It was well past midnight. She’d been at Claronfell several days now, and though her disguise seemed well accepted, she had learned little, though she had spent some time in clandestine investigation. The strongroom stored Claronfell’s treasures and seemed the place most likely to house any damning documents the marquis might possess. But it had shed no light on the situation. Indeed, it had given her nothing… except the key now hidden beneath her cape. The key that had opened none of the trunks in his strongroom and none of the containers in his bedchamber.
Although Rhona was doing her best to maintain her frail demeanor, she had not been idle since arriving here. Still, she was running out, but the house had long since gone silent, and now was the time for action.
Crafted of impenetrable rock and mortar, Claronfell’s walls were several feet thick and would buffer all but the loudest sounds. Still, Rhona stood at her door for a long while, making certain not the slightest noise would be heard as she opened it and stepped into the hall. A corbel of candles flickered in the corridor around the corner, and she slipped toward it, making not a whisper of sound as she set her taper to a flame.
Circumstances would be much simpler if she knew what she searched for, but she did not. There had only been rumors that the marquis held a grudge against the rogue brothers. Whispers of planned evil. Still, she would learn the truth for she had impending evil against the lady of Evermyst. Indeed she had tried to implement that evil, and for that she would make recompense.
The house was dark. From somewhere down the hall she thought she heard a woman giggle. She froze and waited, but nothing happened. No one accosted her. Not a soul spoke. She hurried on. The library housed innumerable books and parchments. Perhaps that was where Lord Robert kept his private papers, but she would check his solar first. Situated on the south side of the second floor, it offered much light during the day. Now it was dark and silent. The latch lifted with a groan. She held her breath, waited, then easing the door open, stepped inside and closed herself in.
Setting her candle aside, she slipped the key from beneath her cape and glanced hastily about. The desk was spindly-legged and simply made. Its surface held little more than an ink-blotched quill and a soft piece of rolled vellum. One glance at the flowing script told her it was of no importance.
A buckler hung on the wall, and on a small console near the door, an ancient helm was displayed. A tapestry, rich in reds and browns, hung near the window. Hurrying to it, she pushed it aside, but there was naught behind it except chilly wall. She spurred her gaze about the room, and then, nestled in the shadows of the writing desk, beside the cushioned stool, she spied a narrow trunk. It was made of rowan wood, bound in leather, and secured by a solid metal lock. Holding her breath, she drew out the small trunk and set it silently upon the desk. It opened with barely a sound.
Inside, she found a myriad of odd items-a silk sleeve, a worn rosary, a score of other feminine articles, and a dozen rolled parchments. Shifting through the bizarre personal effects, she hauled out the scrolls. The first was written in a woman’s hand. Rhona’s brows lifted in surprise as she read it, for though it was intimately personal, ‘twas obviously not from his late wife. She shoved it quickly aside and unrolled the next. It was similar to the first and signed with naught but an I. So, MacGowan had been right about the marquis’s wandering eye. Indeed, it was entirely possible that the trinkets that littered the trunk were tokens of his conquests while-
Hell’s saints!
Her fingers trembled against the vellum just opened.
She skimmed to the bottom, but the missive was unsigned. She read from the top, skipping over the mundane solicitudes and reading.
Per your request, I have begun some inquiries, and have learned a bit of information that you might find of interest. I have it on good authority that the MacGowan rogues will hold a gathering at the stronghold of Evermyst. ‘Tis said it will celebrate St. Crispin’s Day and the birth of Lord Ramsay’s young heir. By all accounts, ‘twill be a large assemblage. In fact, ‘tis rumored that James himself may make an appearance.
Mayhap this would be just the opportunity you had in mind.
There were a few more sentences, but none that held her interest. She rolled it up, slipped its ribbon back into place and rummaged rapidly through the others. None were in the same hand until she had nearly completed her search. This note was no more than two simple sentences.
Although Rhona searched the trunk frantically, there was nothing else.
