By God's Grace

by Felicia Rogers

  Grant was expecting a heart condition, or perhaps ill health, and was unprepared to hear the actual occurrence.

  “Why he was stabbed to death with his own dagger.”

  “Stabbed?”

  “Aye, the hilt of the dagger still protrudes from his breast.”

  “Aye, it does,” Grant said, now noticing the golden hilt. “It seems yer master has been murdered. Where is the captain of yer guard?”

  “Sir Alan has been summoned.”

  A young man ran into the room. Color drained from his face, as he fell beside Lyall’s father and yelled, “Nay!” He thrust his head upon the dead man’s lap almost as if asking to be cradled.

  Grant’s brow rose at the interesting development. The young man spun around in a circle; seeing the newcomers in the study, he drew a sword and demanded, “Who found the master?”

  With quivering voice a servant answered, “Sir Alan, Lyall found him.”

  “Lyall? When did she return?”

  “Today. She has been in her room for most of the time.”

  The young man’s trembling finger pointed at Grant as he spoke to the servant. “And who is this man?”

  Grant resented not being spoken to directly; instead of waiting on the servant, he answered, “I am Grant Cameron, the leader of the Sinclair men. We escorted Lyall here.”

  “Why?”

  Grant shrugged. “She claimed a desire to visit her family.”

  “Humph,” said the skeptical guard. “Where is Lyall now?”

  “I escorted the lass to her rooms after she found her father and swooned.”

  The guard snapped his fingers, and another guard appeared. “Go to Mistress Lyall’s room and stay until I arrive.”

  The guard bowed low and left.

  Did the guard suspect Lyall of foul play? Grant watched as the young man studied the room. Objects were picked up, held in his hand, looked at, and even smelled before being sat carefully back in place. Grant couldn’t fathom what the soldier hoped to accomplish with those actions.

  “Do ye smell it?”

  “Smell what? The blood? Aye, it smells like a battlefield in here.”

  “Nay, not that. The scent of jasmine with a hint of wisteria.”

  “Aye, I do. What of it?”

  “It is the scent of Lyall,” said the young man breathlessly.

  “Of course ye smell the lass’s scent. I told ye she was in the room. She is the one who found Laird Burns in such a shape.”

  Arms crossed as if taking a stand. “I say there is too much of her scent for such a brief encounter.”

  “Confident in yer sniffing abilities, are ye?”

  “Aye, I am. And I say she was here longer than it took to find her father had languished.”

  “Then ask her.”

  “Ask her?”

  “Aye, ask her. I have been in the yard with my men. Lyall disappeared inside the keep hours ago. We hadn’t heard from her until about an hour ago when she came outside and started wailing about someone stealing a babe. When I questioned her, she started talking to someone named Sori, and then she announced she was going to find her father. That is all I know. So if ye want more answers, ye will have to get them from her.” The betrayal of a Sinclair rested easy on his shoulders. After all the pain and torment the woman had caused Cainneach, she deserved what she received, especially if she was responsible for Rab’s murder.

  “Sori, ye say?”

  “Aye, do ye know her?”

  Alan nodded. Instead of answering the question, he directed the servants to prepare the body for burial.

  Grant was not happy being ignored. Standing to the side, he waited his turn.

  All the necessary arrangements were seen to. Alan turned to Grant. “We better see Lyall.”

  Grant stopped Alan. “Now wait just a minute. What are ye planning to do?”

  Alan stared at him, eyes piercing, “Confront Lyall with her murderous deed, of course.”

  “What proof have ye to present?” asked Grant.

  “Her scent, of course.”

  Grant’s eyebrow arched. “So yer whole case is based on smelling wisteria and jasmine in a room she already admits to being in, and, I might add, a room which is graced with a beautiful flower garden right outside the window.”

  “Ye are mistaken.”

  Grant’s voice filled with irritation. “How might I be mistaken? I see flowers through the window, which accounts for the scents ye are smellin’. And it is nay a mystery that the lass saw her father dead.” Arms crossed, Grant continued, “So maybe ye should explain my mistakes to me.”

