By God's Grace (18 page)

****

“He knows something. We must get rid of him.”

“Nay.”

“And why not?”

“I like him. Did ye not feel how gentle he was with us?”

“Of course he was gentle. Duncan charged him to take care of ye.”

“Why is it ye constantly believe no one would be nice to me or cherish me unless they are charged or ordered to do so?”

“Lyall dear, ye know ye are special to me. But I tell ye, I am the only one who loves ye for ye. Everyone else wants ye to be someone else. Yer father wanted ye to be an obedient daughter, Cainneach wanted ye to warm his bed and replace his lost wife, and there is nothing ye can do to please Duncan. He wants nothing from ye.”

Lyall's foot stomped like a small disobedient child. “Why do ye insist on making me feel unappreciated and unloved?”

“Oh, ye are appreciated and loved but only by me, and ye will do well to remember it.”

“Sori, what happened to my father? I'm so afraid.”

“Lyall, don't tell me ye don't remember what ye did?”

“What I did? What do ye mean?”

****

Grant walked away from direct sight of the room, but not too far. That was when he heard Lyall conversing with herself. The exact words were unintelligible. Inching closer to the door, hoping to gather the meaning of her private speech, Grant's frustration mounted. Nothing could be made of the ramblings. Giving up, he headed to the study. Obviously Lyall was as loony as everyone thought.

When he arrived, a servant asked, “How is Lyall?”

“She seems all right. But she has expressed a concern over her father's condition.”

The servant looked at Grant with a tad of reluctance. “Well, kind sir, there is no condition.”

“That was as I had assumed.” Sighing audibly, he asked, “How did he die?”

Grant was expecting a heart condition, or perhaps ill health, and was unprepared to hear the actual occurrence.

“Why he was stabbed to death with his own dagger.”

“Stabbed?”

“Aye, the hilt of the dagger still protrudes from his breast.”

“Aye, it does,” Grant said, now noticing the golden hilt. “It seems yer master has been murdered. Where is the captain of yer guard?”

“Sir Alan has been summoned.”

A young man ran into the room. Color drained from his face, as he fell beside Lyall's father and yelled, “Nay!” He thrust his head upon the dead man's lap almost as if asking to be cradled.

Grant's brow rose at the interesting development. The young man spun around in a circle; seeing the newcomers in the study, he drew a sword and demanded, “Who found the master?”

With quivering voice a servant answered, “Sir Alan, Lyall found him.”

“Lyall? When did she return?”

“Today. She has been in her room for most of the time.”

The young man's trembling finger pointed at Grant as he spoke to the servant. “And who is this man?”

Grant resented not being spoken to directly; instead of waiting on the servant, he answered, “I am Grant Cameron, the leader of the Sinclair men. We escorted Lyall here.”

“Why?”

Grant shrugged. “She claimed a desire to visit her family.”

“Humph,” said the skeptical guard. “Where is Lyall now?”

“I escorted the lass to her rooms after she found her father and swooned.”

The guard snapped his fingers, and another guard appeared. “Go to Mistress Lyall's room and stay until I arrive.”

The guard bowed low and left.

Did the guard suspect Lyall of foul play?
Grant watched as the young man studied the room. Objects were picked up, held in his hand, looked at, and even smelled before being sat carefully back in place. Grant couldn't fathom what the soldier hoped to accomplish with those actions.

“Do ye smell it?”

“Smell what? The blood? Aye, it smells like a battlefield in here.”

“Nay, not that. The scent of jasmine with a hint of wisteria.”

“Aye, I do. What of it?”

“It is the scent of Lyall,” said the young man breathlessly.

“Of course ye smell the lass's scent. I told ye she was in the room. She is the one who found Laird Burns in such a shape.”

Arms crossed as if taking a stand. “I say there is too much of her scent for such a brief encounter.”

“Confident in yer sniffing abilities, are ye?”

“Aye, I am. And I say she was here longer than it took to find her father had languished.”

“Then ask her.”

“Ask her?”

“Aye, ask her. I have been in the yard with my men. Lyall disappeared inside the keep hours ago. We hadn't heard from her until about an hour ago when she came outside and started wailing about someone stealing a babe. When I questioned her, she started talking to someone named Sori, and then she announced she was going to find her father. That is all I know. So if ye want more answers, ye will have to get them from her.” The betrayal of a Sinclair rested easy on his shoulders. After all the pain and torment the woman had caused Cainneach, she deserved what she received, especially if she was responsible for Rab's murder.

