by Diane Darcy
“King Henry!” The dark knight, his voice loud, deep, and angry, commanded his King’s attention. “I demand a rematch!”
King Henry stood. “Demand?”
Ian, having been in King Henry’s court on more than one occasion, knew that tone of voice. King Henry, no doubt already in a foul mood from losing a bet with King Alexander, would be in no temperament to hear that tone directed at himself.
“Aye,” the man’s voice vibrated with anger. “The girl,” he pointed at the female wilting against the wooden barrier, “planted directly in my path, was no doubt sent by my opponent. I demand that the coward is forced to fight me true.”
“You desire the girl to fight you?” King Henry voiced in a drawl.
Laughter exploded, the crowd well entertained by the King’s response.
The big man started forward, “I demand that you—”
“Stop.” When King Henry’s jaw clenched, Ian almost felt sorry for the knight. Almost. There was no excuse for idiocy. “I deny your request. And if you suspect the girl so fully, take her with you to question at your leisure, but do so away from me. Guards!” King Henry waved his hand. “Escort this man off the field. The lady, as well.”
“This is not over.” For a moment. Ian thought the knight would attack the guards, and mayhap even King Henry himself. Did the man have a death wish? Once King Henry had spoken, he would not back down. But the knight, seeming to get hold of himself, grabbed the war horse's reins and stormed off the field. The lady, weeping, fighting against the guards, was escorted after him.
King Alexander, smiling, turned to Ian once again. “Too entertaining. Now, then, what is it you wished for?”
“We need privacy for a conversation of utmost importance.”
The king's expression lightened. As always, he liked the idea of an intrigue— the young king did love his secrets—but he didn’t move, only cocked his head. “Whisper in my ear.” The king also liked those around him to see he owned secrets.
Ian obligingly leaned down. “I have brought the crown. ’Tis in danger of being discovered. You need to reclaim it before such occurs.”
The king reared back, expression accusing. “Did I hear correctly?” He whispered fiercely. “You wish me to take possession? Are you mad? There’s no way ’twould make the journey to Edinburgh without thieves intercepting.” He glanced around to see if anyone overheard. “Nay. You will take it and hide it, as commanded. Why do you tire me with this topic ? ’Tis your trouble, not mine.” The king abruptly turned away and joined his giggling mistress.
Ian’s shoulders slowly straightened. The king’s reaction was...unexpected. “As you wish, Your Highness,” he muttered to himself. Leaving the dais, he took Samantha by the hand and dragged her away to weave through the crowds.
“Did you see that girl appear out of nowhere?” Samantha asked from behind him. “Did you see the way that scary-looking guy saved her? Talk about high drama. That was awesome.”
“Hmm.”
Still clinging to his hand she sidled up beside him to look at his face. “No go with the king?”
Ian didn’t answer, but continued striding toward their camp. He’d no inclination to tell her his mission had failed. When Ian foiled a plot to steal the blasted thing before he'd left the kings service, Alexander had ordered him to take it with him. Now Ian was more worried about it on his end. And the cause of that concern was bright-eyed and breathless beside him.
“Okay. We’ll talk about this later.”
At Samantha’s cheerful tone, Ian frowned. The king had never been easy. Why should he have expected otherwise this time? Samantha, on the other hand, was impossible—and too sharp for her own good.
He instructed his men to pack, and they jumped to follow his command.
Brecken hurried over. “I’ve already packed. I’ll round up the dawdlers and catch up to you later.”
Ian glanced at his cousin, but he was already walking away. There’d been something in his voice, but Ian didn’t have the time or the inclination to figure it out. At his age ’Twas either a girl or a game. Either way, it was naught to him.
Chapter Eighteen
Hearing hoof-beats, Samantha turned to see Dugald ride past the men trailing them. When he reached Ian, now riding side by side with her at the front of the procession, he slowed and made a place directly behind them, forcing the others to adjust. “I doubled back, but dinna see any sign that we’re followed.”
Ian nodded. “The Campbells know where we’re going. Mayhap they’re simply not in a hurry to catch up.”
Dugald nodded. “Or mayhap they didn’t see us leave and are lazing at Stirling.”
“That’s quite possible.” Samantha added her two cents. “We packed and took off so fast that Laird Campbell could be taking an afternoon nap or enjoying the entertainment or something, completely unaware of our absence.”
Ian nodded. “Mayhap.” In the hours they’d traveled, Ian had been quiet and introspective. He looked back every once in a while, no doubt worried about his young cousin who’d stayed behind and promised to catch up.
Dugald slowed, creating a distance between them.
The sun beat down, and when a fly buzzed Samantha’s ear, she waved it off with a hand. She was getting tired of the silence, the feeling that they were waiting for something to happen. “So, what are you going to do with the crown now?”
Ian snorted. “You tell me. I thought you claimed to ken all there was to know about me? So what is my next stratagem?”
Amused, she lifted a shoulder. “It turns out you’re a surprise, even to me.”
He finally glanced at her, one brow rising, “How so?”
“Your fight with Lord Marshall. He had you fair and square. I don’t know what you said to him, but I’m positive it was sneaky and underhanded.”
