by Ruth Kaufman
Lia swallowed hard, suddenly feeling threatened, but she stiffened her spine and told herself it was her imagination. She looked to her right and her gaze automatically found Ronan.
He stood before the closed door of his makeshift solar with MacLaren and spoke intently with the other laird. If his hand gestures were any indication, he was relating their plans for repairs to the damage the castle had suffered during the siege. Then her gaze focused not on her husband to be, but on the man standing right behind him.
MacFarlane’s retainer.
She scowled as a warning shiver skittered down her spine. What was wrong with her? She tried to subtly step away from MacFarlane, but the pavilion was filled not only with her herbs but various barrels and boxes from the keep that they had needed to move out while working on repairs.
Next to her was the crater War Wolf had caused. Workers had removed some of the sharp debris and partially refilled the hole, but the parley had stopped all of that, so it was incomplete and still worrisome.
Lia again sought to move away but realized that between the boxes and the half-filled hole, she was trapped.
“Aidan and his birds are verra good at what they do,” MacFarlane’s voice whispered right next to her.
If her knee had not been so unstable, she would have leapt sideways. Instead, she held her ground, but her skin crawled. She forced herself to look at him, but MacFarlane’s gaze was focused on Ronan.
“I thought I kenned them all,” MacFarlane continued. “But apparently there were more than I reckoned.” He looked at her and scowled.
She didn’t know what to do or say. Lia wanted to call out to Ronan and looked to him a second time. Imagination or not, she would feel much better with him at her side. She took a breath to call out to him, but MacFarlane’s hand latched on her arm.
“None of that, lassie,” he snapped, anger igniting his green eyes. “Ye and I have a private matter tae discuss.”
“Then we shall discuss it properly in the presence of my betrothed,” she snapped and jerked her arm from his grasp. Unfortunately, the action unbalanced her and her knee buckled. She tried to catch herself on her cane but suddenly realized she was on the verge of falling into the hole. Fear cut a swath through her. The fall wouldn’t kill her, but the sharp debris could injure her badly.
“Ronan!” she cried.
Ronan pulled himself from the conversation with the other laird and looked to her. His eyes widened and he leapt over the wooden railing that ran alongside the wooden path to the door of the temporary solar and sprinted across the bailey. “Lia!”
“Ho there, lassie,” MacFarlane said and gently caught her arm. His demeanor had completely changed, now one of concern and worry. He stopped her fall and steadied her. In an instant, Ronan was at her side.
“Thank ye, MacFarlane,” Ronan said as his arms wrapped around her.
Lia swallowed hard, thankful Ronan had reached her, but embarrassment rose within her.
“For a moment,” Ronan whispered softly in her ear. “Ye teetered on the edge of that hole just like the lassie did on the stairs.”
She shivered, trying to force the vision of the girl’s blood-soaked face out of her mind’s eye.
“MacGrigor?” MacFarlane asked.
“Thank ye again, MacFarlane,” Ronan said. “I fear my betrothed pushes herself too hard and her injured leg becomes unstable.”
“Injured leg?” MacFarlane asked.
“Aye,” Ronan said and nodded toward his keep. “She was in my solar when the War Wolf struck it.”
MacFarlane looked to the keep, his eyes wide, and whistled softly. “MacGrigor, ye be lucky she is alive.”
“Aye,” Ronan said softly and pulled her tighter.
Lia sighed, only wanting to bury her face against his chest. Instead, she looked again at MacFarlane, but the threat she had sensed earlier was no longer evident. What was wrong with her? This man was a dear friend of Ronan’s. She suddenly felt terribly foolish.
“MacGrigor,” a strange voice said from behind him.
Lia looked up, startled. Behind Ronan stood MacFarlane’s retainer, a giant of a man, almost as tall and broad-shouldered as Ronan. He stood as close to him as a shadow.
“Aye?” Ronan asked. If the man bothered him, he did not evidence his concern.
“Perhaps the lassie should sit a spell,” he gestured to the chair Lia had vacated.
