Highland Destiny (16 page)

“Not this time.”

“Nay? Your mother was willing to take my coin, like most whores are.”

“My mother was no whore when ye lured her away from her kinsmen. Ye destroyed her. Ye lied to her, made promises that ye ne’er meant to keep, and then left her, shamed and penniless, when she didnae give ye the son ye wanted.”

Beaton shook his head. It was something Maldie decided he should not do very often, for it made the scattered clumps of white hair upon his head flop around in a most unattractive way. She was almost pleased to see how ugly he had become. Not only did she consider it to be God’s justice, but it made it a lot easier to keep her distance, to think of him not as her blood father, but as just a man, a sick old man. Except in spirit this was certainly not the man her mother had so often described, not the man Margaret Kirkcaldy had loved and bedded.

“I fear I have a hard truth to tell ye, lass,” Beaton said.

“’Ware, Beaton,” she murmured in a cold voice, knowing that she was near to losing control completely. If he continued to belittle her mother, Maldie knew she could easily forget that she had wanted to get out of Dubhlinn alive. “Ye have no right to say such things about my mother. I willnae allow ye to spit upon her memory.”

“
Ye
willnae allow it?” Beaton laughed, a broken, raspy sound that briefly became a hacking cough. “Ye dare to threaten me? My heart fair leaps with fear.”

“Ye havenae got any heart. Only a truly heartless mon would treat my mother as contemptuously as ye did.”

“I treated your mother just as she deserved. She was a lass with warm blood and little wit. I cannae be blamed for her foolishness. If she told ye that she didnae ken that I was married, didnae ken the difference between sweet words said in the fever of passion and the truth, then she lied to you.”

Maldie shook her head, appalled when she actually considered his words for a moment. “Ye didnae tell her.”

“Nay, why should I? Howbeit, I ne’er offered her marriage, but she left her kinsmen and came with me. Oh, she may have been untouched ere I had her, but she was still a whore in her heart. She gave up her maidenhead for no more than a few gifts and sweet words. And she enjoyed the giving of it. I swear I have rarely bedded such a greedy lass.” His eyes narrowed and he watched her closely as he continued, “I would wager that she didnae grieve for me verra long ere she wrapped herself around another mon. She loved a rutting too much to go without for verra long. Believe what ye wish, lass, swallow your mother’s lies if it makes ye happy, but dinnae come blaming me for all of your troubles. If I am at fault for anything ’tis just for showing your mother what she
truly was—a whore, and a hungry one at that.”

Her dagger was in her hand before he finished speaking. Maldie did not long consider the fact that she was one tiny lass with a small dagger facing two belted knights with swords. All she could think of was that she wanted Beaton dead. The demeaning way he spoke of her mother demanded that she do something. Such insults could not go unpunished. He tried to wash his hands of his own guilt by blaming Margaret for all that had happened to her. A still sane part of her whispered that one reason she was so enraged was because Beaton had put into words things that she had already thought of herself, fleeting ideas that had caused her to suffer guilt and shame. She pushed that realization aside as quickly as she had all those other traitorous thoughts and, raising her dagger, lunged at Beaton.

She screamed in frustration when he knocked her back. Calum tried to grab her, but she neatly eluded him. Her dagger still clutched tightly in her hand, she faced the two men. Beaton looked amused. Calum stood just slightly in front of his laird, ready to take the next blow for the man. She was amazed by such loyalty. Beaton did not seem to be the sort of man who either deserved it or rewarded it. One look into Calum’s unblinking black eyes told Maldie that there was no weakness there to play with.

It was hopeless and she knew it. Her rage had made her act without thinking of all the consequences, made it all too easy to push aside the one brief moment of sensible hesitation she had felt. Now she was as good as cornered. Even though both men had suspected she would strike out, they had not known exactly when or how she would. That small chance of surprise had given her an edge that could have given her what she wanted—Beaton’s death. All that was gone now. She could try to kill Beaton again or she could surrender. Either choice would surely get her killed.

“Ye have my spirit, lass,” Beaton said. “’Tis almost a shame that ye are a lass.”

“Oh, aye, I was yet another failure for ye in your never-ending search for a son. And ye always blamed the woman for that lack, didnae ye? Did ye ne’er think that it was ye yourself who was failing? That mayhap your seed is too weak to produce the heir ye so hunger for?”

As Maldie had hoped, that enraged Beaton. She thought it was all nonsense, even deeply insulting to imply that producing a girl child was a sign of weakness, but had guessed that Beaton believed such a thing. The rage that transformed his ravaged face told her clearly that he had suffered such doubts about his manhood.

