Dark Side of the Laird (Highland Bound) (11 page)

Chapter Eleven

Emma

T
he wind blew in frigid bursts on top of the battlements overlooking Gealach’s lands. I’d been standing there for at least two hours. Looking out over the gently swaying marshy grasses, the eerily tranquil waters of the loch and the intimidating starkness of the forest. I don’t know what I was waiting for, or why. But the intensity of my need was such that even the numbness of my fingers and painful sting of cold swirling up the skirts of my gown couldn’t make me leave my post.

Logically, I knew I
couldn’t stand here for the weeks it took until Logan returned. But, even with that knowledge present, I couldn’t pull away. Had to stand here. Had to wait. Had to ride out the fear that rode shotgun in my heart.

Felt the
deep necessity to stand guard. Not that I’d be able to do anything, should I see something amiss. I had no weapons. I had no way of shouting out to anyone, for my voice would not be carried on the wind. I was also not an authority figure, despite the dagger that burned a hole in my thigh.

I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t scared shitless. Logan had only ever left the castle before for a few hours at a time—scouting, hunting or working on his ships. When he was gone, I stayed in my room
or helped out Cook, fearing the unknown and whether or not he’d return. Two or three weeks was completely different and I was almost certain I wouldn’t spend any time in my own chamber. No, I’d be in his. I’d lock both our doors, opening up the sliding wood panel between our chambers and curl into Logan’s bed, feeling safe in the large stark bed—though it mirrored mine.

I’d confiscated one of his linen shirts, too, his scent still captured in the woven fabric. I’d probably be sleeping in that every night.

A rider break through the forest trees traveling at a speed that would likely kill a lesser animal.

“Oh my God.”

I leaned forward, heedless to the frozen stone on my fingertips as I watched. His beast was massive, strong, and resembled the stock Logan kept in his stables. The colors of his plaid matched that of the warriors who’d left over a couple hours before. My heart lodged in my throat.

“No,” I whispered, leaning further still over the side and blinking furiously, willing the vision away.

My heart skipped a beat, launching itself up into my throat and choking me. Unable to breathe, unable to steady myself, I looked frantically from side to side. There was no one up here with me. The men were posted at their respected stations—away from me, precisely the reason I’d chosen this quiet spot.

Had they seen the rider? Did they know something was going on?

I prayed they did, tried to listen to see if I could hear shouting, but I all I was aware of was the pounding of my heart and the way the wind had shifted and picked up speed.

“Rider!” I called, certain no one would hear me.

The riding warrior raised his arm in the air and waved it. Was there an answering call? A wave? I leaned over the stone, trying to catch a view of the courtyard and the gate tower. Dammit! I could hardly see anything with my hair whipping into my face.

And I heard nothing, besides the wind.

Shoving away from the stone, I ran to the wooden door that led to the narrow stairwell. I had to get to the courtyard, had to find out what was happening. I tugged at the door, but it wouldn’t budge. Oh, my God, had someone locked me up here? Anticipated me freezing to death?

I wrapped both hands around the iron
. Twisted, yanked, nearly pulled my shoulders from the sockets. This couldn’t be happening. Then, I remembered the door pushed open, allowing anyone from inside to get out in bad weather when snow blocked the door from moving if it was opened the opposite way.

I shoved it open, the black of the stairwell making me stop short. I stepped
inside, allowing only a few seconds for my eyes to adjust to the sudden dimness of light. Dear God, please let Logan be okay.

I took a tentative step forward, lifting my skirts with one hand to free my feet from the hem, and pressed my other hand to the stones to steady myself. No railings…

Round and round I went, passing tiny alcoves every six stairs or so where guards would sit with their arrows pointed toward the enemy. The last one I passed, I swore a shadow moved. Like the shadows of the darkened stair that led to the secret chamber. The shadows that always stayed just on the peripheral of my vision, not wanting me to see. Haunting me. When I turned to look, I lost my footing, or was that a hand on my back? A gentle shove. Its result was anything but soothing.

