Seven
“My love.” Con’s sleep-roughened voice, so close to her ear, had Laurel struggling to pull herself up from the deep, deep warmth of perfect contentment.
“What is it?”
“I must leave you. Duncan has alerted me that the barbarians are massing on our border.”
“Another attack?” She sat up, shoving hair from her eyes, to see Con tucking a knife into his boot before taking up his sword. “Wait, Conal. There was no time last night…” A lie, she knew. There’d been all the time in the world, for they’d spent the entire night in each other’s arms. But she had been reluctant to spoil their lovemaking with the things he needed to hear. He’d been so tender, so in tune with her every need. For this one special night she’d felt like a pampered, protected goddess.
Now she felt a sense of urgency. She would simply have to tell him her fears, and pray they didn’t fall on deaf ears. “I need to warn you.”
“As you do each time I go to battle.” He chuckled. “I’ll be watchful, my love.”
“No.” She caught his arm. “It’s more than a simple warning. I believe my presence here has a deeper meaning.”
“After the night we shared, I’d be a fool to argue with that.” She saw the teasing light in his eyes and realized that her words were lost on him.
“Conal, you must listen to me. I believe that I was sent here to save you from those who would destroy you.”
“Sent here? By the very ones who had captured you?”
“I don’t know who sent me, or how I happened to be here now. Call it Fate. But I know things that you don’t know. I want to keep you safe.”
“Are you saying you would ride at my side into battle against the barbarians just to keep me from harm?”
“I would, if I were a warrior.” It was the truth, she realized with sudden clarity. Though she had no right to his love, this man had become so important to her, she would gladly ride into battle to save him from harm. “That isn’t what I meant. The invaders aren’t the only ones bent upon your destruction.” She saw a blur of movement in the doorway, where Duncan could hardly mask his impatience to be off.
She began speaking faster. “Think about it, Conal. The prisoner hinted that there was a traitor who had betrayed you to the barbarians. Someone within your fortress wants you dead.” She took in a deep breath, determined to plunge ahead, no matter what the consequences. “I believe the traitor is your half brother.”
He recoiled as though she’d slapped him. Then, taking a breath to compose himself, he touched a hand to her cheek. “I know the two of you have been at odds before, over Donovan, and the fact that you would keep our son a wee babe forever, while Fergus is determined to shape him into a warrior. But think about it, love. Fergus pushes him to become a warrior only because he wants the best for the lad. Know this, Laurel. Though Fergus and I had separate mothers, my brother shares my blood. I would trust him, not only with my life, but with the lives of those I hold most dear.” His voice lowered, for her ears alone. “You need to sleep now, love. I gave you no time to rest at all last night, for want of my own pleasure. When we’ve vanquished the invaders, I’ll return and show you, with much more patience, just how much I love you.”
“Please listen, Conal.”
From the doorway came an impatient voice. “Ye must go, m’laird.”
“Aye, Duncan. You’ll alert the others?”
“I will.”
Conal tore himself from Laurel’s arms and strode out behind Duncan, closing the door firmly behind him.
Laurel listened to the sound of their booted feet retreating along the passageway. Too agitated to sleep, she raced to the window and watched as the Highlanders milled about the stables until their leader strode into their midst. Within minutes they’d mounted their horses and were riding out in single file, gradually disappearing into the swirls of morning mist that shrouded the lochs and fells.
She paced the floor, arms crossed, mind awhirl. Hadn’t she always considered herself a smart woman? She’d learned every trick in the book to persuade educated men, who thought they knew everything they could about every issue, to listen and accept her point of view. Yet she’d failed miserably to make the most important man in her life hear what she had to say.
The most important man in her life.
That thought caught her by surprise. When had this happened? How had she gone from New York sophisticate to medieval woman locked in the throes of love and domesticity? And why?
The why was easy enough. Conal MacLennan. Con the Mighty. He was everything a man should be, no matter the era. Strong. Brave. Gentle. Compassionate. A born leader, and yet humble enough to care about everyone under his responsibility. He had only to smile at her and she went all weak and feminine. But this wasn’t some simple, wild vacation fling. This was serious. War and its bloody aftermath. Life and death.
She’d been yanked out of her comfortable life and dropped into the fifteenth century for a reason. It seemed reasonable to believe that she had something to teach these people who had become so important in her life. And teach them she would, even if they didn’t want to learn.
To do that, she must begin by being honest about herself. To that end she discarded Laurel’s night shift and dressed in her own clothes—the lacy bra and bikini underwear, the white, man-tailored shirt and designer slacks, before slipping her feet into the sexy sandals that still bore the stain of Con’s blood.
She walked to the door and peered around. Assured that no one was about, she started along the passageway until she found the stairway to the tower.
She would return to the scene of the crime, in the hope that she would find enough incriminating evidence to prove, once and for all to Conal, and to anyone else who would listen, that her suspicions were correct.