Maldie braced for Beaton’s charge, but still only barely escaped the full brunt of it. She struck out with her dagger as she stepped aside, leaving a long gash upon Beaton’s arm. His scream of pain and fury as he fell to the floor was still ringing in her ears when Calum grabbed her. She tried to stab him, too, not wanting to kill him, just desperate to make him let her go so that she could flee. He got a tight grip upon her wrist and squeezed, twisting her wrist slightly at the same time, until the pain pulsing through her arm made her release her weapon. Calum only eased his grip slightly as he yanked her closer to Beaton. Two armed men stumbled into the great hall, drawn by Beaton’s screams, and Maldie felt all emotion leave her in a weakening rush. She stood, numbed, waiting to die as she watched Beaton stand up in front of her.

“Ye have just made a verra foolish mistake, lass. A fatal one,” snapped Beaton, his voice hard and cold, holding a hint of the strong, imposing, and cruel man he had once been. Now he was just cruel.

“My only mistake was in putting my dagger in your arm and not burying it deep into your black heart.”

“Ye would kill your own father?”

He asked the question without shock or horror, just simple curiousity, and Maldie found that chilling. In fact, the emotion Maldie sensed behind the question was admiration. From the moment her mother had pulled that oath from her she had been torn by the horror of the crime she was being asked to commit against the man who had sired her, and a sense of justice long overdue. Beaton clearly saw nothing wrong with trying to kill one’s own father. She briefly wondered how his own father had met his death.

“Aye. I gave my mother a promise while she lay wracked with pain on her deathbed. I swore an oath that ye would finally taste the justice ye have eluded for so long.”

Beaton almost smiled. “As I said, ’tis a shame that ye are a mere lass.”

“Can ye turn your twisted wee mind to naught but sons and heirs?”

“A mon needs a son.”

Maldie shook her head, realizing that Beaton would never understand the cruelty of his behavior. He would never know how deeply he had hurt the women he had used, and the children he had cast aside as worthless simply because they were females. If he were not so ill, she suspected that he would still be doing so, still bedding any woman who did not have the sense or the speed to get away from him, and then deserting her when she did not bear him his son. For that alone he deserved killing, but she had lost all chance of delivering the retribution he so richly deserved.

“And, so, desperate for what ye couldnae produce with your own indiscriminate rutting, ye stole a son from the Murrays.” She laughed, a short, harsh sound. “Do ye truly think that the world and its mother will believe he is yours?”

“They will. He was born of my wife. And now I ken why ye were trying to creep down to see the lad. Ye are working for the Murrays against me, arenae ye? Was this betrayal part of your revenge?”

“Ye are a fine one to speak so disparagingly of betrayal. ’Tis the verra air ye breathe. Ye have dealt in it so often that it has become a habit for you. If ye werenae so sick, ye would still be betraying woman after woman and feeling no remorse for your cruelty.”

“Ye set too much worth upon what is merely the folly of passion. But what I may or may not do in the days to come isnae going to be your concern for verra much longer.”

His smile was chilling, and Maldie had to struggle to hide her fear and maintain her look of calm disgust. “Nay? Are ye going to become a monk then?”

Beaton chuckled. “Nay. Your executioner. At the end of market day ye will hang.”

“Ah, ye dinnae think that the jongleurs and minstrels will be amusement enough for your clansmen.”

“We will see how weel your spirit and that sharp tongue of yours endures when a noose is slipped about your bonny, wee neck. Now, since ye were so eager to see my son Eric, I will grant your wish. Calum, take my wee murderous bastard down to the dungeons and set her in Eric’s cell.”

Maldie did not struggle as the cold-faced Calum led her away. There was no chance of escape, so she decided to try and go to her prison with dignity. Even as Calum pushed her ahead of him, down the dark, steep steps that led to the dungeons of
Dubhlinn, she prayed that she was wrong about just when Balfour would attack again. Market day, she thought as the iron door of Eric’s cold cell was shut behind her, would be a very nice day for Balfour to ride to his desired victory over Beaton.

Douglas cursed and edged away from the high doors to the great hall. Maldie had roused his curiousity, and now he knew why. She had come to kill Beaton. He had not been able to believe his eyes when he had looked into the great hall just in time to see her attack Beaton. Douglas wished he could have heard more of what she and Beaton had said to each other, but he had been too far away to catch more than the occasional small piece of their conversation. The girl could have her own reasons to want the man dead or she could be working for one of Beaton’s many enemies, including the laird of Donncoill.

