Connie took in a deep breath. “The duke is dead.” There. She said it. Aloud.
Even if it still felt like it was all a dream, she knew it was devastatingly real.
Mrs. Morgan was silent for the space of a breath. “Dead?” Her grip on Connie’s hands tightened. “What do ye mean, dead? Did he fall?” Hastily, she made the sign of a cross over her chest. “God Almighty! Is it my fault? I did make certain the servants continued ta ply him with whiskey last night. Meybe too much…”
This was the part Connie had been dreading. If anyone was going to believe she possibly didn’t kill Duncan, it would be Mrs. Morgan. Well, at least, Connie hoped so. If the level-headed and sensible housekeeper didn’t, then no one else would. Though Connie wasn’t even certain if she was innocent or not, the longer she thought about it, the more she didn’t think she could have.
She’d had no access to a dagger, and she wasn’t strong enough to stab Duncan like that, unless she’d been standing over him. And if she had been, surely she would have had blood on her face at least?
But she knew that if she stayed, she would be locked up as certain as the sun rises every day. And she needed Mrs. Morgan’s help to flee.
“Actually, he’s been stabbed to death.” Briefly, Connie relayed what she’d discovered upon waking, the image of Duncan’s vacant stare at the forefront of her mind the entire time. “I don’t think I killed him. But I don’t remember exactly.” Goodness, that sounded bad, even to her own ears.
“Oh lass, the bastard deserved a thousand worse deaths than being stabbed.” The housekeeper took in a wobbly breath before pushing her glasses more securely on her nose. “And if you did kill him, then I say he had it coming. But yer right. We need to get ye out of here. Especially considering that if ye didn’t kill the man, then it was probably Lord Fergus who did.”
The thought had occurred to her, but she’d dismissed it. Because, though Fergus was rather bullish, he’d always been kind to her. “Fergus? I don’t think he would do such a thing…” Fergus had, of course, been somewhat jealous of Duncan and the power Duncan held over him, but murdering his own brother? Connie couldn’t fathom it. “Perhaps a stranger broke into the castle last night and was confronted by Duncan…”
“He was killed in your bed, lassie. I don’t think a random stranger is likely. Besides, you and Fergus are the only ones who would gain from his death.” Mrs. Morgan’s voice was patient and gentle. “Even though ye ain’t the only ones who would want him dead—many knew the man’s true and vile nature, as much as he tried to disguise it. And Lord Fergus probably has the most to gain, doesn’t he? Being next in line to the dukedom.”
“Yes, I suppose so,” Connie could only mumble. “But they were brothers…”
“So were Cain and Abel.” Mrs. Morgan walked over to her desk and opened one of the drawers. She pulled out a small glass bottle and held it up to the light. “Lord Fergus disposed of this last night. Glad I kept it.”
“What is it?” Connie asked as she took the bottle. Inside the clear glass, there was a small amount of what appeared to be a green liquid.
“I don’t rightly know, and the label doesn’t say. Though it appears to have been dispensed by the King Street Apothecary in Inverness.” Mrs. Morgan frowned. “And let me tell you, that apothecary has a rather notorious reputation. Just the sort of place you’d go to get something illicit brewed up.”
Connie jerked her eyes up to meet the housekeeper’s. “You really think Fergus used this on Duncan or me?”
Mrs. Morgan shrugged. “I don’t rightly know. But you said you couldn’t remember none? It would make sense why, if it turns out you were drugged. Be far easier to kill the duke without you awake to interfere. He might have even slipped some to the duke, too, ta take the fight out of him in advance.”
Slowly, Connie nodded. “Yes, I suppose so. How do you know that Fergus was the one to get rid of the bottle? Anyone could have disposed of it during the ball last night.”
“One of the footmen saw Lord Fergus leaving the duke’s bedchamber at the height of the ball.” Mrs. Morgan continued. “He thought it odd, so he followed Lord Fergus and observed him pull something out of his pocket and toss it away. The lad then retrieved this here bottle from the disposal and brought it straight to me.” A weary sigh left the woman’s lips. “I wouldn’t trust the lad as far as I could throw him, but I believe him about this. He, like most of the servants, holds no love for the duke or his brother.”