  Straightening his clothing, Alan explained, “There are no wisteria or jasmine plants in the garden outside this window. My fath — I mean, the Burns’s laird abhorred the smell of those two flowers, especially when the scents mixed.”

  Grant caught the slight slip of the guard’s tongue. Had the young man been on the verge of saying ”father?” Grant was under the impression Lyall was the only child of Rab Burns, but if what the guard had almost said was true, then Burns had a son. Which would mean Lyall was not the only heir to the Burns’s inheritance. He hoped to be far away when the lass made the discovery.

  “Do ye know who is in charge now the laird has perished?” Grant asked, seeking information.

  “Aye, I do.”

  “I am guessing it is not Lyall.”

  “Ye have guessed correctly. In fact ye are looking at the new Burns’s laird,” said Alan, lifting his chin.

  “I am? How is that possible?”

  “Here, ye fool. It is I.”

  Grant’s eyes widened at the pronouncement. “Oh, ye are the new laird. And how, I ask, did that happen?”

  The young man puffed out his chest, saying, “I am Alan Burns, the laird’s son.”

  “Ye are? Now that is a wonder. I, and the Sinclairs, were led to believe Lyall was the only child of Laird Burns. My own laird, Cainneach, was under the impression that upon Rab’s death, the Burns’s lands would belong to him.” Grant was on a fact-finding mission. He hoped Alan didn’t know of Cainneach’s death and refuse to answer.

  Alan whispered, “Verra few know he was my father, not even Lyall knows. When I was born it was believed I’d died, but my father hid me away. I have only been here at the Burns’s keep since Lyall’s marriage and departure to the Sinclair holdings.”

  Grant shook with fury. “I understand yer father had papers drawn up to say if there were no other children, then Lyall’s husband would be his heir. Cainneach’s father, Fletcher, assumed Rab was too old to have other children, so he agreed to sacrifice his own son’s happiness and forced him to wed Lyall for the promise of land. And ye are telling me that yer no-good, deceiving father let ’im?”

  “Nay! It wasn’t like that.”

  “Then ye tell me what it was like, because from where I sit, my friend and laird was screwed by yer father.”

  “I am in no position to argue with you. All I know is I am the only son of Rab Burns. He placed me as the leader of the guard as a way to protect me and allow me to stay here. Even if I hadn’t existed, the Sinclairs do not have a right to take Burns’s land from the Burns’s family, and that is all there is to it. But I fail to see how this is important. As we stand here debating over what has occurred in the past, we are wasting precious time. If Lyall realizes we are on to her, she will attempt to escape.”

  “And what precisely are we on to her for, young lad?”

  Grant refused to make anything easy for the Burns lad. Alan’s sigh of frustration was audible. “I must say I do not appreciate being called a lad.”

  “Why is that, lad?” said Grant, putting emphasis on the word just for spite. In all honesty, he was killing time. Angry about the new information concerning Burns’s land and needing to think about this situation with Lyall kept him pushing. The real question was, “Did Grant think her capable of stabbing her own father?” He wasn’t sure.

  “For starters, I am five and twenty. I am a fath
er in my own right. I have led the Burns’s guard for the past five years. This should be enough to stop calling me lad. Now we have established my right to govern the Burns’s keep, and that I am of an age past childhood, I wish to question Lyall.”

  Grant knew he couldn’t stop Alan, and part of him didn’t want to. What was he thinking anyway, defending the mistress? The woman had made Cainneach miserable every waking day of his life. Let her defend herself. The expected comeuppance brought enthusiasm. “Verra well. Let’s question her.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Duncan carried Arbella to his room, passing through the door and kicking it shut with a booted foot. Setting his bride upon her feet, she wobbled. The lass stood before him, trembles racking her body. Whether it was with anticipation or fear of what was to come, Duncan wasn’t sure.

  He placed his hand upon her smooth cheek. Silken, dark brown hair was lifted, filtering through his fingers. Arbella stared at him, eyes wide. With his head lowering, their lips touched. The kiss was slow and gentle. The tension melted away, and Arbella relaxed.