After only a moment of considering that possibility, Douglas shook his head. Balfour would never send a woman, especially not a wee, bonny lass, to kill his enemy for him. Nevertheless, Douglas was sure that this was something Balfour needed to know, and it was far too important to entrust to the tangled and often very slow line of spies and messengers Balfour had established between Donncoill and Dubhlinn.

As he slipped out of Dubhlinn, Douglas knew that it was time to leave anyway. Since Malcolm had been discovered and killed, it had become dangerous for anyone to ask even the most innocent of questions. Douglas suspected this would be the last piece of information he would gather from Dubhlinn. It and all the other scraps he had been unable to send home had to be given to Balfour before the man tried to rescue Eric a second time. All the way back to Donncoill, Douglas found himself hoping that they could find some way to rescue the young woman who had so valiantly tried to kill Beaton.

“Douglas?” Balfour paused in wiping down his horse, an activity that often calmed him as much as the long hard ride he had just indulged in, to stare at James in surprise. “What is Douglas doing here? Was he discovered by Beaton?”

“I havenae had the chance to talk with the lad all that much,” replied James, as he led Balfour out of the stable and walked toward the keep. “He arrived but moments ago, dusty, exhausted, hungry and thirsty. I swear to sweet Jesu, Balfour, the lad looks as if he ran all the way here from Dubhlinn. I told him to go to the great hall and get himself a drink, mayhap something to eat, and that I would fetch you. He is most anxious to speak with you.”

Balfour softly cursed. “I pray that he isnae about to tell me something that will destroy all of our plans for the morrow.”

“Nay, for they are good ones, holding a fair hope for success.”

They were, and Balfour was hungry for a victory, even a small one. From the moment James had told him that Eric had been taken, it seemed as if nothing had gone in his favor. There had been misjudgments, betrayals, and failures. Even though he was still reeling from Maldie’s betrayal, he saw a chance to win against Beaton and he dreaded the thought that Douglas was about to steal that away from him.

The moment he stepped into the great hall, Balfour saw Douglas. It was hard to miss the big handsome man. Douglas paced back and forth next to the head table, taking long drinks from a heavy silver goblet. The man did look as if he had suffered a long hard journey. He was covered in mud and dust, and, despite his agitated pacing, he looked battered and exhausted.

“Sit down, Douglas,” Balfour said, as he moved to his seat at the head of the table. “By the look of ye, ye should be most weary of walking.”

“So weary that I fear if I sit down I will fall asleep ere I can tell ye what I must,” Douglas said, even as he sat down on a bench to Balfour’s right, immediately across from James. “I ran more than I walked. My innards told me that I had little time left to reach you, and I dinnae ken where that fancy came from.”

“Do ye think Beaton had guessed who ye are?” asked James.

“Weel, there was no sign that he had,” replied Douglas. “He moved verra quickly when he discovered who Malcolm was. If he had guessed who I was, I dinnae think I would have been given time to think about what I should do. Nay, I would have been fighting for my life every step of the way.”

“Aye, Beaton’s dogs would have been yapping at your heels all the way to these gates,” muttered James.

“So, what did ye feel was of such great importance that ye had to bring the news to us yourself, and at such a speed?” asked Balfour.

“To begin with, Beaton may not be dying, so, if ye had thought to just wait until the mon breathed his last foul breath, ye may have a verra long wait.” Douglas reached for the jug of wine, hesitated, then refilled his goblet with sweet cider.

“But everyone has said that he is verra ill. The rumors of his impending death have been so often repeated that they have to have some truth in them, dinnae they?”

“Oh, aye, but e’en though the mon looks as poorly as any I have e’er seen still walking, what ails him may not kill him. Once I was recalled to the fact, I realized that he has been dying for three years or longer! This lass I met is possessed of a healing touch,
and she seemed to think that, if he truly had a killing disease, he should be dead by now. She said it was probably just some ailment of the skin. It does lessen and worsen as some ailments of the skin are apt to do.”

Although Douglas’s news that Beaton could still live for many years was not welcome, Balfour was far more interested in the lass he had mentioned. “Ye met a lass there who has the healing touch?”

“Aye, a bonny, wee lass.”

“With unruly black hair and green eyes?”

Douglas frowned slightly as he stared at Balfour. “Ye describe this lass as if ye have seen her.”

“I think I have. Her name is Maldie Kirkcaldy.”

