Amanda Scott (32 page)

Lachlan let his gaze drift from one man to the other as he waited. MacDuffie had scarcely said a word since they had turned the royal galley around hours earlier, and although he glanced from time to time at Hector, the hereditary keeper of the records had remained calmly observant and nothing more.

MacDougall was drinking his wine, and Cameron likewise showed deep interest in his own goblet.

At last MacDonald said, “I am persuaded that we must do all we can to prevent a blood feud, and I am likewise persuaded that conferring favor on Clan Gillean will do much toward accomplishing that end. Therefore, and lest some mischance occur in getting off this wretched rock, or afterward, if MacDuffie has his quill and some ink, he can write down what we’ve agreed betwixt us, as is his duty, and I’ll sign it and put my seal to it straightaway.”

MacDuffie nodded, reached into the leather bag beside him, and extracted a sheet of vellum, a quill, a penknife, a ball of red wax, and an ink pot, all of which he laid out on the table before him.

“’Tis kind of your grace to do this,” Lachlan said sincerely.

“Aye, well, I’ll stand by the agreements I’ve made, but recall, lad, that the marriage banns, the marriage itself, and its tocher all depend on Mairi’s agreement.”

“She’ll agree, your grace. I am as confident of that as I am of anything.”

The storm was finally abating. At least, it seemed to Mairi that the wind did not howl as loudly or the new shutters over the upper windows of Ardtornish rattle as badly as they had earlier. Still, any trip to the garderobe proved an icy penance.

She had found Ranald unsympathetic to her concerns.

“His grace is no fool,” he told her. “Niall has not returned either. Do you think they both lack the sense to go ashore when the water grows too rough for safety? I warrant the winds rose quicker and struck harder on the south side of the Sound than here, and they decided to spend the night safely at Duart. Wherever they are, we’ll find them after the storm has blown itself out and not before.”

“Then we must prepare to leave at first light,” she said firmly.

“We’ll leave after we’ve set men to preparing that venison for roasting, and all else required for his grace’s Paschal feast. He’d not thank us for doing aught else before we see to that, lass, and well do you know it. Moreover, with Alasdair Stewart here, ’tis your duty to play the gracious hostess.”

“You and Elizabeth can see to those preparations,” Mairi said. “As to Alasdair, I care not what manner of hostess he thinks me. I am going to order a longboat now to set out in the morning as soon as we can see.”

“And where d’ye propose to go, lass?”

“To Duart, of course, since you are so certain his grace is there.” She turned and walked away, lest he realize that it was not his grace but a more arrogant, more infuriating man, with a pair of twinkling blue eyes, that drew her to Duart Castle.

Supper might have been as merry a meal as any they had had since arriving at Ardtornish had it not been for the absence of MacDonald, Niall, and the sons of Gillean. Nearly everyone speculated as to their whereabouts, with most comfortably deciding that they had simply sought shelter from the storm.

But Mairi could not shake her uneasiness, nor could she discuss it with anyone else, because she did not understand it herself. Strong winds would frighten neither Maclean. Nor would an oncoming storm have terrified her father or Niall. Yet, whatever had happened had sufficed to delay all four, and all their oarsmen.

Her discomfort increased when she discovered that some but not all of the gillies who had accompanied Niall had returned. Questioned, one man said Niall had sent them to Duart in the longboat from the castle that came to collect the trestle tables and other items, and they had come on to Ardtornish from Duart.

“Faith, my lady, but we were gone from Craignure long afore the hunting party. ’Twas considerable work cleaning and putting away the things at Duart.”

“But did you not see the high steward or his grace there?”

“Why should we? ’Twas all we could do to get our longboat out o’ Duart Bay and home again without the winds blowing us backward to Oban instead.”

He was vague about times, and she could not be certain that he ought to have seen her father’s party or Niall’s at Duart, if they had indeed taken shelter there, or to have met their boats at any time. More frustrated than ever, she paid no heed to conversations going on around her until a feminine shriek snapped her out of her reveries and she looked up to see Alasdair Stewart stumble toward the fireplace.

Stunned, everyone watched as, apparently, albeit awkwardly, he pitched headfirst toward the fire, until Ranald lunged forward and caught an arm. But even his strong grip was not enough to prevent Alasdair’s collapse in a heap at his feet.