  Desire for his new wife assailed him. As much as he loved Arbella and wished to enjoy their marriage bed, he knew rushing her would be a mistake. For all her boldness in the past, now she seemed terrified of intimacy. The more he thought about it, the more he wondered how much knowledge Arbella might have about the impending wedding night. In honesty, she probably knew nothing about what was to occur.

  Distancing himself, Duncan released Arbella and went to sit in front of the fireplace. With his head lowered in his hands, he stared at the fire as it roared, listening to the tiny noises that shot out as the wood popped and cracked, sending forth bursts of light and warmth into the room.

  Arbella came close, sat at his feet, and peered into his face with sad and worried eyes. “Duncan?”

  “Aye?”

  “Is something wrong?”

  “Nay.”

  “Then why did you stop?”

  An expression of seriousness knit his brow. “I don’t want to hurt ye.”

  Arbella worried her lip. “Does it hurt?”

  Duncan smiled. “For a woman, the first time isn’t always as pleasant.”

  “Oh.” Arbella paused, then asked, “Is there any pleasure in it?”

  Duncan grinned. “Aye.”

  Arbella continued talking, and he wasn’t sure if she heard his answer. “I mean kissing and touching has been pleasurable in the past, and I guess I assumed what comes after the kissing would be pleasurable as well.”

  Duncan leaned, kissing her. Using his arms, he picked her up and settled her upon his lap. The urge to cringe was fought as she wiggled around. He didn’t want to discourage her from getting comfortable.

  When Arbella settled, her head was buried in his hair. “You smell good.”

  “I bathed,” he mumbled as hot air landed above her beating heart. A sudden intake of breath escaped as he twirled a length of her hair around his finger.

  “Don’t you normally bathe?”

  “Aye. But ye might not have noticed. Ye are not normally this close to me.”

  Breathlessly, she said, “Aye, this is true.”

  Placing his arms under her knees, he picked her up and carried her to the four-poster bed. Standing beside the frame, he placed Arbella on her feet, her back facing him. The gown of deep purple was held together with a wide, purple, silk ribbon, interwoven in a crisscross pattern from the middle of her back all the way down to a tapered waist. He untied the bow at the top and loosened the dress. Milky white shoulders were exposed. One kiss was planted on each side.

  Arbella tried to turn and face him, but he held her tightly in place. Encircling her in his arms, he flattened her back to his broad chest. A kiss was placed at her exposed neck. A sound of satisfaction escaped her lips.

  One swift movement pushed her away from his body. The dress fell until it pooled at her feet, leaving her in only a cotton shift. The top cover on the bed was pulled back as Arbella was placed on the soft mattress.

  His tunic had pulled free from his plaid. Arbella grabbed the fabric and pulled it over his head. Her deft fingers floated over his bare chest, tracing the scars that graced his masculine beauty, causing a swift intake of breath. He trembled violently, and she leaned back and asked, “Did I hurt you?”

  Duncan didn’t have the voice to answer, instead placing his lips upon hers and pulling her into a crushing embrace. Red tinged her cheeks as one hand grabbed his covered buttock, and she whispered in his ear, “It’s after the wedding.”

  Like a primitive animal he growled, proceeding to kiss his wife until all her fears passed, making her forget everything but him as they truly became husband and wife.

  ****

  Later as they lay in one another arms, Arbella’s head rested upon his chest. Her finger caressed his stomach in small, swirling motions. Raising her head, she studied his face by the light of the waning moon. “You didn’t tell me it would be like that.”

  Duncan’s chest rumbled with laughter. “Was it enjoyable for ye?”

  Arbella sat up, her waist length hair tumbling forward, “Surely you know it was pleasurable for me.”

  Duncan grabbed her and pulled her close. “Aye, I do, and so does the whole keep.”

  Arbella let out a groan of despair, punched him in the side, and buried her face. She could feel his pulse beating wildly at the base of his neck. The nearness they shared was causing strange feelings to course through her body.

  She sent a wily look toward Duncan. “We can’t possibly do it again, can we?”