I cried out, hands shooting out to grab onto something, anything. But there were no handrails, not even a rope strung up with iron hooks against the wall, and my
skirts… They were so long, my feet tangled up in them. I pitched forward, my knee slamming into the edge of step and then my shoulder bashed against the wall. I cried out, rolling down the stairs, body parts hitting, head smacking, and nothing to stop me from falling the rest of the way.

When the movements stopped, I was so dizzy, head swimming and every inch of me crying out in pain. I had to have broken something, had to be dying.
Then again, I felt pain so I couldn’t have broken my neck.

I stared up at the swirling dark ceiling. Jerked my gaze to the left where the stairwell curved. There was the shadow, coming closer. Not imaginary. But very much real.

And then I remembered nothing.

I
don’t know how much time had passed, but when I opened my eyes, I was lying on the softness of my mattress, vision blurred and body screaming out in agony. I blinked my eyes rapidly, taking in the orange glow of candles and a fire in the hearth. Gray blobs resembled bodies—standing, sitting, talking. People were in my room.

My entire head roared with pain, thumping in a mean way inside my skull.

But I was alive.

“…only a dozen stairs or so, she was lucky.” The sound was a male voice, and I blinked trying to bring to memory who it was.

I knew it from somewhere. Knew him. But I couldn’t place it. Couldn’t place any name, except… Emma. That was me. And Logan. That was my…

I opened my mouth tried to speak but no sound came. I lifted a hand, trying to reach out, but I couldn’t make my fingers work.

“She’s awake.” A grayish blob of human form hovered over me.

“What—” I started to say, my voice sounded foreign and distant, echoing in my own head.

“Hush, darling.” It was an older woman’s voice, and for a moment, I thought for sure it had to be my mother. Sounded so much like her. A hand brushed over my forehead, soothing as it pushed the matted, sweaty hair from my temples. Reminded me of when I’d had the flu as a young girl and my mother had sat vigil at my bedside, wiping my forehead with cold cloths and holding a cup of lemon-honey tea to my lips.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. My mother was dead. Gone. This was not home. This was Gealach.
The vision of the rider flying like the wind over the moors pressed in on me. “Logan… where is he? What happened?”

“Shh…” the woman said again.

I blinked open my eyes, trying to adjust them to the light in the room, but it felt so bright and made pain sear across my forehead. From what I could tell, it was Agatha sitting beside me.

“No, I won’t. Stop shushing me,” I whispered, the frantic words taking away a lot of my energy.
“Tell me, have I broken anything?”

Agatha leaned forward, wiping at my brow again. “Not that we can tell, lass. You’re badly bruised all over from your fall, but it looks like the worst of it is just sprains. Ye were verra lucky. Verra luck
y indeed.”

I sighed, swallowing, suddenly feeling so hot, then cold again.

“Your body is working hard to repair itself.”

I nodded
, allowing my eyes to rest a moment and hoping when I reopened them, that the blurriness would have ebbed.

“My lady,” Ewan’s voice sounded from somewhere to my right.

I rolled my head to the side, blinking open my eyes and seeing his blurry form. Or at least what I thought was his blurry form.

“Ewan,” I said. I held out my hand. “Come closer.”

He stepped closer to the bed, his hands clasped behind his back.

“Where is Logan?” I asked.

“He is on his way to the king, my lady.” His voice was calm. Too calm.

“B
ut the rider… Who was he?”

He cleared his throat, and when he spoke his tone was clipped.
“We shall speak when ye’re feeling better.”

I shook my head, the motion making me all the more dizzy and m
y stomach rolled. I pushed up on my elbows, my head lurching forward against my chest, suddenly certain I was going to vomit on myself.

“Ye must have rest, my lady. We’ll talk of the messenger when ye’re feeling better. For now ye must concentrate on your health.
The laird will have my head if ye’re not well upon his return.”

