by Rue Allyn
With a sweep of skirts Lady Agnes left.
Sorcha slumped against the door. That was close. She hated to even think she could need Colin’s sudden appearance and desire to pretend he was Brice. Without him, how could she prove to anyone Brice died of natural causes? As a MacKai, as Brice’s heir, and because of her past, she would have the greatest motive for murder. Lady Agnes’s accusation could become a hanging matter.
Sorcha shivered. She truly had no choice. Without Colin to act as Brice, she was a dead woman. Like it or not, she needed him as much as he needed her.
CHAPTER TWO
From behind the bed curtains, Colin heard every word. Sorcha must have left the door ajar. He’d seen her limp in her hurry to head off Lady Agnes. What had caused that, and if he asked, would she tell him? She hadn’t believed him when he’d told her about the spies or Brice’s treason, but she’d been quick to condemn his own activities for the past ten years. She was inclined to cast him in the worst possible light. He couldn’t blame her, but he was nae longer a callow, lovesick lad.
As he waited for her to send the dowager away, he steeled himself for the difficulties to come. Pretending to be Brice was nothing. Too many times to count over his lifetime, Colin had worn Brice’s character like a second skin. But pretending to be Sorcha’s husband might try his patience past the bounds of endurance. Lovely as she was, she was the last woman he should lust after.
Rumor had reached him that Brice—in typically selfish fashion—had broken the betrothal, thereby infuriating their father. Had Sorcha continued to love Brice, even after that horrible day? If nae, why marry the man? Had she been after some sort of twisted revenge against his brother? Would she turn her vengeance on him next?
Once Colin had thought he loved her, even before she was betrothed to Brice. She was kind, thoughtful, bright, and full of laughter. Her beauty stunned him, and he’d often been awkward and speechless with her where he was talkative and charming with lesser women. When Brice boasted of the betrothal, Colin kept his feelings to himself so Sorcha would be happy. For she appeared to love Brice every bit as much as Colin loved her. Watching the two of them had been unbearable, so he’d decided to leave. Now the evils of that parting haunted his present, and he may well have made a deal with the devil.
The door closed. Colin emerged from behind the bed curtains as Sorcha bolted the oaken barrier. “What a harpy. So that’s why you bar the entry to this chamber.”
“One of many reasons.” She halted halfway to the hearth where he’d first seen her and drilled him with her gaze. “By the way, how did you manage to get into this chamber?”
Colin considered lying, but one brief look at her flinty-eyed face decided the matter.
“’Tis a stair known only to family hidden behind the tapestry.” He gestured toward the heavy cloth. “Had your eyes not been closed, you might have seen me. This corner of the room is very dark, however, and the chance is good all you would see is a movement of the bed curtains.”
Her eyes widened. “It shouldn’t surprise me that the earl would have the entrance to his escape route in his bedchamber.”
“Other floors have entrances as well.”
Moving with measured steps toward the window seat, Sorcha nodded. “Dungarob has its own means for escape. You, Brice, and Raeb used to play in the passages leading from inside Dungarob Keep down to the Selkie’s Grave.”
“Those were simpler times; you remember surely, we lads were inseparable.”
Her limp was much less pronounced when she took her time. Colin returned to lean against the bedpost nearest her seat and studied her.
She was still the most beautiful woman he knew. Her dark hair lay over her shoulder in a braid. Set loose, those silky strands might ensnare a less cautious man. Even when angry, her voice was as dulcet as a choir. Her neck was long and elegant. Her tall frame was lush. Her hands, long-fingered and graceful. She smelled like an entire field of heather. She was as familiar to him as the highlands where he’d grown up and as exotic as lands he’d only heard of. Except when her emotions ran high, her MacKai gray eyes looked at him with a frankness that called to a man’s soul yet told nothing of what she felt.
Someday she would hide nothing from him. Then they could part ways without any lingering regrets.
“Someone, mayhap even Lady Agnes, will return with that porridge; let us not waste time on visiting a past no one wishes to remember.”
