, do they not?”
“It certainly appears that way.”
He lifted the saddle over his shoulder, grabbed his horse’s reins, and headed out, leaving Samantha to follow.
She watched him stride toward home, broad shoulders easily carrying the saddle, his strong, vital body eating up the distance. It had always been a tragedy to her Ian MacGregor, Laird of Inverness had died so young. But she wasn’t reading history books now, was she? This was the present and this time she was around. Danged if the man was going to die if she could prevent it. It was time to put that big brain of hers to work and find his killer.
~~~
By the time Samantha dismounted in the bailey, she was fuming. Who was trying to kill Ian? Why? These people needed a serious wake up call. They didn’t know how good they had it. In this day and age, they could have a monster for a laird. Someone who took everything they had, abused them, and no one could stop him. They needed to appreciate Ian. And protect him.
Ian showed the shocked stable master the cut saddle strap. “Weren’t no one in here that shouldna hae been.” The man appeared frightened.
When Ian only nodded, and didn’t press the issue, Samantha spoke up. “Well, maybe someone who you feel had the right to be here did it? Has anyone acted in a suspicious manner lately?”
The man’s lips tightened into a straight line, probably at being questioned by her. “Nay.”
As Ian thanked the man and turned to leave, Samantha said, “You go on ahead. I’ll catch up later. I’m going to pet the horse for a while.”
Ian shot the stable master sharp look. “No harm better come to the lady, understood?”
The man bobbed his head. “Aye, Laird.”
As soon as Ian left, she turned to the stable master. “Someone is trying to kill your laird. You need to keep a sharp eye out for anything out of the ordinary.”
The man’s jaw jutted. “I dinna need a witch tellin’ me what to do.”
“Well, do you need everyone wondering why your laird died falling from your saddle?”
The man’s face scrunched with anger and he pointed a finger. “Out. Go on. You’re not welcome here.”
“Think about it.”
She was fuming herself when she left the stables and unfortunately the first person she saw was Willie.
He held out his arms as if to corral her. “Escaped from the tower, have you?”
Samantha crossed her arms. “No, the laird let me out.”
“Bewitched him, have you?”
She rolled her eyes. “Willie, give it a rest, I’m not in the mood.”
His arms were still out as if to capture her if she tried to get past him.
She sighed. “I know your type. You’re a bully. You push people around because it makes you feel powerful. It makes you feel better about yourself. You’re completely selfish and only care about what you want and what you feel. Am I right?”
Willie’s arms dropped and his head reared. His mouth hung open, revealing brown teeth that needed a good brushing. Or better yet, a dental hygienist. “I be watchin’ out for the entire clan.”
“Is that so? It’s probably you making attempts on the laird’s life, isn’t it?”
Willie sucked in a breath. “Never! I be completely loyal.”
“I doubt that. Your laird told you to leave me alone, yet here you are, disobeying him. I wonder what else you’d do.”
She saw in his darkening face his intent to attack. With an outraged yell, he lunged to grab her, but at the last moment, she dodged and used his momentum to shove him and send him sprawling. When he didn’t try to get up, but only glared at her from the dirt, she said, “I thought so,” and headed toward the castle kitchens.
A few minutes later she stood in the doorway of the kitchen teaming with helpers. A boy turned a huge haunch of meat over a spit on one fireplace, and a girl of about seven years turned five chickens over another. There was fresh bread laid out on one table, and dough being pounded by a teen girl. Vegetables were being cut by several girls, and a big woman blew on a spoonful of liquid before tasting it.
Samantha glanced around at the different utensils, pots and pans, and had to squelch a sudden yearning to pick them up and study them. She needed to stay focused. “Hello?”
That got the attention of the buxom lady and when she swiveled around, Samantha saw it was Cook, who’d fed her nasty things the day before.
“You there, what d’ye think you’re doin’ in my kitchen?”
“I want to talk to you about the The MacGregor. Someone is trying to kill him, and I want to know what precautions you’re taking to prevent him from eating poisoned food.”
Cook laughed. “And what? You’ve set yourself up as Himself’s protector?”
“Yes.”
Cook stopped laughing as suddenly as she’d started and shot Samantha a sour look. “The MacGregor is fine, isn’t he, then? I just saw him walk past not ten minutes ago, hearty and hale.”
“How long do you suppose he’ll stay that way with someone trying to poison him and cutting his saddle so it’ll break while he rides?”