“Weel, I didnae ask her her clan name, though that sounds right. Others kenned it and I think I heard the name a time or two. All she told me was, ‘
I am Maldie
.’ I had heard about her healing skills, that this was her second visit to Dubhlinn, and that she stays in the village with an old woman who was newly widowed. Curious that ye should ken this lass.”

“Oh, aye, I ken her. She stayed here for a wee while, then went running back to her master, Beaton.”

“Her master? Why should ye think Beaton is her laird and master?”

“She stayed here long enough to learn all about us then, once we had guessed her game, she went racing back to Dubhlinn. The lass appeared on the road to Dubhlinn as we crept away from our loss, kept her own counsel verra tightly, had no answers or explanations when I presented her with my growing suspicions, and then fled to Beaton.”

“And ye believed she told the bastard all she had heard and seen?”

“Aye, what else was I to think?”

Douglas shrugged. “Just what ye did, I am thinking. Howbeit, ye are wrong. That lass is no ally of Beaton’s.”

“How can ye be so certain of that?” Balfour tried not to be too hopeful for, knowing how desperate he was to learn that Maldie had not betrayed him, he was too eager to accept any other explanation for her actions.

“Oh, aye, verra certain. That lass wasnae at Dubhlinn to help old Beaton. She was there to kill him.”

Balfour was so stunned that he could not speak for a moment. It was an effort to stop himself from gaping at the man. A quick look at James gave him some comfort, for that man was looking equally as shocked.

“Did she tell ye that was why she was at Dubhlinn?” Balfour finally asked, his voice roughened by his lingering shock.

“Nay, she did more than that. I saw her trying to stick a dagger in his heart with my own eyes.”

“But why?”

“That, I fear, I cannae tell ye. I was peeping in at the doors of the great hall, and she and the old mon were at the far end. All I caught was a few words and I dared not draw any closer. There was something about how cruelly he treats women, talk of betrayal, a few weel-said insults by the lass, and a few mentions of how long overdue he is to taste some weel-deserved justice. I wondered which one of his enemies had sent her, e’en considered the possibility that ye might have, but now I think it was some personal
vengeance.”

There was one question that Balfour had to ask, although his fear of Douglas’s answer made him hesitant. “Is she dead?”

“Not yet,” replied Douglas, and then he yawned so widely that his body trembled.

“She tried to kill the mon. I would have thought that she would have been killed right there, right then, by Beaton himself or one of his men.”

“I think Calum, Beaton’s most faithful cur, would have cut her down without hesitation, but he didnae. As I said, ’twas hard to hear from where I stood. Howbeit, one thing was said verra clearly and loud enough for all to hear. Beaton evidently has a liking for using a loud, kingly voice when he pronounces a judgment. The lass is to hang at the end of market day on the morrow. I was hoping there might be something we can do to help the lass.”

“There may be,” Balfour forced himself to reply, fighting the urge to ride for Dubhlinn immediately. “We plan to attack Dubhlinn on the morrow.”

“Then I am even gladder that I left that muck heap when I did. I may have some information that will aid you.”

“I am sure that ye do, but go and bathe, then rest.”

“There isnae much time left.”

“There is enough for ye to steal a few hours of much needed sleep. ’Twill make your mind clearer.”

The moment Douglas left the great hall, Balfour poured himself a large goblet of strong wine. It took several deep drinks before he felt calm enough to think straight. The mere thought of Maldie being led to the scaffold made him desperate to ride to her rescue with no hesitation or plan, and he knew that would be utter folly. He had a plan of attack, a very good one, and it could easily accommodate the need to rescue Maldie.

He suddenly cursed and shook his head. “I forgot to ask Douglas where Maldie had been put to await her hanging.”

“There is a lot ye forgot to ask the lad, but dinnae fret,” said James. “We have time to let Douglas rest and to find out all he learned while at Dubhlinn. Ye were right when ye told him he needed to get some sleep. He was so weary he could easily have forgotten to tell us something of great importance. A mon that tired cannae think too clearly. Aye, and he needs to be rested so that he can ride with us on the morrow.”

Balfour nodded. “And, when I told him of our plan to ride against Beaton in the morning, he gave no hint that he kenned anything which could prevent that.”

“Aye, and that he would have remembered no matter how blind-weary he was.”

“Good.” Balfour rubbed the back of his neck and grimaced. “I fear my wits fled me when he told me that Beaton means to hang Maldie. One moment I believe that she has betrayed me, the next I discover that she is to hang for trying to murder Beaton. Why should the lass try to kill the mon?”