“It does seem strange Fergus was up there, considering his rooms are on the other side of the castle,” Connie mused.
“Exactly,” Mrs. Morgan agreed. “Which is why I decided to hang on to the bottle. A good thing, too, I’d say, considering ye can’t remember anything, and the duke just so happens to end up dead lying next to ye.”
What Mrs. Morgan was saying was sounding more and more likely, except for one thing. “But if I was hung for murder, the estate would cease to receive my dowry. Fergus couldn’t risk such a thing.” Fergus was nothing if not focused on his own comfort, and to a certain extent he did care for the future of the estate, so he’d want the money to keep running it.
“Aye, that’s true.” Mrs. Morgan bobbed her head in agreement. “But still, unless it was the ghost of the duke’s dead wife, God rest her soul, wielding that dagger, me money is on Fergus Campbell framing you for murder, lassie.”
Connie’s stomach dropped. She put the bottle on the desk, her hand shaking as she did so. “I need to get out of here immediately.” She knew that fleeing would make her appear guilty, but what else could she do? If she was locked up, then there was no chance of finding her freedom.
“Aye, you do,” Mrs. Morgan agreed, but then she suddenly looked alarmed. “But what about Amelie? If Lord Fergus is the killer, then the girl won’t be safe here. And it would be too dangerous to take her with you. If you wish, I can take her somewhere safe.”
“Dear Mrs. Morgan, thank you for the offer, but I’ve already sent Amelie to safety.” It had been on the forefront of her mind after the shock of finding Duncan had started to wear off.
“Ye have?” There was confusion and shock in the woman’s green eyes. “And how have ye done that, lassie? And when?”
“Sarah and Jeremiah are, as we speak, on the way to the MacKinnons’ with Amelie. She’ll be safe with her mother’s family. And now with Duncan dead, they will have a much stronger claim for custody than Fergus will. Amelie will be safe with them.” Amelie’s safety was the priority, even before her own escape.
“Aye, she will,” Mrs. Morgan agreed. “Especially if the stories I’ve heard about her aunt are true. They say the lady will not be cowed by anyone.”
An understatement if Connie had ever heard one. Amelie’s aunt, Lady Lorelie, was the sort of woman who intimidated everyone with whom she came in contact. Connie had met her several times over the last few years, and each time she’d been in awe. The woman was not only beautiful but fierce and unafraid to stand up for what she believed in. “She will be safe, thankfully.”
“That’s good,” Mrs. Morgan replied, dusting her hands off on her serviceable black gown. “Now then, we need to get you out of here.”
“I was hoping to use one of the horses and ride to Inverness,” Connie began.
The door suddenly flew open, and Fergus and several men rushed into the room. Fergus’s eyes locked on her own, and she could see a sense of satisfaction in them as he glanced first to her and then down to her traveling case.
“Trying to flee, Constance?” He shook his head in an exaggerated manner. “Unfortunately, you can’t escape from murdering my brother, as much as he may have deserved it.”
“I didn’t murder him, Fergus, and I think we both know that.” Connie had to quell the rising panic that was threatening. The fear of being carted off to the gallows just became extremely real.
“What I know is that
my brother has been found stabbed to death in your bed. And you still have his blood on your hands.” He sighed deeply. “I am sorry to say it, as I imagine I know what drove you to it, but until the police arrive, you shall be confined to the north tower for the murder of your husband. Take her now,” he directed to the men with him.
“But, Lord Fergus,” Mrs. Morgan urged. “We don’t know if it was her grace who killed him. She could be innocent.”
“Perhaps. However, it is the inspector from Glasgow arriving tomorrow who will determine the matter,” Fergus said.
“You have more to gain here than I do, Fergus,” Connie couldn’t help but point out to him. Her heart was starting to race, and her palms had become sweaty. Was the freedom that had been within reach about to be snatched from her grasp?