Ronan nodded and gently helped Lia to it. She sat and Ronan crouched next to her. MacFarlane and his retainer stepped back a respectable distance.
“Are ye all right?” Ronan asked, taking her hand in his.
“Aye, thank you.”
“Perhaps ye should return tae the solar and rest a bit.”
She smiled at him. With Ronan holding her hand it seemed that all was right with the world again. She dismissed her worries as only her weary imagination, and she had to admit she was weary. As she gazed upon Ronan, she knew exactly why, and her lips tugged up even more.
“I always worry when a female smiles like that.”
She remembered his words from long ago and laughed softly. “I was just thinking that you are right. I probably should rest since I have not been getting much sleep.”
He chortled, his gray eyes sparkling merrily, but she was stunned to see him duck his head ever so slightly as his cheeks turned darker.
“Ronan MacGrigor, are you blushing?” She struggled to keep her voice low lest MacFarlane overhear them.
His shoulders shook as he laughed harder. “No’ I, lassie.”
“Liar.”
His full, rich laugh escaped and he winked at her.
She leaned forward and caressed his cheek. “I will be fine.” She nodded toward the herbs she had pressed. “Those will be done shortly. When they are finished, then I will rest.”
“Aye,” he said and pulled her fingers to his lips, kissing them softly. “Just be cautious, my bonny lass.”
“I will.”
He rose and stepped away. Once again, MacFarlane’s retainer stepped into position behind him. She frowned as she watched him. It was almost as if he was a guard. With Ronan moving away from her, her doubts came roaring back. She chastised herself for being so suspicious.
“I had a question for the lassie regarding healing,” MacFarlane said as he fell into step with Ronan. “I will ask it of her later.”
Despite her reassurances to herself, Lia shivered and vowed he would not find her alone again.
We must present the Demon Laird properly.
Lia’s voice whispered in his thoughts as Ronan gained the forward crenellations of the barbican. Below him, le March, with his personal guard, approached on horseback.
Ronan stood, the cowl of his hood pulled low, the length of his cloak billowing in the wind. He folded his arms over his chest, watching le March advance.
Despite his shared laughter with her, Lia’s words had unsettled Ronan. She had never regarded him as the Demon Laird and she had fought so hard to keep his clan from doing the same—including himself. That she could so suddenly change her stance . . . he didn’t understand what she had been trying to tell him afore and desperately wished he could take more time to speak to her about it. He didn’t like this uneasiness within him. He couldn’t truly define it.
Now le March was only twenty feet from his gates and Ronan needed to focus. He tried to dismiss his worries; they would only distract him, and he couldn’t afford that right now.
Moments before entering the barbican, le March looked up and their gazes locked. The memory of his laughter, his mocking voice, whispered through Ronan’s thoughts. The stench of his own burning flesh filled his nostrils. The black rage within Ronan surged so violently he saw only red for a moment. But he refused to look away. His vision cleared, but the hatred seething within the pit of his belly did not ease. It only grew worse. There was a demon residing within him and it had grown stronger. Right now, Ronan battled the overwhelming desire to leap from the crenellations and kill l
e March with his bare hands. Was that what Lia had been trying to tell him? Had she been trying to warn him?
As le March passed under him and entered the barbican, Ronan noted that he appeared rather pallid. He would soon come face to face with his own creation.
Ronan stepped off the crenellations and moved toward the other side of the wall walk. He would use his skills to return to the bailey and be in position to greet le March for the parlay long before he cleared the barbican, and that would rattle the bastard even more. Ronan grinned viciously to himself. But as he crossed the wall walk, his gaze fell on the pavilion where Lia was.
She was speaking with MacFarlane again. He hesitated only a moment, remembering MacFarlane had said he had a question regarding healing for her. A minor thing that should not concern Ronan. But his gaze focused on Lia’s face. Her features seemed unusually pale and her expression tight. Her body literally bowed with tension, and she leaned heavily on her cane. This conversation appeared far more intense than a discussion over medicants. His scowl deepened as he vaulted over the side of the wall walk. Using small depressions and carved decorations in the mortar and stone, just as he had when he was a lad, he scrambled down.