“Only she can answer that question. There could be many reasons why, and we but waste time trying to guess which one put that dagger in her hand.”

“I just fear that it may have been me.”

“Ye? Ye didnae ask the lass to go to Dubhlinn and try to stick her dagger into Beaton.”

“Nay, but I accused her of betraying me, of working for Beaton against us. Mayhap the lass thought this was the only way to save her honor, to prove her innocence.”

“That lass is no fool. There are many less risky ways for her to prove her innocence.”

Balfour smiled faintly. “The lass may be clever, but she isnae so clever or so perfect that she is free of all wild ideas or plots or ne’er acts without thinking everything through most carefully.”

“Mayhap, but that leaves us with no reason why she stayed at Dubhlinn for a fortnight ere she came here,” James pointed out. “There is more to all of this than we can understand ere we speak to the lass.”

“Aye, so we had best succeed on the morrow. Not only must we free Eric from Beaton’s grasp, but free Maldie from the hangmon’s noose. I but pray that they are both in the dungeons of Dubhlinn for, unhappy a place as it is, ’tis the safest when the battle starts.”

Maldie cautiously felt her way along the wall of the dark cell until she touched the edge of a cot, and then she sat down. It took another moment before her eyes adjusted to the dim light provided by one smoking torch set in the wall outside of the cell. She felt Eric before she saw him, felt his fear, his anger, and his curiousity.

“How are ye, Eric?” she asked. “Has Beaton hurt you?”

“How do ye ken who I am?” the boy asked as he edged nearer to her.

“Ah, weel, I have just arrived here from Donncoill.”

“My brothers sent a lass to aid me?” His voice held the hint of shock as he warily sat down next to her. “Nay, they would ne’er do that. Mayhap ye are some trick played by that bastard Beaton. He means to use ye to turn me to his side.”

“Nay, ne’er that. He but felt that I might like to meet you ere I hang on the morrow.” Just saying those words made her shiver, but she fought against giving in to her fears. Eric needed strength and calm now.

She studied Eric for a moment as he stared at her wide-eyed with shock and disbelief, clearly struggling to think of what to say next. He was indeed fair of face. His features still held the softness of a child, but there was already the hint of the handsome man he would become. His hair was a very light brown, and she suspected it would be even lighter if they were not sitting in the near dark. There was a brightness to his eyes that told her they were not brown like his brothers. In truth, the fine lines of his face did not remind her of any of the Murrays. They did not really remind her of Beaton either, so they had to be a gift from his mother. It would be easier to make up her mind about his blood heritage if she could see him in the bright light of day, but she knew she would have to depend upon the mark. If he carried the same one she did, there was no doubt about who had fathered him. Maldie was just not sure she ought to tell the boy.

“Why are they going to hang you?” Eric finally asked.

“Because I tried to kill Beaton.”

“Why?”

“I promised my mother that I would as she lay dying. She made me swear an oath that I would find him and make him pay with his life for the harm he did her. The mon seduced her, and then deserted her, leaving her alone and penniless with his bairn at her breast.,

“Ye are Beaton’s bairn?”

“Aye, one of what is said to be a large horde of daughters he didnae want. Ah, I see
I have shocked you,” she murmured as he gaped at her. “’Tis a shocking thing to try and kill one’s own father, but, in truth, I have ne’er seen the mon before today, so I have no true feeling for him. There is no more bond between us than a tiny little voice in my head that tries to remind me that his seed made me. I didnae listen to it, I fear.”

“Aye, ’tis shocking that a child would try to kill her father, but that isnae what shocked me the most. As ye say, ye dinnae e’en ken the mon, have ne’er e’en set eyes upon him. Nay, what shocked me to the heart was that your own mother would ask ye to do such a thing, to commit such a sin for her.”

“Weel, she had been terribly wronged by him. She told me so quite often as I grew. She was a gentleborn lass, and he should not have shamed her that way.”

“True enough, but the crime was
hers
to avenge. She shouldnae have asked ye to swear to kill your own father, to set that black sin upon your soul. I am sorry if ye see this as an insult to her, but ’tis what I truly think. She must have grown verra bitter to e’en think on such a thing.”

“She had,” Maldie said softly, saddened by his words for they were the stark truth. “From the earliest time that I can recall she talked to me of how I was to cleanse her name of the shame he had blackened it with.”

“She raised ye to kill the mon?”

Maldie winced. The boy meant no disrespect. He spoke with the blunt, sometimes painful, honesty of the child he still was. His direct question pounded in her mind, however, demanding an answer. The one that formed was enough to sicken her.