The Cursed Highlander Page 15

He heard footsteps running down the hallway, a child's quick step.

  “Come on, Conn! Last one in the solar has to eat the ginger cakes!”

  He smiled. The three boys suddenly confronted him from the doorway. They looked startled. The front-most boy, wide brown eyes soft and long-lashed, stared at him. They all hung back nervously.

  “Who are you?”

  He smiled. “I'm Dougal, lord of Lochlann. My condolences for the loss of your great-great uncle.”

  “Th...Thank you,” the boy said hesitantly. “I'm Conn. This is Brodgar and Alf.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” Dougal said. “Is the lord of the castle about?”

  The boys looked at each other, clearly confused.

  “The fellow who fancies himself lord of the castle's here, yes,” a voice called from the hallway over their heads. “Whether I am or not is academic. I'd say my wife takes the title, most days anyhow.”

  Dougal grinned broadly, recognizing the dark haired man from the earlier exchange.

  “Pleased to meet you.” he stood as the man came in and held out his hand.

  “I am, too,” the man replied informally. “I'm told you're Dougal, Lord of Lochlann. Condolences for the lost of your great-grandfather.”

  “Thank you, my lord,” Dougal replied.

  “Oh, yes. I'm Broderick, thane of Dunkeld,” the man said, almost as an afterthought. “I think you met my daughter, Lady Joanna.”

  “Yes,” Dougal nodded.

  So this is Joanna's father.

  He should, he thought now that he knew, have noticed the similarities they had. Joanna had some features of her father's – like him, she was tall, and there was something about his carefree grin that made him think of her. Mostly, though, she must resemble her mother.

  “She's away, I'm sorry to tell.” Broderick continued, waving them to seating. “She and her mother. They were very secret about it, mind. Said they'd be back in a week. I trust them,” he shrugged. “And they have five guards with them for good measure. These roads are not as safe as they were once.”

  Dougal nodded. If the man intended subtle blame in that, he chose to ignore it. Something about that statement made him frown, but his concentration was broken at that moment by someone at the doorway.

  A woman appeared on the threshold with a pitcher of ale and stone beakers while another was bearing spiced cakes. The latter was greeted with a roar by the three boys, who had settled at the table to play at a board game.

  Broderick and Dougal suspended conversation while the boys argued heatedly over who got the cakes with jam on, laughing between them at their indignation.

  “Your sons?”

  Broderick grinned. “Only one of them, thank Heavens! The other two are the sons of my wife's cousin Chrissie.”

  “Oh. Your son is the eldest?” Dougal guessed. The tallest boy with dark brown hair had a resemblance to the man who faced him now. It was hard to see him as Joanna's brother – the stocky, square-faced boy had little of her poise.

  “That's right. Five years younger than Joanna. In five years' time he'll probably be lording it over me!” he chuckled. “Time goes so fast. You are unwed?”

  “Yes,” Dougal said hesitantly. The topic of marriage was a desperately difficult one for him right now, and the last person he wanted to broach it with was Broderick. Unless he was asking him for Joanna's hand. He let himself imagine that a moment, imagine what it would be like to build a home with her. He sighed.

  “Well, you will be,” Broderick smiled indulgently. “And then you'll go gray too.”

  They both laughed.

  They sat and talked for a while longer, the warmth and camaraderie a balm to Dougal's soul after so long in the cold, remote castle. Even when he had been a child, his home had been nothing like the cheerful warmth of this one. It was a pleasure.

  He was so relaxed and cheered by the atmosphere that it was only when he was leaving, heading back up to his bedchamber to rest before dinner, that he remembered what had worried him about Broderick's earlier statement about Joanna.

  She had been very secretive about it.

  Where were they? Was it aught to do with her plans to solve the mystery? If it was, were they safe?

  Broderick had said he trusted that they were.

  All Dougal could do, then, was trust him. And hope he was right.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  DELIVERING A MESSAGE

  DELIVERING A MESSAGE

  The carriage rattled along the cobbled roads. Joanna bit her lip and tried to ignore the fact that the movement hurt her lower back. She leaned forward and tried to hear her mother's words over the sound of it.

  “And so you say the three attempts must be connected?”

  “Yes,” Joanna said. She had to raise her voice to make it heard over the rumble.

  Her mother nodded, making a face to show her disapproval at the noise. Joanna smiled.

  “They might try not to rattle us so,” her mother shouted loudly, “much more of this and my teeth will come loose! Jack!” She stood and hammered on the ceiling of the coach. The coach paused.

  “Yes?”

  “Slow down! For pity's sake! Buccleigh isn't burning down, you know.”

  Joanna laughed. Her mother was so abrupt, so vital. It was a pleasure to see her again after so long apart.

  The coach slowed. Joanna let out a sigh. Shifted, to ease the pain in her back. Her mother winced in sympathy.

  “Is it sore?”

  “Yes,” Joanna nodded. Ever since the ride, her back had been aching. She presumed it would stop hurting one day, and hoped that would be soon. So far, it hadn't improved.

  “Poor lamb. When we get to Buccleigh, perhaps we can take lodgings in the town. I heard from Lady Margaret that there's a good inn.”