His feet hit the dirt in the bailey and his gaze returned to Lia, his worry growing. What was going on? Fionnlaoch instantly stepped into the position of guard at Ronan’s back. For a moment, Ronan thought about returning to Lia’s side, damn le March and his arrival. Then Lia’s gaze found him . . . actually, she focused on Fionnlaoch behind him. Ronan’s scowl deepened. He couldn’t explain the sudden apprehension that surged within him. Then her gaze locked on his for the barest instant, and Ronan’s heart recoiled. This time he saw it clearly, her hazel eyes liquid with unshed tears.
Terror.
Shouts echoed. Le March was nearly through the barbican. If Ronan did not move now, he would ruin his chance. Ronan had to keep the pacing and emotions of the parlay on his terms. But as he ripped his gaze from Lia’s, and heard le March’s laughter in the darkest part of his heart, he suddenly felt as if his soul once again faced the precipice. Lia had pulled him back from it once, but now she was no longer there. For some reason she was terrified of the Demon Laird. Why? What the bloody hell was going on?
Despite Lia’s promises to herself that MacFarlane would not find her alone again, he succeeded the moment Ronan gained the top of the wall walk where he remained watching le March’s approach.
“At least this time we willna be interrupted,” MacFarlane said as he stepped up behind her.
She swallowed hard, summoned her courage, and faced him. “You said you had a question regarding healing?”
“Truth be told, I was going tae tell ye why le March be coming here.”
She hesitated and frowned. “Why?”
“He is tae negotiate for the English healer he planted as a spy.”
Lia felt the blood drain from her face. “What?”
“He will claim tae have sent ye, and ye willna deny the claim.”
Fury sparked within her. She straightened her shoulders and glared at him. “I most certainly will deny it. It’s not true.” Lia suddenly realized she had been so focused on squashing the rumors of the Demon Laird she had no idea that there were rumors about her being a Sassenach spy. But she remembered how Ronan had initially jumped to conclusions about her, and he had voiced those fears in the great hall for anyone to hear. She wanted to kick herself for not grasping that rumors about her might abound afterward. Of course le March would capitalize on them.
“Now, lassie, dinna be so hasty.” He inclined his head toward Ronan as he stood on the barbican. “Ye are the MacGrigor’s betrothed. Ye realize yer actions will have a direct impact on him.”
“I understand that,” she said. “But these rumors you’ve heard, they’re not true.”
MacFarlane paused and looked at her, surprised, then he started laughing.
“What?” she asked, growing more frustrated.
“I dinna speak of rumors, but of fact. Le March enters the barbican now. When the MacGrigor asks his purpose here, le March will claim ye as his spy.” His smile vanished and he stepped closer to her, his manner threatening again.
Lia swallowed hard, vowing not to retreat.
“If ye truly love him, I ken ye would want no harm tae befall him.” MacFarlane nodded in Ronan’s direction.
Lia looked at him as he scrambled down the wall. His feet hit the ground and his gaze found hers, but there was something in his expression she had never seen before. Then her gaze landed on MacFarlane’s retainer, who had once again returned to shadow Ronan.
The retainer looked not to Ronan but at her, his expression grim. A cold whisper of fear shivered up her spine as the retainer’s hand fell to rest casually on the hilt of a viciously long dagger strapped to his belt. He looked at her pointedly for a long moment before his gaze returned to Ronan’s back—abruptly Lia caught his meaning: his target was only inches away.
The whisper of fear became a cold knot of terror that clamped around her heart. Nay! She was misreading the signs. She had to be.
“What mean you?” she asked, her thoughts scrambling. “You are Ronan’s ally, once a good friend of his father’s.”
“The MacGrigor is not his father,” MacFarlane snapped, his eyes flat with hatred. “Listen tae my words, lassie, and listen well. I see ye have taken note of the man I placed at MacGrigor’s back. In truth, he awaits my order. If ye deny le March’s words this day, my man will drive that dagger through the MacGrigor’s back. Yer betrothed will be dead instantly, never knowing what happened or who killed him.”