“Sori, ye say?”

“Aye, do ye know her?”

Alan nodded. Instead of answering the question, he directed the servants to prepare the body for burial.

Grant was not happy being ignored. Standing to the side, he waited his turn.

All the necessary arrangements were seen to. Alan turned to Grant. “We better see Lyall.”

Grant stopped Alan. “Now wait just a minute. What are ye planning to do?”

Alan stared at him, eyes piercing, “Confront Lyall with her murderous deed, of course.”

“What proof have ye to present?” asked Grant.

“Her scent, of course.”

Grant's eyebrow arched. “So yer whole case is based on smelling wisteria and jasmine in a room she already admits to being in, and, I might add, a room which is graced with a beautiful flower garden right outside the window.”

“Ye are mistaken.”

Grant's voice filled with irritation. “How might I be mistaken? I see flowers through the window, which accounts for the scents ye are smellin'. And it is nay a mystery that the lass saw her father dead.” Arms crossed, Grant continued, “So maybe ye should explain my mistakes to me.”

Straightening his clothing, Alan explained, “There are no wisteria or jasmine plants in the garden outside this window. My fath — I mean, the Burns's laird abhorred the smell of those two flowers, especially when the scents mixed.”

Grant caught the slight slip of the guard's tongue. Had the young man been on the verge of saying ”father?” Grant was under the impression Lyall was the only child of Rab Burns, but if what the guard had almost said was true, then Burns had a son. Which would mean Lyall was not the only heir to the Burns's inheritance. He hoped to be far away when the lass made the discovery.

“Do ye know who is in charge now the laird has perished?” Grant asked, seeking information.

“Aye, I do.”

“I am guessing it is not Lyall.”

“Ye have guessed correctly. In fact ye are looking at the new Burns's laird,” said Alan, lifting his chin.

“I am? How is that possible?”

“Here, ye fool. It is I.”

Grant's eyes widened at the pronouncement. “Oh, ye are the new laird. And how, I ask, did that happen?”

The young man puffed out his chest, saying, “I am Alan Burns, the laird's son.”

“Ye are? Now that is a wonder. I, and the Sinclairs, were led to believe Lyall was the only child of Laird Burns. My own laird, Cainneach, was under the impression that upon Rab's death, the Burns's lands would belong to him.” Grant was on a fact-finding mission. He hoped Alan didn't know of Cainneach's death and refuse to answer.

Alan whispered, “Verra few know he was my father, not even Lyall knows. When I was born it was believed I'd died, but my father hid me away. I have only been here at the Burns's keep since Lyall's marriage and departure to the Sinclair holdings.”

Grant shook with fury. “I understand yer father had papers drawn up to say if there were no other children, then Lyall's husband would be his heir. Cainneach's father, Fletcher, assumed Rab was too old to have other children, so he agreed to sacrifice his own son's happiness and forced him to wed Lyall for the promise of land. And ye are telling me that yer no-good, deceiving father let 'im?”

“Nay! It wasn't like that.”

“Then ye tell me what it was like, because from where I sit, my friend and laird was screwed by yer father.”

“I am in no position to argue with you. All I know is I am the only son of Rab Burns. He placed me as the leader of the guard as a way to protect me and allow me to stay here. Even if I hadn't existed, the Sinclairs do not have a right to take Burns's land from the Burns's family, and that is all there is to it. But I fail to see how this is important. As we stand here debating over what has occurred in the past, we are wasting precious time. If Lyall realizes we are on to her, she will attempt to escape.”

“And what precisely are we on to her for, young lad?”

Grant refused to make anything easy for the Burns lad. Alan's sigh of frustration was audible. “I must say I do not appreciate being called a lad.”

“Why is that,
lad
?” said Grant, putting emphasis on the word just for spite. In all honesty, he was killing time. Angry about the new information concerning Burns's land and needing to think about this situation with Lyall kept him pushing. The real question was, “Did Grant think her capable of stabbing her own father?” He wasn't sure.

“For starters, I am five and twenty. I am a father in my own right. I have led the Burns's guard for the past five years. This should be enough to stop calling me lad. Now we have established my right to govern the Burns's keep, and that I am of an age past childhood, I wish to question Lyall.”

Grant knew he couldn't stop Alan, and part of him didn't want to. What was he thinking anyway, defending the mistress? The woman had made Cainneach miserable every waking day of his life. Let her defend herself. The expected comeuppance brought enthusiasm. “Verra well. Let's question her.”