Laurel climbed the stairs and paused with her hand on the tower door. It stood slightly ajar. Though a faint flickering light shone from within, she couldn’t tell if it came from a candle or the dawn light. Believing the room to be empty, she was about to enter when she heard the sound of whispered voices from inside.
She froze in her tracks and strained to hear.
There appeared to be two people speaking. One a man, the other a woman, and both vibrating with passion.
The woman spoke first. “You’re sure of this?”
“I know what I saw. She was dead before we tossed her body in the hole. But even if she were to revive, she could not have clawed her way out of the dirt that covered her in that grave. ’Twas far too deep.”
“Then this woman is an imposter.”
“Or the spirit of Lady Laurel, come back from the dead to avenge her death.”
There was a moment of silence, as though they were contemplating the possibility of such a thing.
“If that be so, why did she not accuse us at once?”
“Perhaps she wishes to taunt us first. Or to wait for us to take a misstep.”
“Or perhaps her mind was permanently damaged by that blow to the head.”
“There is that. Either way, an imposter or a spirit, she must be stopped.”
“How?”
“The same way we stopped her before.”
“Knowing what she does now, she would never be persuaded to climb to the tower again.”
“We will give her no choice.”
“But how…?”
“Leave it to me.” The woman’s voice was a hiss of scorn. “I know the one thing she cannot resist. Now go. And see that you do as instructed as soon as you are far enough from the fortress to be seen.”
Hearing footsteps draw near, Laurel looked around for a place to hide. Just then the door was thrown open and she found herself pinned between the heavy, wooden door and the cold, hard wall.
With her heart slamming against her ribs, she heard a servant call out a greeting. “Would ye wish to break yer fast this morrow, m’lady? M’lord?”
As they descended the stairs Laurel heard their voices, though she couldn’
t see their faces.
“I’ll take a meal in my chambers.”
“I mustn’t tarry. I must join the laird on his hunt for the barbarians.”
“Aye, m’lady. M’lord.”
As they disappeared from sight, Laurel wondered if her poor heart would ever stop racing. Filling her lungs deeply with air, she stepped cautiously into the tower room, leaving the door open behind her in order to make a quick exit if necessary.
The only furnishings in the room were a rough wooden table and chair. A taper burned in a sconce along the wall, its flickering light doing little to dispel the gloom. The stone walls gave off a chill, as did the narrow windows overlooking the Highlands below. With no panes to buffer it, the wind whistled into the tower with a mournful sound.
Despite the chill, there was a stench here. Death, Laurel thought with a shudder. She studied the stone sill, and the dark stain that had spilled down onto the floor.
Blood. She was certain of it.
Just standing in this room, Laurel felt her stomach lurch. With her hands pressed to her middle, she crossed the room and paused at a window. A dark cloud crossed the sun, blocking its warmth. At once the hairs at the back of her neck prickled, sending a series of shivers along her spine.
Had she been here before? Had she met a horrible fate in the tower? Was this why she was having such a violent reaction to this place? Or was this natural, considering the bleak setting and the bone-chilling cold?
She’d been a fool to come inside. Now that the partners in crime had left the scene, she must do the same. And never come back.
As if to mock her decision, the door slammed shut with a resounding crash. She was so startled she let out a cry and went rigid with shock.
When she was able to compose herself, she took a deep breath and moved to the door. The heavy latch had slipped into place, and though she tried, she couldn’t budge it.
Had one of the two conspirators returned, only to find her here? It would have been an easy matter to slam the door and throw the wooden brace into place, locking her in.
The thought that she’d made it so easy for them to take her prisoner had her clenching her teeth in anguish. Fool, she berated herself. Stupid fool.
To dispel her fear, she stiffened her spine. “You won’t get away with this.”
She leaned her weight against the latch and felt it lift. Though her hands were trembling, she managed to turn the knob and inch the heavy door open.
It had been the wind after all.
Free of the tower room she raced down the stairs and didn’t stop until she reached the laird’s chambers.
Once inside, she felt almost giddy with relief.
“My lady.” At the sound of Brinna’s voice, she jumped, and turned to find the servant placing a tray containing meat and bread and a goblet of wine on a table.
Beyond the open door, she saw Donovan in his chambers, tossing a length of plaid over his shoulder, much the way his father had earlier that morning.
Brinna studied her mistress clad in the hated clothes of the barbarians, and was quick to note the pallor upon Laurel’s cheeks.
She lifted a brow in distress. “What has happened, my lady?”
“Nothing. I…” Laurel picked up the goblet and drank while she stalled for time. What must she look like to this simple village lass, wearing garb from another century?
As she set down the goblet, she realized that she need not explain herself. She was the laird’s woman. The mistress of the castle. “Donovan and I will take our meal on the balcony.” She picked up the tray and walked through the sitting chamber and out onto the balcony, with the lad trailing.
Brinna stood in the doorway, looking thoroughly confused. “Will you need anything more, my lady?”
“Nothing, Brinna. Thank you.”
Laurel waited until the door closed behind the servant before greeting the boy. “Did Brinna tell you that the barbarians have returned?”
