by Ruth Kaufman
MacFarlane remained silent, continuing to watch her.
She pointed to the herbs spread out on the table. “My medicant chests are still in Ronan’s living quarters. They need to be delivered to James as well.”
Robert looked at her oddly, growing even more confused, and she prayed he would not start asking questions.
“Please, Robert,” she whispered. “This is very important.”
Robert smiled at her. “Of course.”
She prayed James would look at her journal. But what if he didn’t? What if they hated her so terribly for her betrayal they would never look at her journal again? A hot tear slid down her cheek and she hastily wiped it away.
“Lia,” Robert asked softly, “are ye sure ye be all right?”
“I am,” she replied and gave him a smile that she did not feel. “Just see to it James gets these items forthwith.”
“I will.”
“Thank you.”
“Clan MacGrigor honors the peace accord of the parlay,” Ronan growled, jerking her attention back to him. His expression was a mask of rage. “State yer business and be off with ye.”
Le March’s gaze swept over the crowd that had gathered, stopping on Lia. He smiled, but Lia saw only deceit and calculation in his gaze.
Ronan’s scowl deepened. “State yer business.”
Le March stood before his horse; he was at least a span shorter than Ronan and did not have the build of a warrior. “I have come to reclaim my property.”
“Property?” Ronan asked.
He gestured toward Lia. “The English healer. She is my property. The spy I planted.”
Ronan tore his gaze from le March, his jaw slack and his face pale, to orient on Lia. Then his expression changed; he arched an eyebrow and folded his arms over his chest. “Try again,” he said, his lips tugging upward.
But as Lia watched him, she knew the moment when a whisper of doubt passed through him.
“Come here, wench,” le March snapped and extended his hand.
Lia again focused on MacFarlane’s man right behind Ronan, and she took a hesitant step forward. If she did not obey, they would kill him.
Ronan’s humor vanished. “Nay, Lia, dinna move,” Ronan growled.
“Oh, that’s right,” le March said, his voice mocking. “You fell in love with her; you’re going to marry her.” He shook his head, his smile turning wolfish. Ronan’s face lost a bit more color. A muscle ticked in his jaw.
Lia stood quaking, her hands fisted into her skirts. Oh God, this is too much for him. What if he has another attack? She was abruptly glad she had made his medicant stronger today but now worried if she had made it strong enough.
“Wench!” le March barked again.
Lia took another step.
“Nay,” Ronan snapped. But his gaze returned to her and she knew his thoughts as clearly as if he had shouted them. Why are ye obeying him?
Lia stopped and hung her head. God, what was she doing? Her thoughts raced again. She had to stop this.
“I’ll offer you good money in exchange for my property,” le March said.
“She is no one’s property,” Ronan snarled.
“MacGrigor,” le March muttered. His voice softened to a mocking whisper and a twisted, feral spark seemed to reflect in his dark eyes. “She is mine. I own her.”
Lia swallowed hard. She saw a distinct tremor pass through Ronan.
“Wench, I said come here.”
Again Lia moved.
Ronan took a breath, appearing as if he was going to object again but then snapped his jaw shut. His face lost even more color. Lia’s heart sank. Her shoulders slumped and she stepped forward.
“Lia,” Ronan murmured, his anger fading and disbelief taking its place. “Look me in the eye and speak the truth.”
She remembered his words being the same when he had asked her about the hemlock. But this time she could not meet his gaze, for if she did, she would tell him the truth and he would die. She squeezed her eyes closed for a brief moment, tears burning. Nay! She could not cry. If MacFarlane saw her tears, he might use them as an excuse to order Ronan slain.
Ronan stared at her, disbelief melting slowly into anguish. The pain of betrayal she saw in his steel-gray eyes drove a dagger through her heart. Her tears burned hotter and she wanted to scream. Lies! All lies! I would never hurt you. But all she could truly focus on was MacFarlane’s man standing behind him, his hand remaining on the hilt of his dagger.
“Nay,” Ronan whispered hoarsely, shaking his head. “Tell me, Lia. Tell me this is not true.”