So be it. He was no courtier to dwell on dead memories. He had more immediate concerns. Pulling the covers to the bottom of the bed, he spread his cloak along the far side of the mattress then began to remove Brice’s rings. Sorcha gasped.
“You refuse to treat his body with respect. You endanger his soul and keep it from purgatory. Now you rob him. How can you?”
He shook his head at the idea of his rogue brother in the mild punishment of purgatory on his way to heaven. Hell, not Heaven, was the Marr twins’ assured destination. No amount of penance would change that.
“As for my brother’s soul, when this is over I will have a year’s worth of masses said for it. However, if I am to act as Brice, I must wear his clan badge, signet and other rings.” He put the rings on his fingers as he spoke. “The Strathnaver dualchas fainne and his badge are missing. Some other jewels are nae here, but ’twould surprise me if he wore them in bed.”
She twisted her hands and looked everywhere but at Colin.
“Sorcha? What are you nae telling me?”
“Brice had me hide his clan badge. ’Twas his dying wish, so I could nae refuse him.”
“Where is the badge, and what of the ring?”
She straightened and crossed her arms in front of her. “I know nothing of the inheritance ring. He claimed I deserved the coin and jewelry he gave me as atonement for wrongs done the MacKais and hoped I wouldna take any old resentments out on innocent people.”
Colin snorted. “’Tis like him to imagine that coins and gems could mend all sins but not consider the difficulties his supposed kindness placed on your shoulders.”
Her posture faltered a bit, and she blinked at him in surprise before recovering her stance.
Did she think he would nae understand how selfish Brice’s bequest had been? “’Tis a shame you dinna know where the dualchas fainne is.”
“True.” She snapped the word. “Without it I canna be sure exactly what I have inherited. You showing up alive complicates matters.”
He nodded. “’Tis best if you discover the truth as soon as possible. Even without the ring, the steward should be able to tell you what is owed Brice’s widow. However, since I am nae dead, the dualchas ring is mine, and I would have it back.”
She pressed her lips together and tugged on her braid. “You must find it first. All who live here will find it odd if Brice didna wear the jewel.”
“I suppose I could claim it was stolen from me. ’Twas ever my twin’s favorite excuse whenever he gambled away family heirlooms.” He sighed. “Now where have you hidden the badge?”
“Where Brice requested I put it, in the hollow of a tree within that stand of pines on the far side of the loch.”
“I know the place; all those trees look the same. Can you find the right one again?”
“I think so. But I hid the badge more than a week ago. Brice asked me to ride out in different directions every day at dusk for the last two weeks. He dinna say why, but I guessed ’twas so I wouldna be followed and the hidden badge would remain safe.”
“We must get it back tonight. Before anyone suspects where it might be.”
“Why? What could possibly be so urgent about a bit of metal and a few feathers that you would risk the ruin of your plan by leaving this room?”
“Don’t you see? The badge is a signal of some sort to one or more of the spies at Strathnaver.”
“What need for a signal? If he was the spy you claim, would he nae know those in his own home who share his cause?”
“He’s been away for at least nine ye
ars. Many of our clan have left; many servants have been replaced. Any of a number of folk unknown to him could be fellow traitors.”
“Brice spoke to no one other than me and the priest since he took to his bed. So how would anyone know this supposed signal had been placed?”
“You left his side every night for at least two weeks, and you must have been away for short times throughout his illness. If you were nae present, how do you know he spoke to no one?”
“I . . . I hadn’t thought of that. Why would he need to hide the badge if he knew whom to speak with in the stronghold? And regardless of what Brice did or did nae know, would it nae be better to set a watch on the tree and discover who tries to find the badge?”
Colin shook his head. “Nae. ’Tis winter, and any watcher would be too exposed and unable to hide all signs of his presence. Why do you think Brice chose a tree in an isolated spot instead of some place in the stronghold?”