I closed my eyes, swallowing down the bile rising in my throat. I heard his words, but I heartily disagreed. I didn’t want to wait. Didn’t need to. As much as I wished
Ewan was my older brother reincarnated, brought back from the dead, I knew he wasn’t, and I didn’t want him to treat me that way. Bossing me around. Keeping information from me when I needed to hear it. I…

I turned to the side, gagging, and there was Agatha again, stroking my hair and holding a pan beneath me
as I retched. Very little came out as I’d not eaten yet that day. And when the gagging stopped, I was sweating all the more, my breathing ragged, stomach painful.

“I’ve posted guards outside her door,” he said, speaking as if I weren’t there. “Dinna let…anyone in, unless ye’ve sent for them.”

His cryptic words were indicative that he thought Isabella could have been responsible for my fall. Or was I just reading into it. Had I mentioned in my unconscious state that there had been a shadow hovering above me. Was Isabella the one who pushed me? I vaguely remembered feeling that shove on my back. Or was it all my imagination?

When
Ewan opened the door, I swore there was a flash of Isabella’s dark smile from the corridor. A shiver stole over me. Though I had no proof, I was acutely aware that the woman wanted me dead, and that she’d tried to make it happen earlier.

The door close
d tight and I was relieved to know that guards stood outside. Isabella couldn’t get to me while I lay here, not without getting through them first, and there was no way she could knock out two guards that weighed twice as much as her.

Was there? I gave a mental shake of my head. No. There was no way.

Chapter Twelve

Logan

T
he king’s guards made us wait outside in the cold, the beginnings of a storm brewing from the scent of the wind. Night had fallen hours before, and the moon was high in the sky, but guarded by misty clouds.

Torches lit the battlements of Falkland Palace
. The groggy guards who sat on the wall-walk were none too pleased with our arrival, but I’d pushed us hard and had no plans whatsoever to make camp outside the walls of the palace. We were in need of a hearth, ale and warm food.

“Open the doors. ’Tis Logan Grant, Guardian of Scotland.”

The men peered over the side, their eyes squinting in the smoke from the torches. “Looks like ye,” one of them said.

“Likely because ’tis,” I drawled out.

“Ye’ll have to drop your weapons, Guardian or nay,” the other man said taking a sip of something that steamed in his mug.

I rolled my e
yes toward my men. “We’ll disarm in the courtyard.”

The
king’s men seemed to chew on that for a moment, whispering back and forth, but then they both nodded. “A minute, then, good sir.”

The sounds of the portcullis chain being cranked broke the otherwise silence. As it was raised, the doors were
opened and we rode slowly into the courtyard, arms upstretched.

The king was on high alert, it would appear. I’d never been subjected to such scrutiny before.

We rode toward a brazier lit high with logs in the center of the courtyard, and boys from the stables came rushing forward to greet us.

“Disarm,” I issued the order
to my men.

We dismou
nted and worked to remove our weapons, making a pile of them in the center of the horses.

“See that these are put in a safe place, lad, and I’ll see your belly full,” I called to a young man standing to the side. He nodded eagerly, hunger making his cheekbones sharp
and eyes wide.

My brother
was fond of depriving his servants, preferring they be hungry and needy, grateful for the scraps he might toss their way. His method disgusted me.

“Why’ve ye come so late?”
a guard asked, skulking up to us and placing himself in our path to the castle entrance. His eyes held suspicion. He wore a thick cloak of wool and fur, his bushy brows were pressed together in a frown and his beard was long and braided. Whisky flowed from his breath. There was a sneaky look about him that turned my stomach. I supposed the night watchmen were all of a darker sort given they lived without the sun, but this man was treading dangerously close to the edge of my patience.

I cracked my neck and flexed my fists, a silent warning that though I’d put my weapons aside, I was still deadly.
“I’ve come to seek an audience with the king. We were close enough I saw no reason to make camp outside the walls.”

