Keeper of my Heart (28 page)

Roderick gave her a conciliatory nod. “If you will excuse me, I will straighten out this misunderstanding.”

Roderick turned to leave then stopped when he reached Donald. “I am sorry to hear of your mother, Donald. I remember her fondly from my youth. She was a generous lady and will be missed.”

“Aye,” Donald said, nodding his thanks. “I am fortunate I was with her when she died. Thankfully, the mistress reminded me last night that it had been a long while since I had seen my mother and asked me to make sure I visited her. I am glad I did na put my visit off another day.”

Roderick stopped on the top step and turned around. A cold shiver went through her in warning.

“How fortunate our mistress
knows
such things,” he said, smiling sardonically. “I am constantly amazed.”

Before Roderick left, a serving maid called Anna came through the door, her face as pasty white as the apron she wore. “Master, come quick. It is Ferquhar. They found him dead.”

Màiri’s heart clenched in her chest as Donald’s gaze sharpened on the girl. “Did the old man die in his sleep?” he asked.

“Nay,” Anna replied, “he’s outside the lower level garderobe, an empty goblet still clutched in his hand. Yseult always said his love for ale would be the death of him.”

Màiri clamped her hand over her mouth to stop the bile rising in her throat. It was her fault he was dead. She should have known Ferquhar would not be able to resist drinking the poisoned ale. Why hadn’t her gift sensed it? She never should have given it to him. She should have dumped it out herself. Ferquhar would be alive if she had.

She looked up. Donald was staring at her, his face unnaturally pale. He backed up a pace, then two, as if he feared standing too close to her would cause him harm.

“Stay here, Màiri,” Iain said, the strained look on his face closed to her.

Did he realize there was a connection between the goblet she’d given Ferquhar last night and his death today? She would give anything for her gift to be able to tell her. A sharp warning shot through her as Iain and Donald followed Anna out the door, leaving her to face Roderick alone. She braced herself to face him.

He took one step toward her, then another. “It is too bad about poor Ferquhar but you should na let it bother you overmuch, mistress. You did try to warn him.”

Màiri held her ground, refusing to let him see how much Ferquhar’s death had upset her. “You murderer,” she hissed, unable to hide her revulsion.

“Ah, well,” he shrugged. “That could na be helped.” He absently fingered the hilt of his dagger at his side. “I am curious, milady,” he said, edging closer. “How is it you knew about the wine?”

Her blood raced through her veins like ice water from a Highland stream in winter. She didn’t react. Roderick knew too much as it was.

“And how was it you knew to send Donald to see his mother last night? What wee folk talk to you and tell you what no one else knows?”

Roderick took two more steps, then three until he stood close enough to reach out and touch her. “And how could you know my men did na see any Cochran warriors on the border last night?” He reached out and placed his finger beneath her chin, tilting her head uncomfortably high. “Does our laird know of his wife’s…powers?”

She clamped her fingers around the smooth green stones buried deep in her pocket, wondering what significance they held. “I’ll na let you harm him, Roderick,” she whispered, keeping her voice as steady as possible.

“You think you can stop me?”

“There is more than just me. We will stop you.”

“Who do you think will believe you, mistress? Every MacAlister knows how loyal I am to my laird and how devoted the laird is to me. Did he na raise me from a lad? Am I not his own flesh and blood?”

“They will find out the truth and you will be stopped.”

Roderick laughed. “I think not. Even you can see that the laird is na well. Perhaps the blows to his head all those months ago did more damage than it will be possible for him to recover from.”

She shook her head, unable to believe what she was hearing. Her gift exposed a hatred more vile than anyone would ever imagine one human could have for his brother.

His hollow laughter echoed in the hall. “It will na take the MacAlisters long to realize Iain is na fit to be their laird. I, of course, will be most compassionate and humble when I agree to take his place.”

“What have you done?” she said, searching her gift to show her the warning. There was something more but she could not see what it was. Somehow, Roderick was responsible for Iain’s illness.

She searched again, but nothing except Roderick’s intense hatred came back to her. “Why, Roderick,” she said, holding the stones so tight in her fist they dug into her flesh. “What has Iain ever done except love and care for you and—”

“And take away everything I ever wanted,” he added with bitterness dripping from his words. “Now I will take away everything that is important to him. And you will be first. No one will stop me.”

“You will be stopped, Roderick. Iain will see you for what you are and even though it will kill a part of him on the inside to see your hatred for him, he will deal with you as he would with any other murdering traitor.”

Roderick threw his head back on his shoulders and laughed. “How omnipotent our laird is in your eyes. What a shame you will na be here to save him in the end.”

A sharp warning shot through her breast. She took a step backwards and stopped when the long trestle table would let her go no further.

He turned around and smiled at her. “Do you know the penalty for being a witch, milady? I’ve heard it said that when they burn, their screams make the angels weep.”

Màiri reached out to steady herself against the nearest chair.

“Ah, poor Màiri. It is a shame it has to end this way but… Now our brave laird will know what it is like to be helpless to save the woman he loves just as I was helpless to save Adele.”

“No!” she hollered, thrusting her finger at him. The bracelet she’d found on her pillow last night hung from her grasp, the smooth green stones dangling in the sunlight. “You will never be laird,” she hollered. “You will never…”

Màiri stopped in the middle of her sentence and stared at the stark transformation in Roderick’s demeanor. His eyes opened wide in terror while his face turned an awful ashen gray. The look of abject horror in his gaze appeared almost frightening and his whole body trembled as if he could not control it. He stared at the bracelet in her hands in disbelief, then stumbled backwards, his arms flailing to find something solid to steady himself against.