Everyone stopped working now, openly listening. Samantha could see wariness, scorn, curiosity, boredom.
“I was just out riding with the laird and the straps on his saddle snapped. They’d been cut. Luckily, he wasn’t hurt, but it could have been fatal. Someone is trying to kill Ian. If you people don’t watch after him better, you’ll end up losing him. Have you thought about what might happen if your master dies? Isn’t he important to you? If he’s not, he should be. From what I’ve seen he’s smart and clever and he cares about what happens to his clan.”
She saw a lot of suspicion, but not much concern, and tried to hide her impatience. She needed them on her side if she wanted them to listen. “Look. All I’m saying is I think you’re better off with a laird with his experience. He’s a warrior who can protect you. He has connections to the king. He’s fair. What if he died and someone else took over? Someone without his experience? Who would suffer for it? All of you, that’s who.”
“How can we keep him alive?”
Samantha smiled at the thin woman who spoke. “We need to figure out who is trying to kill him.”
“How?”
“Just keep an eye out for anything suspicious. Maybe someone near his food who shouldn’t be. That sort of thing.”
A young man glared at her, suspicion darkening his gaze. She remembered her training, How to Win Friends and Influence People. If she ever needed it, this was the time. “He’s your laird.” She spoke in a sweeter tone, and tried to think how to appeal to them on a personal level. “No one has your best interests at heart the way he does, right?”
They appeared dubious.
She needed to sway them somehow. She admitted it. She was feeling a bit possessive of the man. And no, it wasn’t because he’d saved her, or kissed her, or made her laugh. She’d always liked the guy, even when long dead.
“You was the one what was with him,” one of the boys spoke up.
Samantha sighed. “I assure you it wasn’t me. I don’t even have a knife to cut with.”
“You could have used your witch powers,” Cook said.
“I’m not a witch—and we settled this yesterday with the disgusting Witch’s Bile.” She shuddered, but was distracted by the power thing. “What powers do witches have?”
Cook crossed her arms over her full bosom and shot her a narrow-eyed look that said, as if you don’t already know. “Souring milk. Shriveling crops. Murdering kinfolk.”
“Those sound more like acts of God to me.” She thought about the TV show, Bewitched. Would that she had Samantha Steven’s powers. Then she could divine who was trying to kill Ian and smite them. Or twinkle them to the mid-Atlantic to swim for it. “Look. We’re all on the same page here, right?”
Blank expressions.
“What I mean is that none of us want The MacGregor dead. Right?”
Some heads nodded, but everyone remained silent.
“I mean, isn’t he a fair laird? Doesn’t he treat you well?”
“He’s scary,” said the girl punching dough.
“I don’t think so. Some men allow unlimited power go to their heads.” She thought about her time studying the Aztec people. Human sacrifices, cannibalism, people buried alive. “I once heard of a laird who ate babies.”
Horror filled the faces in front of her.
Samantha nodded. “He also threw people off cliffs and made his men bury his wife with him when he died. She was still alive at the time. So you see it's in your best interest to keep Laird MacGregor alive. We need to find out who is trying to kill him. Or you could end up in a much worse situation. You probably think Brecken would take over. But the king could send someone new. Someone bad. Then what would you do?”
A girl lifted her chin. “After he arrived he gave me a new blanket.” She looked around. “We all got one, remember?”
Several nodded.
“He helped my son when he had the croup,” said another woman. “Gave him medicine from the king’s own apothecary.”
“Himself helped wi’ the planting. Helped to dig a new field. Worked alongside us, he did.”
“The MacGregor is good at hunting. And he lets everyone have a share in the meat.”
Now it was Samantha’s turn to nod and smile, pleased that she was winning them over. “That’s right. You’re lucky to have such a strong, fair, giving laird. We need,” she emphasized, repeating herself so all would understand the import, “to find out who is trying to kill him before he dies and you get a new one who isn’t half so clever or strong or generous.”
A girl peeked out from behind Cook’s wide girth. “Mayhap it be Fiona McGregor what’s doing it.”
A few murmured their support of that idea.
“She hated that boy like poison,” said the thin woman.
“Who?” Samantha asked.
Cook nodded wisely. “The old laird’s wife. Ian was her husband’s son by another. She’s probably turnin’ in her grave right now on account of how her sons died of fever, one after the other, and Himself inherited by the king's order. Suffering Ian to receive all that her children should inherit, that would raise her from the dead for sure.”