“You sound admiring.”
“Oh, believe me, I am.”
He grinned.
“So, spill. What did you say?”
“I yelled that you were to take Gillian wi’ you to your place in the future.”
Samantha’s mouth dropped, then she laughed. “We couldn’t hear you. We could only see his reaction. Talk about devious. You don’t even believe me and you used my story against him.”
“Aye.” He shrugged. “No one was more surprised than I when it rattled the man. He seemed to believe the tale. Tell me again where you’re from?”
“Oh, so now you want to hear all about it.”
“Lass.” The word held a warning.
She slitted her eyes at him. “New York. Across the ocean to the west. Over 700 years in the future.”
“Just so.” He chuckled. “Lord Marshall certainly seemed to believe such.”
“Did he? Was that why he wanted me away from his wife? He acted like I was going to contaminate her.”
“He merely believed you were poised to steal her away.”
“Hmm. So, now you’re wondering how he can believe something which you refuse to give credence to.”
“Aye. Lord Marshall doesna seem a man easily duped.”
“Yet you duped him today.”
“Did I? Or did I tell him true? Could you have taken Lady Marshall across time wi’ you?”
She glanced at the bag hanging from the saddle behind him. “With the crown? Probably.”
“So, no doubt you’re pleased wi’ today’s outcome?” He tilted his head toward the bag. “That we take this wi’ us?”
“Mostly relieved.” She thought about what Gillian told her, about the blood and holy ground. If she hadn’t met her, she might have had a devil of a time getting home again, even if she could obtain the crown. A coincidence? Fate playing with her? Whatever, it was strange. And were there really two crowns? Either way, she wouldn’t say anything to Ian. He might dig up the second one, if it was there, and conceal it too.
“So, where are you going to hide it now that everyone at Inverdeem knows about it?”
His lips twisted. “No doubt the
y will believe I left it with the king.”
“That’s true. You could hide it under the altar again. I won’t look, I swear.”
He shot her a sour look. “I won’t hide it there, and I’m sure you will look.”
She laughed. “So, hide it in the pantry.”
He snorted.
“Under the table?”
He shook his head and sighed.
“You could hide it in my dig site.”
“With the refuse? The boys might dig it up whilst searching for moldering bones.”
“The hole in your bedroom floor?”
He made a sound of disgust.
“No? What about visiting another castle nearby. I know of several hiding places in some of them. You could take it to Campbell Keep. They have a priest hole under the main fireplace.”
His eyes gleamed with amusement.
She shot him a look under her lashes. “It must be difficult to have so much responsibility placed on your shoulders at such a young age. A burden shared is a burden halved.”
He laughed. “Young? Do you try and imply I’m immature or foolish? I assure you I’m neither.”
“You don’t trust me, do you?” Her lower lip jutted into a pout.
“Nae likely.”
She smiled at him—flirting—and for the first time in her life, it came easily. That certainly had never happened before, and it was fun. A bird whistled and caught his attention and she remembered him telling her about his mother. “You said your mother could charm birds from the trees?”
“Yes. She could mimic them.”
“She sounds delightful.”
“She was. Years later I still canna believe the clan who knew her, knew of her relationship wi’ their laird, let her tend to their wounds, could have treated thus.”
“Your father couldn’t save her?”
He lifted a shoulder. “Wouldna, couldna, I dinna know why he allowed such to happen. I suppose he dinna wish to go against a priest, his wife, or the villagers. ’Tis a dance keeping a clan together and loyal. I’ve yet to master it.”
Her heart clenched. “I think you’re doing a great job.” How sad that years later this big, strong, tough warrior was still confused and heartbroken over his mother’s untimely demise. Her murder. For the first time in her life she wished she’d taken a few classes in psychology so she’d know what to say to ease his pain. “What do you want from your clan?”
“I wish for their trust and loyalty. I want them to cease their fear of me. It may never happen.”
Samantha had already realized he’d saved her at great expense to himself. If he’d let her burn, it would have been better for him. It might have bonded him closer to the clan instead of creating another him-versus-them scenario. But he wasn’t like that. He was a complicated man: steadfast, determined, stubborn, funny, tricky, handsome, clever, heartbroken.
She suddenly ached to wrap her arms around him and her heart felt like it swelled in her chest.
She was falling in love with him! Real love. Not mere infatuation.
Her mouth parted and she dropped one rein.
He gathered it up and handed it back to her. “What is it?”
Taking a breath, she seized the rein and lowered her gaze. In love with Ian? Falling in love was a foreign concept to her. Sure, she knew plenty of people it had happened to—Gillian for one—but love had certainly never struck her before. When she’d never experienced the giddy sensation spoken about in love songs, books, movies, and every other week with some of her college roommates, she’d worried she didn’t have it in her to experience such a binding emotion.
“Samantha? Are you all right, lass?”
Granted, she’d always had a guilty crush on the guy, but this, this was different. This was getting to know the real man. Discovering who he was. Realizing she liked him, and felt as if she were bonding to him. Wishing it was always her he turned to with his problems and concerns.
Was she crazy? Did she even know what love was? She knew she didn’t want to leave him and missed him desperately even at the thought of it.