Lia’s heart lurched in terror. Her thoughts raced, and for a moment, she couldn’t catch a single one. Nay! This couldn’t be happening.
“I will not betray him,” she retorted.
“Then he will die.”
Nay! her heart screamed. She looked again to Ronan, but he had already moved away to take his position in the bailey to greet le March. He paid her no heed.
Oh, Blessed Mary, there had to be a way! There had to be a way for her to stop this.
But as she looked upon Ronan, his gaze focused on his enemy entering his gates, she understood with perfect clarity why le March had asked for a parlay. His treachery and deceit would rip Ronan’s heart out, and if she did not obey their commands, they would kill him.
Nay! She battled to control her fear so she could think.
Le March stopped his horse in the middle of the bailey and dismounted.
Lia looked again at Ronan. He was still focused solely on le March. It was MacFarlane’s retainer who once again caught and held her gaze, again looking meaningfully at Ronan’s back. Where was Aidan? How was it he did not stand at Ronan’s side, guarding him? Ronan trusted no one else.
But she realized her questions were futile. Aidan was not there. She was the only one standing between Ronan and a dagger through his heart.
“I . . . I can’t do this to him,” she whispered, tears burning her eyes. “I won’t do this to him.”
“Then he shall die.” He looked to his man and took a breath.
“Nay!” Her cry came out as a strangled sob, barely audible. She latched onto MacFarlane’s arm. “Nay!”
He clamped his jaw shut and looked to her again. “Do we have an accord?”
Nay! She looked again at Ronan and all the love she felt for him surged forward, growing in strength with each heartbeat, in equal pace with her terror. She had lost everything on that terrible day of fire, she had been so alone. She could not bear to lose Ronan too. As it was, she would be the one to destroy his heart, but at least he would be alive.
It was a terrible trade, but what choice did she have?
“Do we have an accord?”
Her terror grew into fury. She rounded on MacFarlane and her hand came up without command. She slapped him hard enough that she turned his head and drew blood from his lip.
He lifted his head and the rage burning in his eyes made her take an involun
tary step back, but to her shock, he started laughing.
Lia’s gaze returned to Ronan. What could she do? Le March and Ronan still eyed each other suspiciously. She only had moments to figure out a solution. MacFarlane’s retainer was still hovering behind Ronan like the angel of death, unseen, unnoticed, and terrifying.
She spotted her journal on the table and remembered that she and James were supposed to continue their work on it today. Sorrow and guilt clawed at her gut. Nay! She could not do this. She loved Ronan and she knew this would break his heart. How could she have a hand in that and live with herself?
She looked up at MacFarlane. The arrogance in his gaze made her want to slap him again.
Tears gathered in her eyes and she fought not to sob. Her gaze returned to her journal. There had to be a way. How could she tell him? How—
Scribbles.
Her cypher!
Damnation, le March and MacFarlane were so determined to prove her a spy, but she wasn’t. They did not know her cypher. James was learning her method of writing just as quickly as she learned his. He would understand her scribbles and would hopefully tell Ronan. She hastily grabbed a quill and inkwell and started writing.
MacFarlane watched her and scowled. “What are ye doin’?”
“Scribbles,” she said again, praying he would dismiss the cypher just as he had earlier.
She happened to look up, right as Robert walked by the pavilion, approaching the parlay. She had intended to write more and the ink wasn’t dry yet, but there was no help for it. This was the only opportunity she would get.
“Robert,” she called softly.
“Caution, lass,” MacFarlane growled, his body growing more coiled as Robert approached.
She glared at MacFarlane, daring him to stop her. She was treading a fine line, and her heart raced in terror.
Robert entered the pavilion and smiled. “Aye, lassie, can I help ye with anything?”
She shoved her journal into Robert’s hands. “Deliver this to James,” she said, praying she could keep her tears in check.
For a moment, Robert looked at her journal in confusion. Then he lifted his gaze, studying her intently. “Of course,” he said, taking it from her.