The words rose to her lips, but she dared not speak them. A tear escaped and rolled down her cheek.
With her silence, his face turned gray, the beautiful spark faded in his eyes. She knew at that moment she had destroyed his heart. “Nay,” he said again. “Ye said ye loved me.”
I do love you, Ronan! Please! Merciful saints, I cannot bear this!
Despite her resolve, her control cracked; she took a breath and opened her mouth.
Le March seized her arm and hauled her to his side.
Lia cried out in pain, dropping her cane and nearly falling because of her damaged knee.
The ring of steel resounded, everyone in the bailey drawing weapons. Ronan had a large dagger in his hand, but the anguish she saw in his eyes did not fade. Her gaze locked on MacFarlane’s man behind him. He had his dagger out too, pointed at Ronan’s back.
Nay! Don’t kill him! I did what you said. Please don’t kill him!
With her silence, the pain in Ronan’s eyes hardened into hatred and fury. “Take the Sassenach,” he snarled. He slammed his dagger back into its sheath.
Nay! Ronan, please!
Le March’s smile was vicious as he freed a pouch from his belt and tossed it into the air. “Do not forget your payment.” The pouch landed at Ronan’s feet. “Thirty pieces of silver.”
Ronan’s lip curled and he spat on the pouch then spun on his heel.
Lia’s heart shattered. But words suddenly blossomed in her mind, a way to tell Ronan, a way to give him a clue. She lifted her head and drew a deep breath. “I should have put hemlock in your medicant instead of valerian root,” she snapped. Please, Blessed Mary, let him listen, let him hear my words.
Ronan’s step hesitated and he looked over his shoulder, gazing at her in confusion.
Please, please, Ronan, understand!
Le March laughed at her words. “Now my dear,” he purred, “if you had dosed him with hemlock, it would have been too easy a death.”
There! His words prove it! If I was his spy, he would have known what I put in your medicant.
The pain and fury she sensed within Ronan must have clouded his thinking because his hatred returned in an instant. “Leave, Sassenach, before I slay you myself.”
Le March’s grip tightened on her arm and he hauled her toward the gate.
Lia staggered, wanting to fight him, wanting to scream Ronan’s name and tell him the truth. But MacFarlane’s man fell in step directly behind him.
“Nay,” she moaned, her heart breaking in grief at what she had done to the man she loved more than life.
Chapter Twenty
Ronan’s heart withered into ash. He entered the door to his makeshift solar and slammed it behind him, before Fionnlaoch could cross the threshold. He battled to catch his breath then threw back his head and roared in agony. How could Lia do this to him? How could she betray him so terribly?
How had he fallen so deeply in love with her?
Her silence in the face of the accusations had been as deadly as a weapon driving through his heart, destroying his soul. With another roar, he brought his fist down on the simple table with all of his might, splintering the wood. He seized a chair and launched it across the room. It hit the wall and smashed into a million pieces—just like his heart.
Le March’s laughter echoed again. Ronan snarled, nearly doubling over and clutching at his chest. Pain ripped through him, as if the
wounds on his body had torn wide open, as if they had never healed.
The lairds and their retainers had left shortly after le March hauled Lia out of the bailey. Clanspeople whispered in shock and concern over her betrayal. Aidan stood, watching the door to Ronan’s temporary quarters. The breaking of furniture had stopped some time ago. Aidan drew a deep breath and summoned his courage. He knocked softly on the door.
“Go away,” a voice growled.
“Nay, Ronan,” he said firmly. “We need tae talk.”
“Not now.”
Aidan sighed heavily and opened the door. “Aye, now.” He closed it behind him and spotted Ronan sitting on the floor before the hearth, a bottle of MacGrigor whiskey in hand. Aidan looked around. He had destroyed almost every piece of furniture in the room and there were holes in the walls where he had punched through. Ronan’s knuckles were bloody on both hands. Aidan’s gaze traveled to his face and his step hesitated. Tears streamed freely down his brother’s cheeks.
“I didna want ye tae see me like this,” Ronan growled, roughly wiping his tears away, but they continued to stream down his cheeks. “I canna stop them no matter how hard I try.” He lifted the bottle to his lips and drank.