For a minute, he was silent. “Aye, I probably do. But I wasn’t the one he was beating. And I’m not the one still covered with his blood.”
She glanced down at her hands. It frustrated her that she couldn’t remember anything, and it terrified her, too.
“I don’t blame you, Connie,” Fergus continued. “God knows, Duncan deserved it after all he’s done over the years. He deserved it a thousand times over. But I must see justice done. He was my brother, after all.”
“This isn’t justice,” Mrs. Morgan spoke up, her brogue thick. “You’re thinking she’s guilty before any trial. It’s not right.”
“Be careful, Mrs. Morgan,” Fergus warned the woman. “Housekeepers have a bad habit of not staying long here. As you are only too well aware.”
“Don’t threaten her, Fergus.” Connie held her chin high, determined to at least project an image of confidence. “Particularly as she’s simply telling the truth.”
“You’re covered in blood and trying to flee.” He stared pointedly down, once again, at her travel bag. “That is the truth, Constance.” He sighed heavily for a moment. “However, like I said, that will be a matter for the inspector to decide. Until he arrives, you will be locked in the northern tower room.”
The thought of being confined sent a swift chill down Connie’s spine. She’d been so close to freedom, but now she felt it slipping from her fingers like quicksand.
Fergus motioned to the men standing near Connie. “Take her now.”
The men nodded and began to guide her from the room.
“I didn’t kill him,” Connie said as she was walked past him, her head held high. And she was really starting to believe the truth in her words, even if a voice in her dreams had often whispered to kill him. “And I think you know that.”
“All I know,” Fergus replied, “is that I cannot in good conscience let his murderer walk free.”
The men released her to walk through the doorway one at a time. Connie paused briefly at the threshold and glanced back at Fergus. “Then you had best start looking for the true killer, because it wasn’t me.” At least she was starting to believe it wasn’t. “Perhaps you could begin the search by looking in the mirror.”
And with that, she strolled out the door and, of her own volition, walked to the northern tower and up the stairs, the two guards following her every step. If her destiny was to go through the humiliation of being arrested and tried for a murder she didn’t commit, then she’d do so with grace.
She was done with being a timid mouse and hiding in the shadows.
Then, at least, if she did have to meet her maker, she would do so with dignity, comfortable in the knowledge that Duncan wouldn’t be spending eternity with her. Because Connie was quite certain that right now Duncan was taking up residence in a special place in Hell that had been reserved especially for him.
Chapter Six
The brisk morning air was a welcome relief from the smoke-filled inn Alec had just left and was helping to clear his pounding head—and a clear head was definitely going to be needed when he arrived at Castle Kilmaine shortly. He’d had a woeful night’s sleep, tossing and turning, as constant images of Connie in trouble hovered on the periphery of his awareness.
He didn’t know exactly what was going on with her and her husband, though if it was as he suspected and her husband was using his fists against her, then Alec would make damn certain the man knew never to touch her in anger again.
Anticipating the fallout that coming to blows with the Duke of Kilmaine would cause, Alec had sent a warning telegraph to the McGuiness man of affairs, Malcolm Dalton, just prior to setting out for the Campbell castle this morning, outlining the situation soon likely to erupt. Malcolm had a level head and a deft ability to turn a hostile situation calm, not to mention he was a good man, even if he was a lawyer. Qualities that Alec believed may be shortly needed. Particularly the lawyer part, if Connie’s husband was beating her.
The very idea of her being hurt sent an equal measure of rage and distress through him. He had to make an effort to unclench his jaw and stop the thought of wanting to punch the lights out of the man from consuming him. He had to regain his equilibrium, but when it came to Connie, he’d never been able to.
She’d always been able to get under his skin—mostly in annoyance, but in adulthood, that annoyance had shifted to something else. And he didn’t know what to make of it.
He seemed to have developed a thirst for vengeance against those who dared to harm her. And though he’d dedicated his life to healing people and usually abhorred violence—he’d never been able to tolerate men who abused women or children; such men were bullies and cowards—the victims of such acts needed someone to stand up for them. In Alec’s position of treating the injuries of those they’d hurt, it had often fallen to him to scare the hell out of them so they’d stop their abuse. Usually Alec’s very presence and verbal threats were enough to ensure compliance, at least for a while.