“To be certain no one would observe whoever went to retrieve the badge.”
“Aye, so we must go together, tonight, when no one will suspect it of us. Then we will plot how best to trap our quarry.”
“We canna go until after the porridge is brought; by then ’twill be too late to leave and return this night.”
St. Andrew save him from interfering women. They were near as bothersome as a profligate, treasonous twin brother. “I dinna agree. Winter nights are long, and this one is moonless. We’ll nae have a better chance. We must try after whoever brings the porridge has come and gone.”
“’Tis too risky. You may be seen at the stables, and that would spoil everything, since Brice is thought to be dying.”
“None will see us if we take care to nae be seen. You can get your mount from the stables; I have mine hidden outside the stronghold near the abandoned woodcutter’s cottage. Join me there.”
She glared at him. “’Tis foolishness, but I’ll lead you to that tree and the badge. However, I’ll nae be party to desecrating Brice’s body.”
“We can hardly have him mourned and entombed in the chapel, if we are to claim I am he.”
“I dinna care. ’Tis sacrilege, and I’ll take nae part in it.”
“Saint’s blood, woman, we’ll have him shriven and his body moved once this crisis is past.”
“Do you swear to God you will do this?” She eyed him with all the suspicion he harbored for her.
“By Saint Andrew’s Cross, I’ll build an entire cathedral in Brice’s name if you’ll just help me wrap him in my cloak so I can get him to the stairs.”
Colin stared at her, willing her to aid him.
She dropped her arms and stuck out her chin. “I’ll nae stop you from doing as you will with Brice’s body, but I’ll nae help you.”
Colin narrowed his gaze then shrugged and began wrapping his brother’s corpse in the cloak. “Have it your way. I can move him on my own, but when we deal with the porridge I’d prefer no to lay on bedclothes that stink of his death. ’Twill save time if you change them for me, please.”
He hefted the shrouded body over one shoulder and headed for the tapestry-covered stairway. Whether she did as he asked or nae, Colin would take his brother’s place. But the idea of resting his body in the exact spot on the exact linens where his brother died was far from comforting.
• • •
Sorcha watched him go. ’Twould serve him right if she left him to his own devices. The Marrs had never suffered the kind of poverty Clan MacKai endured, and she doubted Colin knew where the bed linens were kept, let alone how to go about making a bed. In better days, chores and the backbreaking labor of running a noble household had been the last thing on her mind. She’d been much more concerned with making certain Raeb and the Marr twins included her in all their fun. For it had been fun, helping the twins trade roles to fool adults, playing at hide and seek, tramping the woods and glens with nae a care. As they’d grown older, she flirted with both twins, imagining what each might be like as a husband and lover. Colin had been comfortable. Brice was exciting. When the time came, falling in love with Brice had seemed the most natural thing in the world. At sixteen, she had been full of dreams.
Then tempers and murder destroyed the peace between their clans and her hope of happiness, but she’d had nae time for self-pity. With her mother and father dead, Sorcha had been forced into the role of mother to her six younger sisters. Every night she’d fallen weary and sore into bed. Every day she had prayed for the patience and guidance to do the best for her family. She learned nae to hope for herself but for her sisters and her brother. They would marry and have babes, which would have to be enough to sustain her. Her love had fled with Brice and Colin Marr, and she buried the longing for it deep in the earth with her murdered parents.
The swish of the heavy tapestry announced Colin’s return. He looked at the bed then at her and shook his head.
“So you’ll nae aid me, even to change the bed. Well enough. Are the linens still kept in the cupboard opposite the garderobe?”
So he did know. And suddenly she was angry. Angry that her husband’s death had doused the small hope of children she’d allowed herself on their marriage, even though he’d coerced her to wed. Angry that Colin could nae seem to understand spies and the fate of nations meant nothing without family. Angry that he treated his brother’s death with the same callous indifference he gave her when he’d abandoned her so long ago.