“Where did you get that? Where did you find it?” he stuttered. He lifted a trembling finger and pointed at the stone bracelet hanging from her hand then crossed himself as if he needed God’s blessing.

“Where!”

“It is mine.”

“Nay!”

Roderick reached for the stones then pulled his hand back as if he couldn’t bear to touch them. “’Tis na possible,” he whispered. “‘Tis na,” he whispered as if the words were pulled from his mouth.

He turned away from her and stumbled across the rushes toward the door. When he reached the top step to the keep, he turned around to face her. Màiri kept the stones where he could see them, and before he spun away, she thought she heard him mutter the word ‘witch’.

She held the stones in the palm of her hand, searching her gift to tell her if there was any significance to the trinkets. Her gift came back to her empty. She placed the stones back in her pocket and held them until they turned warm to her touch. Surely they held some import, or Roderick would not have reacted the way he had.

Each word he’d spoken, every threat he’d issued echoed in her ears long after he left the room. Everything she’d always feared was about to happen. Every nightmare that had ever haunted her was about to come true. Everything she’d always dreamed of having was about to be taken away from her.

She touched her hand to her stomach. Roderick did not know how fierce she would fight to save what she had. Nor did he know how determined she was to keep what she’d always dreamed of having.

She fingered the stone bracelet in her pocket, wondering why just looking at it had frightened Roderick so. She would find out. He had no idea what she would do to save her Scot.

. . .

Màiri paced the length of her chamber, waiting for Iain to come back. He would come to her when he’d finished taking care of Ferquhar’s body, then she would tell him. She would tell him that Roderick was the one who had poisoned the ale. That Roderick was responsible for Ferquhar’s death. That Roderick wanted to be laird and had tried to kill Iain from the start. She could not wait any longer. He had to know what Roderick was doing. Somehow she had to make him believe her.

The sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the stones outside their chamber and she turned to face the doorway. She had to convince him that Roderick was a threat to him before it was too late. The door flew open then slammed shut with a loud thud. Iain’s menacing form stepped into the room, the angry chill that followed enveloped her in a cloak of dark foreboding. The look on his face bridled with unleashed fury. His words carried more anger than she’d ever heard before.

“What the hell have you done?”

She steadied herself against the small table beside the bed then walked across the room to face him. “I do na know what you mean, Iain.”

Before she could touch his flesh he pulled away as if he couldn’t stand to have her touch him. “A man is dead because of you, Màiri. He was poisoned. The ale in the goblet you gave him killed him.”

The air caught in her throat as she lifted her chin to face him. “I know. I should have thrown it away myself, but I was afraid to leave you.”

“Afraid to leave me?”

“Oh, Iain. I was so frightened.” She fought to stay composed. A picture of Ferquhar, laughing, joking, flashed in her mind and she struggled to keep tears from welling in her eyes. “I did not realize Ferquhar would not be able to throw the ale away. I made him promise he would. You heard me. He said he would throw the ale. He promised he would.”

“You should have known he would not.”

“I just wanted the ale gone. That is all. I just wanted it gone.”

“Why, Màiri? How is it that you were the only one who knew the ale was poisoned?”

The air died in her chest.

“How did you know the ale was poisoned if you were na the one who poisoned it?

“Nay! You think I want you dead? You think I would harm you? It was na me, Iain. It was—”

He slashed his hand between them and hollered. “Stop the lies, Màiri! Roderick told me everything. Although it killed him to say it, he told me it must have been you who put the ale at my place before I came. He was there the whole time and said he did na know who else could have done it.”

“Nay,” she answered, her voice barely a whisper. “Tell me you do na think I would harm you. Tell me you will na take Roderick’s word over mine?”

“You should have seen how it upset him to say the words. Twice he had to lean against the wall to even hold himself up. His face turned paler as he forced himself to tell me what he suspected and—” He turned away from her and raked his fingers through his hair. The tortured look on his face as painful as anything she’d ever imagined.

For a long time, neither of them moved. When he turned back to her, his features were set hard and unyielding. The black look in his eyes held no softness, no understanding. “Tell me how you knew the ale was poisoned if you did na do it? How did you know?”

She lifted her chin and faced him as she’d seen her mother face her father a thousand times. “I just knew.”

“How?”

“It is a gift. I can feel things no one else knows. The gift warns me of lies and truths, of goodness and evil, of dangers and threats, and love and hatred.”

He took one step back from her, the look on his face filled with disbelief. “Nay, that canna be.”

“It is the same gift as my mother had. It can be used only for good, never for evil. It shows me truth from lies, reveals what canna yet be seen, and warns me of dangers that are happening. It comes forward only when a lie is spoken or mischief is about or a tragedy is about to—”

He held his hand to stop her, the look on his face telling her he wanted to reject every word she’d spoken. Why was it so impossible for him to understand?

“The gift is na bad, Iain. Can you na see the rightness in what I can do? Can you na see the good—”

“Good? By the saints, woman, it is a curse!”

“Nay. It is used only for good! I can only see—”

“Then tell me what you see right now,” he demanded. “Tell me what I am thinking.”

“I canna. I canna read minds.”

“Then tell me what I am feeling.” He laughed. The sound was disturbingly hollow. “Surely it is na difficult to tell what I am feeling?”

She lowered her eyes and looked away from him. “I canna. You are closed to me. I do na know your feelings. I never have. Not from the first.”

He stared at her. “You expect me to believe you? You expect me to believe that you know a lie from everyone but me? That you know love or hatred or jealousy when anyone else feels it, but not from the man you married, the man you say you love?”