But never had he wanted to throttle a man before like he did Connie’s husband. The very word brought with it a sense of disgust. The man was meant to protect and cherish her. Not beat her.
Alec urged his stallion faster down the road as Castle Kilmaine came into view. The big towering turrets on the east and west wings were standing tall, with the Campbell banner flapping proudly in the chill breeze. But there was a darkness in the atmosphere and a sense of unease that Alec felt right down to his bones. A niggling awareness, which he knew from past experience meant trouble was on the horizon.
Riding over the crest and across the drawbridge into the castle’s bailey, chaos greeted him. A hive of servants was bustling around the courtyard with no order or purpose, confusion seemingly reigning. Most were huddled in small groups, chattering all at once with one another, but each and every one of them kept glancing up toward the tower on the northern end of the castle, and there was fear and doubt in their eyes as they did so.
Clearly something was very wrong.
Alec knew in his gut—it involved Connie. For a minute, his chest constricted at the thought. Had something happened to her? If that bastard husband of hers had hurt her, or worse, Alec would tear the man apart. Literally.
When his horse bristled underneath him, Alec had to physically unclench his fists from biting into the leather reins and relax his suddenly tense body.
When the words “murder” and “blood” began to reach his ears, his heart skipped a beat, with thoughts of Connie being injured consuming him.
He had to find her.
Urging his horse carefully through the throng, Alec spied Lord Fergus at the top of the entrance steps, barking out orders to some of the men gathered below. Fergus had heavy frown lines etched across his brow, and there was a pallor to his skin that had not been there last night. The man looked nervous.
Dismounting, Alec shoved the reins into the hands of one of the men standing around before striding up the steps toward Fergus. “What the hell has happened?” he demanded, marching across to where the man stood.
Fergus swiveled his head to him, and Alec could see the fear and
shock swimming in the man’s eyes. A complete contrast to the somewhat brute of a man he’d been speaking with last night.
“Dr. McGuiness? What are you doing here?” Fergus asked. “Actually, perhaps it’s good you are. Although you’re too late to help my brother.” He suddenly shook his head, his jaw clenching tightly. “Don’t know quite what happened…” His voice trailed off, and his eyes glanced up at the tower. “So much blood.”
Alec took a step toward Fergus and grabbed the lapels of his jacket, forcing the man’s eyes to meet his own. His pupils were enlarged, and Alec could see the rapid pulse thrumming on his neck. Clear signs of shock. “Is anyone hurt?” He’d never forgive himself for leaving Connie last night if she was.
The man bristled and tried to shake Alec’s hands off his jacket. But Alec was having none of it.
“I said, is anyone hurt?”
“No,” Fergus almost yelled. “Well, not anymore. It’s Duncan. He’s…he’s dead.”
“What about the duchess?” Alec had to control himself from literally trying to shake the answer from the man.
“Yes, she’s fine,” Fergus replied. “Well, perhaps not exactly fine. She killed my brother. So of course I had to lock her up in the tower. Couldn’t have a murderer loose, even if she was most likely provoked to do it.”
Relief that she was safe coursed through him. Thank God. But she was in definite trouble, and if she had murdered the bastard, Alec had no idea how he was going to get her out of such a situation. He needed to see her. Needed to make sure she actually was all right. “Take me to her.” He released Fergus.
Fergus stepped back and smoothed out the lapels of his jacket. “I’m not doing that.”
“I won’t ask you again.” Alec simply stared at the man.
Fergus regarded him steadily, and whatever he saw in Alec’s gaze must have convinced him, because he slowly nodded. “Aye, fine, but only for a minute. And only because you’re a doctor and can check she’s all right, at least physically.” He turned and hurried through the entrance doors into the foyer, motioning for Alec to follow. “I’ve already sent for my own physician to come and assess her.”
The Sinful Scot Page 4