“Aye, Mother.” He nibbled some bread and meat. “She said that Father and my uncle are even now battling the invaders in the Highlands. You should have awakened me. You know it is my fondest wish to be with them.”
Laurel took a deep breath. “And so you shall.”
Donovan’s eyes went wide. “You will let me go to war?”
She nodded. “And I intend to go with you.”
The boy was clearly shocked by her suggestion. “What are you saying? Father would never permit you to face the dangers on the field of battle.”
“There are things I know that I must tell your father.”
“You can tell him when he returns from battle.”
Laurel shook her head. “I fear he will never return unless I tell him what I know to be true.”
The thought had struck on her way back to these chambers. The last words spoken by the woman had sounded most ominous. The conspirators wanted Conal dead, as well as his wife. What better way than for one of his own trusted men to kill him and make it appear as though he’d been killed by the barbarians?
“Then you will tell me, and I, in turn, will carry your words to Father.”
Laurel smiled. He was so like Conal. He had a clever mind and a firm resolve. But she was equally firm. She would not be dissuaded from her plan of action this time.
Lifting a sword and knife from above the fireplace, she handed the sword to Donovan, while tucking the knife into the pocket of her slacks.
The boy stared at the sword in his hand. “This belonged to my father when he was a lad. And to his father before him.”
“Now it is yours. I know you’ll handle it with honor.” She drew in a breath. “Hurry to the stables and prepare two horses, Donovan. We ride together to your father.”
She watched as he danced away. Then she turned and began readying things she might need on the battlefield. She filled a sheep’s bladder with ale for disinfectant. She carefully folded clean linen for dressings.
Again she thought about the medical miracles available in her own world, and the amazing skills of twenty-first-century surgeons.
Time was too precious to waste on wishful thinking. Gathering her meager supplies together, she tied them into a bundle and dashed from the room, eager to join Donovan.
If indeed Conal was being led into a trap, she needed to do all in her power to arrive in time to warn him.
Eight
As Laurel raced down the stairs and out the door toward the stables, she was glad to be rid of that clumsy gown and in her own clothes. Though she’d felt elegant, almost regal, wearing Laurel’s gowns, there was something to be said for the freedom of modern slacks and a shirt.
As she drew near, she saw two horses grazing near the doors to the stable. What was Donovan thinking? They should have been saddled and ready to ride by now.
Perhaps he was accustomed to the services of a groom, who would no doubt be riding with the warriors.
She set down her bundle and hurried inside, ready to lend a hand.
“Donovan? What are you up to?”
There was no answer.
Laurel looked around. Then, spying a stall door standing open, she stepped inside. Her heart stopped. Lying in the dirt was the lad’s sword.
He’d been so proud to carry it. So eager to join the warriors in battle. There was no way he’d have willingly tossed it carelessly to the ground.
Willingly.
The word sent a splinter of ice along her spine.
Had someone accosted the laird’s son? But why?
The two in the tower room had been scheming against her and the laird. She’d never given a thought to the safety of the boy.
With a cry she turned and retraced her steps to the fortress. Once inside, she took the stairs two at a time until she was standing once more in the laird’s suite of rooms.
“Donovan.” She crossed to the boy’s sleeping chambers.
The room stood empty.
As she stormed across the room she saw a scroll. A knife had been thrust into the center
of the scroll, pinning it to the lad’s sleeping pallet.
She grasped the knife and freed the scroll. The words made her blood freeze in her veins.
We have your son in the tower. Come alone or he dies.
The traitors had given her no time to seek out Conal’s help. No time to think of a plan to save the boy. Instead, they were using the invasion by the barbarians to distract Conal while they worked their evil.
That innocent’s life was in her hands. Unless she did as they bade, she had no doubt of Donovan’s fate.
As she started along the passageway that led to the tower stairs, she could feel her skin begin to crawl with the knowledge that she must once again enter that hated tower room. Everything about that room made her violently ill. Now she understood why.
After all her grand thoughts of teaching these ancient people the knowledge acquired through the ages, it all came down to the most basic of all facts.
This day she must die as she had once before, in this very place. This was her fate.
For there was no doubt that she would willingly exchange her life for the lad’s.
“Donovan.” Laurel flung open the tower door and cried out his name at the shocking sight that greeted her.
The lad was seated in a chair, wrists and ankles bound. Blood oozed from a cut over his eye. His eye was swollen half shut, the tender flesh already turning a sickening shade of black and blue.
It would seem the lad had put up quite a fight. Yet the woman standing behind him bore not a single mark. She’d used an accomplice, no doubt, to overpower Donovan.
As Laurel started toward the boy, Dulcie pressed the blade of her knife to his throat.
“Stay away, or I’ll slit him like a lamb to be slaughtered.”
“He’s your nephew, Dulcie. You told me you love him like your own. How can you bear to see him harmed?”
“This is your doing.” The younger woman’s words were spoken between clenched teeth. “Had you not returned, the lad would have been allowed to continue to live in his ignorance. But you’ve made that impossible.”
Dead of Night Page 23