From somewhere far away, she thought she heard a scratch of noise. She jerked her head up, but no other sounds alerted her to danger. One more quick search assured her there was nothing else to be found. Rapidly replacing the scrolls, she locked the trunk and shoved it carefully back in place.
Once again she pinned the key out of sight, blew out her candle, and stepped silently into the hall.
There was a whisper of sound behind her. Fear stroked her neck. She turned, but a hand streaked out, covering her mouth and pulling her roughly backward. She tried to spin around. An arm encircled her waist. Raw instincts made her strike with her elbow, driving it hard into his ribs. There was a grunt of pain, then:
“Damnation, Rhona, it’s me.”
She stilled, rolled her eyes sideways and felt the hand slip off her mouth.
Lachlan stood before her, slightly bent over his injured ribs.
“What the devil are you doing here?” she hissed.
“Me?”
Candlelight flickered across his face. His eyes were dark and angry. He wore naught but black hose, and he rubbed his chest where she had struck him. His feet were bare, as were hers, and without the hindrance of her shoes she had been absolutely silent.
“How did you know I was here?”
“Perhaps I heard you,” he said.
She shook her head, then stopped, remembering the sound of a woman’s laughter. “Where were you?”
Even in the darkness she could see his eyes narrow. “‘Tis a strange time to be inquiring about my whereabouts, laddie, when you are creeping around like a thief in the good marquis’s private chambers.”
They were standing but inches apart. “So you were with Colette.”
There was a moment’s pause. “Are you thinking I’ve dallied with the maidservant?” he asked.
She pursed her mouth. “I would not care if you dallied with the marquis himself.”
He stepped closer. The anger in his eyes had been replaced by another emotion. Something less sinister, but no less dangerous.
“You think I’ve slept with another,” he said and, reaching out, brushed a wisp of hair from her face.
She pushed his arm away. “I care not what you do.” “You lie,” he said, and reached out again. She swatted his hand aside and longed for her dirk.
“Are you jealous?” he asked.
“Nay,” she said, and backed away. Absolute silence filled the hall. Time stretched into the blackness. Her nerves stretched with it. “Were you with her?”
“With who, lass?” he said and, with careful casualness, leaned his shoulder against the plastered wall.
If not for her need for secrecy she would have surely struck him. “Colette,” she hissed.
He said nothing for a long while. She cursed him in silence.
“You’d best be careful, lass,” he said finally. “For if one watches your window closely enough, one can tell when you leave your chamber.”
She drew a careful draught of air. “You were watching me window?”
“I can see you quite clearly, except when the fat marquis blocks the light from the hall.”
Jealousy? A despicable titter of glee soared through her. “In truth, champion, he is really quite charming.”
“Charming!” A muscle worked in his jaw, but he relaxed it with a seeming effort. “Did you know he ordered a leech to open his wife’s dead body?”
“What?” she hissed.
‘They took out the babe.” “Mayhap he hoped to save it.”
“‘Twas three months early,” he said. “But it was a lad.”
“How do you know this?”
“I have a good deal of time whilst you flirt with your warty nobleman, lass.”
She raised her chin. “I have no reason to suspect he is anything but what he says.”
“Is that why you are sneaking about in his private chambers then, because you find him irresistible?”
“‘Tis none of your affair why I am here.”
“I beg to differ, lass,” he said. “For though the marquis acts too daft to be dangerous, ‘tis said he is in league with the English king.”
She stared at him in silence as a thousand thoughts whipped through her head: Evermyst, the rogues, the king! Was Lord Robert planning some evil against the crown?
“I but wonder where your loyalties lie.”
“If you think you cannot trust me, you’ve no reason to stay,” she said, and turned away.
He caught her arm and pulled her back toward him.
“If only it were true,” he gritted.
“Let me go, MacGowan,” she said, and tried to push him away.
“God knows I have tried,” he said and moved closer.
His fingers touched her throat. Beneath her hand, his chest felt as hard and smooth as iron. Her breathing became labored. His lips brushed hers.
“Whore!”