She thought of Gillian, who’d stayed here in the past with the man she loved. Could Samantha be happy here? Would it be the same for her? Would he even want her?
If he handed her the crown right at that moment, what would she do with it? Give it back to him? Tell him she wanted to stay? She thought about her grandfather. How much she missed him. Had he been able to hang on? If he’d gotten news of her disappearance...and if their conversation the day of her flight was to be the final one.
Grief pressed hard on her chest. She pictured him waiting for her, worrying when there was no word, fussing to the police. She didn’t think she could bear it if his last days on earth were filled with pain and concern.
And then there was Jerry. No doubt he was depending on her. As much as he was the biggest jerk she knew—sly, jealous, and underhanded—she could never leave him behind. Not with Mad Malcolm. The rest of his life would be a misery.
So, no. While she might actually be in love with Ian, she wasn’t staying here. She couldn’t. She had others depending on her and so she must go back. That was just the way it was. Still, she was filled with sadness and she tried to shake it off.
“Lass?”
“I’m fine. Just a little tired, I guess.” Blinking back tears, she glanced away from him as determination straightened her spine. For whatever time she had left, she was going to enjoy his company, savor being with him, and above all, keep him alive to the best of her ability.
~~~
The woman, Beth, snooped, riffling through the trunk. Lying open beside the chest was the little wooden box, gifted by Father upon learning to take the beatings in silence, like a good little beast. It held all my secret possessions. I shut the door.
Beth turned, a look of righteous indignation upon her face. “’Tis you.” She snatches up the box and lifts various packets of herbs and vials of potions. “’Tis been you all along.”
“What?” Pretend to misunderstand, carefully twist the ring into place and open the top. “What have you found?” I approach Beth, and feign surprise, confusion. With gentleness, I touch Beth’s hand and press the needle into the skin.
Beth yanks her hand away and scratches herself, blood beading along the graze left by the spike. Beth ignores it and shakes the box. “You are the poisoner. I’ve been going room to room, searching for evidence of foul play. But you? I’m hoping to be proved wrong, of course, but I’m not mistaken, am I now? I’ve found these herbs among your belongings and I know what some are for. But why? Why would you do such a thing?”
“Do what thing? I doona understand your distress? What is that you hold?” This is simply delicious. While feigning concern, bewilderment, I touch her as I’ve done many times before and prick her other hand, pushing harder on the ring to release more poison. There...that’s enough.
Beth flinches and jerks her hand, her attention nailed to the bead of blood welling upon her skin. She glances at the scrape on the back of her other hand, and looks up, realization turning to horror.
“Oh, aye.” My smile cannot be contained. “’Tis me. I’ve been trying to kill Himself.”
“But why?”
“Because—” one must speak slowly to a simpleton, “—If he dies, all will be returned to its natural order, as it should have been, all along.”
Genuine confusion tugs at Beth’s face. “But no one wishes for that. ’Tis not right.”
One must strike a dumb beast so it will understand and learn. I swing openhanded and strike the side of her arm, pressing more poison through the linen sleeves. “What is right about a misborn coming here to lead us? I say nay.”
Beth’s hand covers her arm. “I will stop you.” She whispers, weak. Swaying, she drops the box and the contents spill. “Everyone will know.” She stumbles toward the door, and, halfway there, falls to her knees to rocks back and forth, rubbing the skin of one hand.
Good. Very good.
&n
bsp; I approach, to comfort the dying beast. “None would believe ye anyway, my dearest. I would say the box wasna mine, but placed there by the witch.” A sigh. “Just as the last laird and his family all died of fever, all will believe your heart gave way. None will suspect me of aught.”
Beth begins swaying. Gasps, horrified, and in anguish.
Exultant, the display stirs my delight and excitement. Beth’s every move, every expression, a joy to behold.
“The clan admired you so,” Beth panted.
“O’ course they did, they do. I took care of them all. I should be much admired.”
Beth let out a sob. “I feel weak.”
“Dinna fight it. ’Tis somethin’ new I’ve concocted and, while it works quickly on the cats, I’m curious to see how well it works on you. I intend to use it on Himself upon his return home. He’s too clever by half at avoiding my brews, but the prick of a pin is much more certain, d’ye not think?”
“Poison,” wheezed Beth. “Must tell him.” She falls forward, limp, and lands upon her face.
I tisk at her clumsiness, but kneel and offer comfort. “There is aught you can do to save yourself, or anyone else for that matter, I assure you. Many must die that Inverdeem might thrive.”
The side of Beth’s face presses to the floor and she chokes and drools, but she tries to push her arms beneath herself to rise again. I delight in her struggles. Her hands flop awkwardly to her sides. She tries to lift her head but cannot. “Toorrii,” She moans, slurring her daughter’s name.
I pet her hair as she leaves this world. “Aye, Tori must go. I will miss you, though. You’re very talented at housekeeping and organizing the staff. You keep every area comfortable, which I appreciate.” Another sigh. “Why did you have to meddle?”
Beth’s breathing ceases and she dies, quickly and efficiently—just like a good little beast.