“Pah! I’ll get them for you. If you insist on this foolishness, you canna be seen prancing about the hallways as if you were perfectly hale.” She fled the room, returning with the bed linens only after she gathered her composure.
Keeping her distance, she worked with Colin to remake the bed. His presence changed nothing—not really. Colin or Brice, she cared little to which Marr she was wed. Although she wasn’t truly wed to Colin. Her reasons for marrying remained the same—the safety of her family. She would do whatever was necessary to stop the past from destroying the present.
A knock followed by Lady Agnes’s screeching demand to “open this door instantly!” came just as Colin began to strip so he could don a clean nightshirt.
Sorcha whipped around. She’d nae endure the sight of his naked body. He was nae yet in the bed and looked entirely too healthy for a man who’d spent the past two weeks dying. Their plan would fail before it began, and they’d both be accused of murder. She hurried to the door, dousing all but the one candle farthest from the bed.
“I insist to be allowed—”
“Mathair. How nice to see you again.” She smiled and took in the sight of Lady Agnes, her face red, her mouth agape at the small delay. Sorcha could see the steam building just like a kettle on the hob.
Carrying a tray, the servant behind her smothered a smirk.
“Ignorant Scottish cripple.” Agnes huffed. “I told you I would prepare a good English porridge for my stepson.”
“Ah, so ye did. ’Tis me puir memory thas forgotten.” Sorcha reached to take the bowl off the tray.
The lady jerked the tray, bowl and all, away from the servant toward her considerable bosom, in the process sloshing some of the thin, gray liquid onto her kirtle. She gnashed her teeth and all but stamped her foot. “Clumsy fool. Look what you made me do. Let me pass!”
Sorcha stepped back and to the side, pulling the door wide as she dismissed the servant. She prayed Colin was up to this fakery. She’d done all she could to give him time.
She watched as Lady Agnes stuck her nose in the air and marched into the room. One glance at the gooey lumps drifting in a sea of taupe-hued gray liquid and Sorcha suspected that no Scot and few English would think the concoction in the bowl to be proper porridge.
Colin’s stepmother reached the bed and stood looking about. Her frown deepened.
Sorcha followed, peering past the Englishwoman to see the bed.
Colin was sunk within the bedclothes, allowing the feather mattress to puff up around him to make him look thin and wasted. He was completely covered, sa
ve for the fingers of one hand and his eyes—which in Sorcha’s view were too bright with humor at the situation.
“Girl, fetch me a seat.”
Sorcha rolled her eyes and did as she was bid rather than endure the tantrum a refusal would create. She placed a tall, backless bench near enough to the bed for Agnes to spoon food into Colin’s mouth without dripping too much into the rushes or on the woolen coverlet.
Lady Agnes sat. “Now plump his pillows. He cannot eat lying flat like that.”
“Naaae,” wobbled weakly from Colin. He made a feeble motion with one hand as if he wished Sorcha to come closer.
She leaned in, hoping she could block his words from Agnes.
“Dear wife.” He spoke in a whisper but projected his voice like a guiser. “Sit behind me, I beg you. Let me rest against your tender bosom. ’Twill be softer than any pillow.”
With Agnes at her back, Sorcha glared at him. He was grinning. He knew damn well that she could nae refuse and keep the illusion of a love match going for his stepmother.
“If you wish it, beloved.” Her teeth were clenched, and she hoped Agnes didna detect the edge of resentment in the words.
Sorcha pushed pillows aside as the satanic gleam in Colin’s eyes transformed to a fevered sheen. Shaking her head, she slid onto the bed, lifting Colin’s torso as she did. Thank heaven he held much of his own weight or she would never have managed. When her back fit against the tall headboard, she let his body slide down until his head rested against her chest.
“Ahhh.” He gave a weak sigh and, looking up, angled his face to rub his cheek across her breast. “I have missed your tender touch, my love. With you beside me, I will surely recover my health.”
Sorcha fumed behind her smile. His expression was somber, but she knew he delighted in annoying her.