Aidan’s heart went out to his brother at that moment. He knew Ronan well, but never had he seen such a powerful response from him. He sat on the floor next to him. “I ken this is tearing ye apart.”
Ronan flinched then shrugged, taking another drink from his bottle and staring into the flames of the hearth fire.
Aidan weighed his words carefully. “Ronan, I dinna think she did this.”
Ronan looked at him sharply, his brows colliding in the middle of his forehead.
“Why did she say what she did about the hemlock?” Aidan asked.
“I dinna ken,” he whispered.
“She taught ye and I, and even Marta, how tae make yer medicant. I’ve measured the hemlock in it myself, and so have ye.”
Ronan shrugged. “Why didna she poison me? It would have been less painful than this.”
“She could have easily killed you, and I think that was her point. Ye ken the English want ye dead. Why would the baron go tae such an elaborate plot? If she truly worked for him, that’s exactly what she would have done—poisoned ye.”
Ronan’s scowl deepened. “But she never denied his words.” He shook his head almost violently. “She spoke tae me in French earlier.”
“She what?”
“I’ve been discomfiting her with phrases in other languages. She turned the tables on me today. I should have realized her accent was too fluid. She kenned far more than she was indicating and played me for a fool.”
“Ye asked me tae observe today, and I did. I watched her too. She kept staring at MacFarlane’s man. Ye told me why he was there but . . . ” He paused and sighed. “Ronan, there be somethin’ here we’re no’ seein’.”
“I told ye, MacFarlane and MacLaren feared le March would try tae assassinate me.”
Aidan locked his brother in his gaze. “And he did, just not how ye expected.”
Ronan lowered his head and squeezed his eyes closed. “Aye.”
A knock sounded on the door.
Ronan recoiled. “Go away.”
Aidan arched an eyebrow at him. That seemed to be his response for everything right now.
“MacGrigor,” James called. “Pray, ye need tae see this.”
Ronan drew a breath to snap a sharp retort, but Aidan lifted his hand, stopping him. He rose and opened the door while Ronan quickly scrubbed the tears from his eyes.
James glanced over his shoulder, as if he feared someone might see him. Then he stepped inside and closed the door. “Forgive me, but I just found this in my belongings.” He held up Lia’s journal.
Aidan blinked in shock.
Ronan leapt to his feet, crossing the room. “Her journal? But she wouldna leave that behind, ’tis precious tae her.”
“Aye,” James said nodding, “and I discovered her medicant chests had been delivered tae my room.”
Aidan’s thoughts scrambled. “She wouldna leave without those either.”
“Aye. Robert told me she asked him tae deliver them earlier today. I was at the parlay at the time; I only just found them and asked if anyone kenned how they got there.”
“When?” Ronan asked hoarsely.
“Robert said she asked him not long after she spoke with Laird MacFarlane.”
“MacFarlane said he had a question for her regarding healing.” Ronan paused, his frown deepening. He took another drink of whiskey, but his expression only grew darker. “That conversation was much more than a question of healing,” he muttered.
“Pray pardon?” Aidan asked.
Ronan waved him off.
“Robert told me the lassie seemed quite vexed,” James said. “She was fighting back tears.”
Ronan looked at Aidan in confusion.
“But there is more,” James said and carefully sorted through the vellum of Lia’s journal. “This final entry is new, written hastily—the ink is a bit smudged as if she didna have time tae let it dry.”
Ronan took the vellum. “Why did she use her cypher?”
“Ye asked that I learn it,” James said, “in order tae translate her journal. The illumination of this dagger here,” he paused and pointed. “She only uses it when a patient dies of murder.”
“Murder?” Ronan asked. He studied the vellum again.
“The illumination that follows stands for lies.”
Ronan continued to stare at the vellum. “She wrote the next word in Common.”
“MacGrigor, that word she specifically asked me tae teach her how tae spell.”
Ronan’s face again lost color. “Love.” He turned away and took another drink. “But she said she barely grasped Common.”
James nodded. “Common she struggles with. Her memories of her childhood lessons in French have been returning tae her much more quickly.”