The guard grunted, studying me with contempt. I sneered back at him and took several menacing steps forward until we were nearly nose to nose.

“Dinna look at me like I’m the dirt beneath your gutless boots. I’m the Guardian of Scotland and would see ye flogged by my own hand if ye dinna give me the respect I deserve.”

The man swallowed, his lips thinned, but still he said naught.
Nor did he move.

I bared my teeth, “Step aside.”

He sucked his tongue over his front teeth as if trying to decide whether or not it would be worth it to get into a brawl with me. Probably the most entertainment he’d have seen that day, if not all week. But if he was smart he would have realized it was a feat he could not win and one he would walk away with more than a few mere bruises from.

Men started to gather around us. Servants, guards, a few drunke
n lords. Everyone was in a bloodthirsty mood, hoping we’d go at it. A few called jeers, but I ignored them all.

Irritation shot its way through my veins, making my breathing heavier, my fingers itching to curl around his neck. I wanted
him
to egg me on, not the crowd. Just to make one move that would have me retaliating. One tempting shift in his gait. I needed the fight. Needed to let out all the frustration building inside me. I’d beat him to a bloody damned pulp.

M
aybe that’s why my man Robert said in a low whisper, “My laird,” attempting to pull me from the anger that I so desperately wanted to unleash on this man who dared challenge me.

The guard, perhaps seeing that as his own way out, held up his hands and took a few steps backward. “No need to get your ballocks in a shackle, my laird.”

I straightened, taking in a deep breath that I’d hoped would calm me, but it did not. I was still furious. And I didn’t think that fury would leave me until I knew that Emma was going to be mine for good, Lady Isabella was far north and MacDonald was rotting in his grave.

I stared the man down a few more moments, the tension in the courtyard crackling around us. But I’d more pressing issues than starting a courtyard brawl, as much as I wanted to. I turned from the
guard and with a nod of my head, indicated for my men to follow. Upon entering the castle, the men were taken to the barracks to catch a few hours of sleep before the castle bade them rise, and I was given a private chamber on the second floor.

“I wish to see the king first thing in the morning,” I informed the steward who lead me to my lodgings.

The man nodded. “I shall see that he is informed upon his rising. Though I must warn ye, Laird Grant, the king is not well at all.”

I’d noticed him coughing while at Gealach, but summed it up to a case of ague that often hit many in the winter. “Explain,” I said.

“He’s taken to his bed early the past several nights and has been hiding the fact that he’s had a fever. He’s not been himself since the defeat with the English at Solway Moss. His Majesty is much disturbed by the unrest with his uncle. Henry VIII’s break with Rome… The king fears we are all doomed.”

I narrowed my eyes.
“Dinna repeat your thoughts to anyone else. They could be the cause of more unrest amongst our people,” I warned. “And the fever, how do ye know this?”

“His gentleman of the chamber has informed me, my laird.”

I nodded. “The king has his pride.”

“Aye, my laird.”

“Has no one sent for the healer?”

The steward shifted his eyes as if expecting someone to come upon us. “I sent for the healer myself, but the king turned the old woman away this evening.”

“I shall talk to him about it in the morning.” Dear God, was the king so far gone that he would refuse assistance from those who could heal him? Did he wish death upon himself? ’Twas not like James at all.

“And the queen?
How is Her Majesty?”

“She has taken to her
childbed at Linlithgow Palace. The birth of our country’s prince is expected any day now.”

And I prayed ’twas a prince, for if Mary de Guise birthed another dead prince or a princess, MacDonald would have even more incentive to pounce on the throne.
’Haps the king’s ague was timed with her childbed. Was it possible my brother did not have faith in his wife’s ability? That he could glean that much from thin air and run with it?

“Let us pray for her and the future prince,” I murmured.

The steward nodded, his eyes cast toward the floor and every doubt he had mirrored on his too open face.

“The king, dinna forget I want to see him first thing in the morning.”