Rhona ripped away from him. A blade flashed in MacGowan’s hand, but their enemy stood some yards away and was not yet tall enough to reach his chest.
“Catherine.” He said her name softly and with that strange Welsh lilt. She stood in the doorway. Clothed in naught but a white night rail, she looked like a small solemn archangel.
“Lass.” Rhona breathed the word. “Why-” she began, but her thoughts shifted. “How did you escape your room?”
“Why were you in my father’s chamber?” the girl countered.
“I- your father asked me to fetch something for him.”
She shook her head. “He is busy with another just now. You have come to do mischief.”
“‘Tis not what you think, lass,” Rhona began, and took a step toward her. “I’ve but come to care for you.”
The girl backed away. “You lie, just as she said you would.”
“Who said?”
The girl shook her head. “You’ll not hurt us! Not when I tell Father I’ve found you with another.” Though she tipped her head toward MacGowan, she did not look at him as though she could not and still betray him.
“Why are you awake?” Lachlan ‘s voice was quiet in the dimness.
Catherine blinked. She chewed her lip, glanced indecisively down the darkened hallway, and turned her gaze on him finally.
“Come lass, you know you can trust me,” he said. “She does not cry out of fear,” whispered the girl. Lachlan was quiet for a moment, then, “Your sister,” he said.
“We are not afeared of her.” Absolute silence filled the space.
“You go to soothe Edwina,” Rhona murmured. The lass scowled.
“You’ve- ” Rhona began, but Lachlan interrupted. ”What happened to your feet, Catty?”
Catherine glanced down, then shoved one bare foot behind her ankle. “Naught,” she said, but the other foot was still visible and across the instep, welts stretched like writhing serpents.
“And your hands,” he added, but she had already tucked them behind her back. His face was as sober as death. “Who struck you?”
“No one. I scratched them whilst running through the brambles.” The words were defiant, but her eyes glistered.
“I did not think you were allowed to run barefoot,” Rhona said, but Lachlan already was shaking his head.
“Nay. She is not,” he said. “And thus the stripes. Is it not so, lass?”
The silence that stretched through the room was as heavy as death, but finally the girl spoke. “‘Tis none of your concern.”
“Nay,” he agreed, “‘Tis your father’s concern.” Her mouth twitched.
“But he was the one who did it, wasn’t he?” She shook her head violently.
”Aye.” He tightened his fist, and it was not until then that Rhona remembered he held a knife. “‘Tis just like a coward bastard to treat a child so.”
“He would not do such a thing,” Catherine whispered, and though she did not cry, her mouth twitched as though she endured some silent torture.
Rhona exhaled carefully and extended her hand.
“Give me the knife, MacGowan,” she said.
Lachlan shifted slightly. He didn’t like the look in Rhona’s eyes. Didn’t trust her in the least. Aye, he was certain she had come here for reasons other than the girls’ best interests, but perhaps just now, she didn’t remember those reasons. “What is it you have in mind?” he asked, and kept his voice carefully steady.
“As the girl said,” murmured Rhona, not shifting her gaze to his. “‘Tis none of your affair.”
He tried a placating smile. But he’d been wounded by this woman more than once, perhaps making his grin suspect. “I believe if you kill the good marquis, I may well-”
“The marquis!” she said. “Nay, ‘tis the serving maid that mistreats her.”
“Colette? You jest.”
“Just because she is bonny, does not make her good,” Rhona said. “Give me the knife.”
“Take the child to bed,” he said and tucked the blade firmly in his belt. “Your head will be clearer in the morn.”
Rhona stared at him. Her body was absolutely still, and in her eyes there was anger, dark and deep and just under control. “‘Tis because of me.”
“What’s that?”
She did not glance at the girl. Indeed, it seemed almost as if she could not bear to. “I knew something was amiss,” she said. “But I did not question. Neither did I interfere.”
“Demands would have been to no avail in this situation.”
She smiled. It was not a soothing expression, probably no better than his own. “I can be quite convincing.”
“Against the marquis and all he holds dear?”