  The corner of his lips twitched as he proceeded to show her.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Alan and Grant headed to Lyall’s room together, with Alan taking the lead. When they reached the door, it was no longer cracked open. Bryce and one of the Sinclair men waited as if guarding the entrance. Bryce held a dagger in his hand, flipping it end over end in an intimidating motion.

  “What are ye two doing here?” asked Grant.

  Bryce piped up with an answer. “Lyall summoned us. She was worried whoever did in her father might be out for her as well.”

  Alan and Grant exchanged glances. Where had Lyall gotten this notion?

  Head shaking, Grant wondered, how would Lyall react when she discovered she had a brother? Then on the heels of this revelation, what would she do when she heard her brother was accusing her of murder? Grant wished he was anywhere else as he pushed past Bryce.

  His hand was poised to open the door when Alan stopped him with a whisper, “Don’t tell her.”

  Grant instinctively knew what the young man spoke of. The new laird didn’t want Lyall to know his true identity. “Why not?”

  The young father sighed, “I have a family to protect, and Lyall is verra dangerous. Promise me ye won’t tell her.”

  Alan Burns fidgeted as beads of sweat dotted his upper lip, his hands twisting as a nervous twitch tugged at his eyelids. Grant agreed to keep the information of the lad’s parentage a secret.

  When the door was pushed open, Grant peered around the room. The object sought was sitting at a window, curled into a little ball. A tear-stained face was directed toward the visitors. In true fashion of the freshly bereaved, Lyall jumped up and ran to Grant, falling on her knees in front of him. A hand wound around his legs, her face buried against them as she wailed, “Tell me it isn’t so.”

  Grant was at a loss. Lyall went on and on screaming incoherent words. He reached down, grasped Lyall under the arms, and hauled her to a standing position. The woman thrashed from side to side like a woman possessed. Never had he hit a woman, but in this case, he would be doing the woman a favor.

  A resounding pop reverberated around the room as her head fell backward. It lolled there for a moment then snapped forward, her eyes gazing at Grant. “Why did ye do that?” she said, sounding nothing like Lyall’s normal tone.

  Grant decided this was not a time to notice every little detail. The change in her voice was ign
ored. “Lyall, ye were out of control.”

  A wild guttural laugh crept from deep in her throat. Her expression begged for understanding from the two men. “I’m so scared.” The mistress dropped to the floor, her eyes wide and wild, as words poured from her lips in short, gasping bursts. “They’re coming for me! Can’t ye see? They’re coming for me. I can see — I can see the torches!” A scream rent the air as Lyall ran to the window and flung it open, a shaking finger pointed at the lanterns swaying outside in the afternoon breeze.

  Grant sent a worried stare in Alan’s direction. The young laird scooted closer to the Cameron. In a conspiratorial voice, Grant asked, “Do ye have a healer in the keep?”

  “Aye.”

  “Maybe ye should seek his council.”

  “Aye,” said Alan, staring at Lyall. Grant could only assume the young man was trying to reconcile Lyall’s behavior with the fact they shared the same blood.

  The new laird skirted the wall while leaving the room. Once the door closed behind him, Grant returned his attention to the crazed individual inhabiting the space.

  The mistress still stood at the window, but she’d stopped pointing. Transfixed in one spot, her muscles remained rigid. Limp arms hung at her side, her eyes glazed over as if she was in a trance.

  Grant stayed behind for several minutes. Feeling dizzy, he found a seat and sat down, waiting for Alan and the physician. Would they ever arrive?

  When Alan returned, he skidded to a halt before entering the room. As the threshold was crossed, he tiptoed slowly. Spotting Lyall standing at the window, Alan changed directions, walking as far away from the woman as possible. A short, fat, balding man followed close behind. Nervous, the man’s hands moved in an agitated motion. Quick glances were cast at Lyall as the portly figure scooted closer to Grant and Alan.

  The physician approached Grant. “Wh-wh-what is she doing here?”

  Grant’s dizziness faded, replaced by renewed vigor. “This used to be her home, if I’m not mistaken.”

  “Aye, used to be. But Rab promised me if I stayed on, she,” a trembling finger pointed in Lyall’s direction, “would never return.”