Ranald’s demeanor as he knelt beside Alasdair told Mairi that the latter was not the worse for drink. Rising, she motioned a gillie to her side and said urgently, “Fetch Agnes Beton. Tell her a guest is ill and to come at once.”

“Aye, mistress,” he said, running to obey.

Moving to Ranald’s side, she said, “What’s wrong with him?”

Ranald looked up, frowning. “He said only one word.”

“What?”

“Poison.”

“Mercy!” She looked at the bench where Alasdair had been sitting moments before, certain he had been drinking from a silver goblet, but she saw none there.

As her gaze swept the crowded room, she noted a number of gillies pouring wine or ale into outstretched goblets or mugs but no one presently carrying trays away. Moving nearer the bench where Alasdair had sat, she said casually to a nearby woman, “I thought him ape drunk, but I see he was not drinking.”

The woman looked surprised. “Oh, but he was, my lady. He set his goblet on the floor before he stood up. A servant must have taken it, but ’tis plain he won’t need it again tonight. Men never seem able to stop before they keel over.”

Seeking out an older gillie who had loyally served MacDonald for years, Mairi said quietly, “Gabriel, pray discover who took Lord Alasdair’s goblet away, and do not let him leave the castle. Lord Ranald will want to speak with him.”

“I know who it must have been, mistress, for I’ve seen only one man leave since. I’ll find him and keep him in the kitchen until my lord sends for him.”

Agnes Beton approached then. “What is it, mistress? Who ha’ fallen ill?”

“Lord Alasdair, Agnes. He lies yonder on the hearth by Lord Ranald.”

“Aye, I see him. Be he sick or the worse for drink?”

“He said poison.”

“Och, then the devil be amongst us! Ask Lord Ranald t’ ha’ a few lads carry him to a bedchamber, and I’ll boil up me cleansing toddy. The man looks stout enough t’ hold his own through the night, so God willing, we’ll ha’ the devil out o’ him and himself hail again by morning—unless he dies, o’ course.”

Hardly reassured by these words but knowing the herb woman was highly skilled, Mairi went with her to Ranald, and when they had seen Alasdair borne off with Agnes in charge, she told her brother about the missing goblet.

He said, “That was fast thinking, lass, to look for such a thing.”

“Gabriel said he knows who must have taken it away,” she said. “He will keep him in the kitchen until you send for him.”

“I’ll go there now,” Ranald said, turning away on the words.

Without bothering to ask permission, Mairi went with him.

In the kitchen, they found Gabriel standing guard over a quivering young gillie. “This be the lad, my lord.”

“I didna ken it would kill him,” the lad exclaimed. “’Twere just t’ make him drunk, is all.”

“What devil possessed you to put anything in any guest’s drink?” Ranald demanded. “Who gave you such an order?”

“Why, ’twas his grace’s order,” the gillie said, eyes wide with fear. “I swear t’ ye, m’lord, I’d no ha’ put the powder in yon goblet had he no said I should.”

Shocked to her bones, Mairi stared at him in disbelief. Realizing Ranald was just as stunned, she said, “Did his grace give this order himself—and the powder?”

“Nay, my lady,” the lad said, visibly surprised. “His grace doesna speak t’ the likes o’ me. ’Tis rare that Niall Mackinnon does, but ’twas him give me them powders, and all here ken fine that when he speaks, he does speak for his grace.”

Able to think of no argument to contradict that, she left the man for Ranald to deal with and went to her chamber to think. Her thoughts were no clearer an hour later, however, when Meg came to help her prepare for bed.

She could not imagine MacDonald conspiring to poison Alasdair when it was his idea that she marry him. Nor could she imagine Niall, whom she had known all her life, doing such a thing. Focusing on the puzzle was hard, though, when her thoughts kept shifting to Lachlan and the unsettling puzzle of his whereabouts.

At last, reminding herself that she could accomplish no good with pointless worry and some at least by resting before she set off for Duart, she rolled to the inside of the bed, because Elizabeth had not yet come in, and soon fell asleep.

She did not stir when Elizabeth got into bed or disturb her when she arose before dawn to dress in the warm clothing that Meg had laid out for her the night before. After dealing as best she could with laces and ties, she plaited her hair as she did when she rode early, put on her crimson cloak, and went down to the kitchen.