“All the heirs were wiped out at the same time? I hadn’t realized.” Sometimes it really irritated her the way history books glossed over important facts. Didn’t anyone keep good records? “But she’s dead, right?”
“Aye.” Cook nodded and both chins wobbled. “She died, as well. But if anyone would ever have a restless spirit ’twould be her. Mean-spirited in life, and no doubt in death also.”
“Hmm.” Samantha didn’t want to publicly scoff at the idea, not when she was so close to winning them over, so she simply said, “Maybe so. But let’s rule her out for now and focus on the living. Let’s do everything in our power to keep Ian MacGregor safe, what do you say?”
This time, the response was much more enthusiastic.
Samantha smiled. “Great. Thank you. Let everyone know they need to watch out for him too. I’m sure if we all put our minds to it, we can catch the killer before it’s too late.”
Because one thing was for sure. If there was a way to change history, she would find it.
~~~
As Samantha finished convincing his clan to watch out for him, Ian pushed off the wall and strode away from the kitchen door, not wishing to be seen by her nor anyone else for that matter.
He had not intended to eavesdrop. After Willie complained Samantha shoved him to the dirt, he’d thought to have a talk with her about behavior and tact. Antagonizing the main person responsible for stirring up trouble was not shrewd or canny, and the sooner she stopped, the better for Ian. Listening to an old man whine was not how he wanted to spend his day. Nor was stopping future attacks against his witch.
And thus he’d overheard her talking to his kitchen staff.
He headed into the darkness of the keep, stopped, and rubbed at the tightness in his chest.
Why would she say such things?
Granted, she’d told Brecken that keeping Ian alive was in her own best interests. And she had the right of it. If not for him, she’d be dead and left for scavengers now. She could still be at risk ere he died, though hopefully his clan had seen the error of their ways.
But she’d sounded so sincere in her concern for him. She’d not cowered before their scorn, disbelief, or mockery. And the way she’d led them to her way of thinking was nothing short of amazing. Not one person in his entire life had taken up for him in such a way. No one had to. He was always the one who kept others safe, not the other way around. It made him feel unbalanced, as if things were out of order. And yet, at the same time, her acceptance made his chest ache with an emotion he could not name.
Blast him, he felt flattered. Valued. Esteemed.
And he also burned with curiosity. Did she harbor genuine feelings for him?
His chest rose and fell with swallowed breath as he took the stairs a pair at a time. He needed to find something to do. She confused him and he did not c
are for it. Mayhap a couple of hours working on his hidey-hole under the window would calm him. For all the good it would do him since Samantha already knew of its existence, location, and probably what he planned to place in it, blast her. One way or the other he would clear his mind of her.
Chapter Twelve
When Samantha made her way into the great hall for supper that night, the head table was more crowded than usual. She paused, wondering if the fact that she’d sat with Ian earlier meant that’s where she should go, or, if she should perhaps find a less crowded table where she would probably be unwelcome. A plate in her tower room was looking pretty.
Beth spotted her rushed to intercept as Samantha headed toward the closest table where two women sat on one end. “Where are ye going? You’re to sit wi’ Ian.”
Pleasure and relief shot through her. “I am?”
“You’re his guest.”
Blowing out a breath, Samantha followed and, as they approached the table, she spotted some new faces. “Slide down,” ordered Beth. “The lady will sit here.”
She was seated two down from Ian, next to an older lady who looked so much like a feminine version of Brecken that she must be his mother. “Hello. I’m Samantha.”
“Janetta.” Taking a long look at Samantha’s hair, the woman bowed her head once. “Welcome.”
“Thank you.”
The man across from her gaped. Beth, now standing behind him, placed her hand on his head and ruffled his thick brown hair affectionately. “Shut yer trap, before ye catch flies, Quinn MacGregor.”
Brecken, sitting next to the man, laughed. “Aye, cousin, ye look like a fish.”
The man half-stood and leaned across the table toward Samantha. “But who is this wondrous creature?” He lifted a strand of her hair between finger and thumb, rubbed it, and when Samantha raised a brow, he smiled. “Had to see ’twoud it burn my fingers.” He wiggled the digits at her, then blew on them.
She laughed. “I’m Samantha Ryan. And you are?”
“I be Quinn McGregor.” He bowed low and deep over the table, almost dunking brown strands of hair in soup.