The steward nodded and backed from the room. Once he’d retreated, I barred the door, trusting no one in James’ midst not to try and murder me in my sleep. My position and my holdings were much coveted, as was the much guarded secret I possessed. If they knew exactly what it was I held, they’d run from me, for I was strong, powerful and if I were to be king, my enemies would not survive the hour of my claim.

Lucky for them
, I had no plans to take the throne for myself. The life of a king was not for me. In that, James and I saw eye to eye. I’d once wondered, questioned, even damned the king and queen for taking my birthright, but since knowing Emma, I was positive deep down that I was where I was supposed to be.

As much as I believed I’d be a better king, I wasn’t. My duty was to guide my brother through his
reign.

But damn, what was wrong with him now? Why refuse the healer? Why hide his illness?

Was James truly so concerned over our uncle’s break from Rome and insistence that Scotland do the same? I highly doubted that was the case. James did not waffle. He either saw the merit in a move—whether or not it was right—and went with it. Or he didn’t.

Henry VIII was for certain a lunatic in my eyes, but that did not make me feel the need to jump through the rabbit hole of insanity with him. And that there
, was probably the best reason for me not to be king. I saw no need to worry over another monarch’s personal choices and ruination of his country.

Why would Jam
es let that pressure get to him? He’d fought hard to keep us in our own, away from England.

I frowned. Indeed all I wanted at this very moment was a chance to be in Emma’s arms. To marry the woman I loved and to live in peace. Knowing I would never get the latter only made me crave knowing she was mine forever even more.

I flicked my gaze around the room and blew out a frustrated breath. The room was rich, opulent, and far more than I needed. The windows were covered in stained glass and even the porcelain pitcher and bowl left for washing were gilded around the rim.

I disrobed, removing the
hidden weapons I’d not taken off in the courtyard and sent up a word of thanks to the heavens for not having the surly guard search us to make sure we didn’t carry concealed weapons. With as much tension surrounding this court, the king and myself, I was not about to walk around unarmed.

Didn’t take much before I strapped blades back onto my wrists and thighs. I climbed into bed, arms behind my head. I’d slept armed to the teeth before, tonight would be no different.

Except that I barely slept before streaks of gold seeped through the paned glass.

Morning.
A dull ache thudded at the base of my skull and my eyes felt heavy, but there’d been too much on my mind to sleep. I’d gone over in my head at least four hundred times what I would say to the king. He had to answer in my favor, there was no other reaction I’d accept.

It
was very possible that if he didn’t agree with me, all hell would break loose.

I climbed from bed and dressed quickly, splashing water on my face and through my hair. The liquid chill helped slightly with my headache, but I feared the pain would not cease until I was home with Emma.

Opening the door to my chamber, I could have been the only one awake, given that all was quiet and the corridor cloaked in darkness. No torches had been lit as yet and there were no windows. I ducked back into my room and grabbed the candelabra from the table, lighting the candles with a flint. A little bit of dark was not going to keep me in my chamber. Nor was the lack of human presence. I needed to have words with the king. Now.

Throughout the night visions of more marauders attempting to lay siege to Gealach haunted me.
I pictured their distorted, demon bodies leaping over the walls, and swimming unseen to the water gate.

What if
Gregor never made it back in time to warn Ewan? What if Isabella roamed the halls waiting for the right moment to strike? What if she somehow managed to get into the store rooms and drugged all the whisky, wine and ale? The entire castle would fall ill to her will.

I shook my head as I glanced up and down the deserted corridor.
That last notion was a bit ridiculous. The woman could not have acquired that much poison. But then again, I had no idea what she used. A question I should have gotten answered before coming here, but it was unlikely that she would have answered in any case.

Stepping further
into the hallway, the candles lit several feet around me, and I made my way back toward the stairs, still surprised not to see anyone on the stairs as I descended. On the short walk to the great hall I heard voices, that of a few servants. Upon entry, I noted several of the king’s servants were about, but not as many as I would have thought at dawn.