There she collected bread and a slice of roast lamb from a smiling cook’s lad, and took the food with her, munching as she went down to the wharf, where the longboat she had ordered the evening before awaited her.

The frost-ridden air served as a reminder that winter still had a few ice arrows left in its quiver. The wind had died to a normal sea breeze and stars twinkled overhead, albeit in patches between dark clouds hurrying east as if to catch up with the departing storm.

The oarsmen were at their benches, and the helmsman greeted her respectfully as he assisted her aboard.

“We go to Duart,” she said quietly.

“Aye, my lady, and swiftly too, I’m thinking, for the tide be still on its flow and running fast from the west, like yon breeze.”

His prediction proved true, and twenty minutes later, as the sun rose into a clearing sky, the longboat slid into its place near two others at the Duart landing.

Mairi hurried up the hill and across the forecourt to the castle entrance. The great door swung wide at her approach, the guards having recognized the black-ship banner on her longboat, and Mairi as well. Greeting the constable of the castle as he strode forward to meet her, she said urgently, “My father, his grace, is he here?”

“Nay, my lady,” the man said, clearly astonished at the question. “We’ve none here save Dougald MacHenry, his lady, and our own lads now.”

Reading meaning in the way he phrased his words, she said, “Now?”

“We did ha’ more visitors yesterday, wi’ his grace’s hunt, and all.”

“Who came yestereve?”

“Why, only them bringing horses, my lady, and Mackinnon’s lads returning trestles and such. But they stayed only long enough t’ put everything away.”

“So you have not seen Niall Mackinnon either?”

“Nay, my lady.” He chewed his lower lip.

“What are you not telling me?” she demanded fiercely. “Come, I want to know!” Only long years of her mother’s training kept her from stamping a foot.

The man swallowed hard before he said, “I doubt it be true, m’lady, but a lad did say a fight blew up at Craignure, that men attacked Mackinnon’s men . . . or mayhap ’twas Mackinnons attacked them. He also said Niall fell dead o’ his wounds, but I’ve heard nowt more o’ that, so I put little store by anything the rascal said.”

Mairi frowned. The tale sounded unlikely. Niall disliked the sons of Gillean, but surely he would never attack them. Then, memory of the gillie’s assertion that Niall had provided the poison in Alasdair’s drink set her thoughts racing again.

“Call out your oarsmen,” she commanded. “Your galleys will go with me.”

The last day of Lent had dawned fair, and although the seas at Dunconnel remained high and unsettled, the wind had died to a respectable level. Lachlan breathed deeply of the fresh air as he stood nursing a headache in the tower’s great open doorway and tried to discover the trick of its iron-spiked oak portcullis.

As far as he could tell, it was like any other such device. One released its massive weight by knocking away a wedge or ratchet in the chamber above, freeing the windlass or winding drum used to raise it on a system of pulleys, chains, and ropes. Thus, in effect, one man could lower it quickly if alerted to do so, but any such windlass or drum required at least two men to raise the portcullis. From what he had long heard, Dunconnel’s portcullis included more capabilities than that, but as yet, he had discovered nothing to suggest what they might be.

Below in the steep-sided, craggy inlet, the royal galley and longboat rocked, looking like bits of food floating in a monster’s toothy mouth.

They had all slept late, and no one had shown much interest in breakfast.

Lachlan hoped the clean salty air would chase his headache away but knew from sad experience that it would linger. He was in better shape than his overnight guests, but only Hector felt well, for he rarely drank heavily.

Lachlan had drunk more than his usual allowance to keep the others drinking, knowing that he’d sleep better if they were comatose with brogac.

MacDougall winced as he stepped into the sunlight, but MacDonald only squinted a little. He held a roll of vellum with his ship seal on it in red wax.

“Here you are, lad,” he said, handing it to Lachlan. “MacDuffie finished it before he slept, and I signed and sealed it this morning.”

“Thank you, sir.”

“Don’t you mean to read it?”

“I’ve no need, sir. I know it says exactly what you said it would.”

MacDonald nodded and led the way down the rock steps to the inlet. The tide was in, and waves hitting the rocks spilled foam across their ridged tops, but oarsmen held the coble ready to launch into the creek where they had beached the night before. Lachlan signed to MacDuffie and MacDougall to go first.