“If she kenned a language, why didna she write it? Why did she use her cypher?”
“What do ye mean, Ronan?” Aidan asked.
“The French she spoke tae me. She kenned it well. Why didna she write it?”
“Spoke tae ye?” James asked, swallowing hard. “MacGrigor, what did she say?”
Ronan’s shoulders bowed and he squeezed his eyes closed; another tear escaped and trickled down his cheek.
Aidan looked at James, but James wasn’t paying attention to him, he was staring at his laird.
“What did she say?” James asked again, his voice growing hoarse.
“Je t’aime,” Ronan murmured. “Then later, vous êtes si belle pour moi.” He drew in a deep breath. “I should have realized at that moment she kenned it too well.”
Again James leafed through the sheets of vellum. He found the one he searched for and held it out to Ronan, his hand quivering. Ronan looked at it but didn’t take it from him. Aidan did, however. There, he saw written repeatedly the French phrases Ronan had just uttered.
“Aye, she kenned,” James said. “Only because she practiced it over and over.” James hesitated and drew a deep breath. “Ronan,” he said, dropping all pretense of formality. “I dinna mean tae overstep my bounds, but ye need tae ken this. She asked me specifically tae teach her these phrases, just as she asked me tae teach her how tae write the word love. But she confided in me her reasons. She kenned yer scars affect ye, that ye worry others see ye as abhorrent now . . . that she sees ye as abhorrent. Vous êtes si belle pour moi. She wanted me tae teach her because she wanted ye tae ken the truth.”
Ronan leaned heavily against the wall, staring at the vellum he clutched in his fingers. “Love, lies, and murder,” he whispered. His hand started shaking. His face turned so gray Aidan was terrified he would have another attack.
Slowly he slid down the wall, his shaking increasing, until he again sat on the floor. “Vous êtes si belle pour moi . . . tae her, I am beautiful.” He looked up at Aidan, this time his tears st
reamed unabashed down his cheeks. “Today I saw terror in her eyes. Something in my heart died because I thought she feared the Demon Laird.” He drew in another shaking breath. “But she never has. She never once feared me.”
“I dinna understand,” Aidan said.
“She feared the man standing behind me.”
“What?” Aidan asked.
“MacFarlane said he placed Fionnlaoch at my back and would stand at my side during the parlay in order that we present a united front. But he didn’t join me. He stood beside Lia the entire time, watching her.” Ronan lifted the vellum. “Why did she use her cypher? Because they canna read it!” He suddenly levered himself up. “Saints be merciful, what have I done?” He closed his eyes and wavered unsteadily. “She didna betray me . . . she was protecting me.”
“Ronan?” Aidan reached out to balance him.
Ronan turned away from him and roared in pure fury. He threw the bottle of whiskey across the room, and it smashed into the far wall. “She was protecting me, and I just allowed the devil’s own spawn tae take her from me.”
Le March hauled Lia into the bowels of a dark, dank keep. She alternated from sobbing to screeching at him in fury, trying to claw his eyes out. He slapped her hard enough to daze her. He pulled her into a cell and locked manacles around her wrists.
“Now this is where justice begins,” le March said, his voice mocking. “This be the same cell that locked your precious laird away. This is where I brought him to his knees and broke him.”
She lifted her head and spat in his face. “You never broke him; he escaped you and defeated you on the field of battle.” Her eyes narrowed as she saw his expression darken. “Tell me, how did Longshanks take the news when you told him what happened to his precious War Wolf?”
His expression darkened even more, and he slapped her again with such force the blow slammed her into the ground. Lia battled to keep her wits, but her awareness blurred.
“You hang at dawn.”
Ronan, with Aidan beside him and a handpicked group of men, pushed their horses hard in the dead of night. He was grateful for the full moon and the stars shining like frosty diamonds in the black sky. His war stallion never turned down a good run and stretched himself long and low, his stride swallowing the miles. He knew exactly where le March would take Lia. A terrifying voice haunted him . . . le March’s voice. Ronan couldn’t explain how he knew, but he knew he had to get there before dawn.