  Joanna smiled fondly. “Trust you.”

  “What?” her mother said suspiciously.

  “You always think of practical things.”

  Her mother nodded. “Well, even in the midst of all this horror, one needs a good sleep and a full belly.”

  Joanna grinned. “Never a truer word.”

  “Quite. Now. Tell me the whole story again. When I can hear it properly.”

  Joanna nodded. She told her mother her version of events, from the servants' desertion to the ghost's appearance, the missing priest, and the three attempts to end Dougal's life. Telling her about those was hard, she did not like to recall them herself, the dark spaces filled with horror in her memory.

  She did not mention her dreams in detail, merely filled them in as a reason why she suspected his brother as the culprit.

  “So, this brother. They don't like each other very much, then?” Amabel asked, nose wrinkled in thought.

  “No,” Joanna hesitated. “Dougal is very fond of his brother. Says he should have ruled in his place.”

  As she said it, she felt one more piece fall into place. Alexander had always wanted to rule, in all likelihood. Probably felt himself more suited to it also.

  “That's terrible.” Amabel looked shocked. “Imagine! The man loves him, and he's trying to have him killed.”

  “Ambition is a funny thing sometimes.”

  “You can say that again!” Amabel huffed. “Well. If we're going to face this brother of his, we'll have to show him proof. He'll be the sort who'll just dismiss our word against his. I can just picture him. Arrogant, boorish...”

  Joanna nodded. She felt a similar way about him. The thought made her shudder nonetheless. So far, she had no real proof. Neither did she have an idea of where to find any.

  “So,” her mother continued, finger tapping her lips thoughtfully. “If he's trying to turn people against Dougal by pretending Uncle Brien's haunting the place, do you think these killers are volunteering? Or do you think he pays them?”

  Joanna stared at her. She hadn't considered it with all that clarity. “I don't know,” she said. “I believe the first one was driven by his own hate. He was a servant at Lochlann, though I
don't recall him. And if all the servants but Len and his aunt have left, I think they did truly hate Dougal, or the idea of his becoming earl in Lochlann.”

  “True,” Amabel said, green eyes focused on something far away.

  “The other two, though,” Joanna paused. “I think the second man may also have acted from hate. But the third...” her voice stopped as she thought about the man. The upright posture, the calm. The skill with the lute. Fluent French. “I don't believe he was a traveler at all.”

  “No?”

  “I think he was hired by Alexander,” Joanna said, heart thumping now. “Someone he knew or someone who worked for him. I am surprised Dougal didn't know him too.”

  “Dougal was in Edinburgh much of the time, you said,” Amabel reminded her of their earlier discussion. “His brother could have dozens of acquaintances in the countryside whom he never met.”

  “Yes. And he said he came from the west...” Joanna paused, suddenly utterly sure. “He must have been sent by Alexander, to finish the job. He must have had a spy at Lochlann castle – the ghost! Who else was it, dressed up like that, if not an agent of Alexander?”

  “And the ghost was absent for a week?”

  “Yes,” Joanna commented. “He appeared once when I arrived, and then only much later, after the wake.”

  “After this traveler arrived, also.”

  “Yes!” Joanna covered her mouth with her hands, horror and surprise filling her. Horror, at the gravity of the situation and surprise that she could finally see it and understand what was happening.

  “So,” Amabel paused. “The ghost must have traveled from Buccleigh in his father's entourage. He stayed on. Started this haunting rumor. Seen the first failed attempt and traveled back. He went to Buccleigh to report to Dougal's brother.”

  “Then, while he was there,” Joanna said, suddenly seeing it with terrible clarity, “they must have hired Francois. The two traveled together – Francois and the ghost. Francois infiltrated the place, waited for an opportunity to do as he had said he would. When Dougal was already wounded, he struck.”

  She shuddered. Remembered the dark form and how it had run at her. He would have killed her also had not Dougal intervened.

  Her mother saw her face and looked worried. “Well. Now we're here. We have to find something to show this Alexander. Something that will let him know we mean what we say.”

  “Yes,” Joanna nodded. She closed her eyes, trying to think back to whether there was any proof they could find.

  She thought back to the day when Francois had arrived. How she had talked to him in the courtyard, hearing his story about being a minstrel. How she had gone back to the hall, helped oversee the wake. How Francois had played at the wake, so skillfully. Her mind strayed to Douglas. His tall form in the hallway, dressed in black at the back of the hall. The way he stood out in any crowd, tall, broad-shouldered, and serious-faced. How he had stood at the back of the hall while the lay was sung, talking to the priest...

  “The priest!” she shouted. Suddenly it was so horribly clear. She knew where the proof was! It had been under their noses all the time and they hadn't seen it. She wanted to laugh. How could she have missed it? How could she have been so blind?

  Her mother looked up. “Daughter?”

  “Sorry, mother,” Joanna dismissed her earlier outburst hastily. “But mother! I understand now! I think I know where we might find the proof we need!”

  “Oh?” Her mother frowned. She reached for her hand, clearly worried, but Joanna was too excited to be calm.

  “When we reach Buccleigh, I think it would be a very good idea to go to the inn,” Joanna said.

  Her mother frowned. “But Joanna? What about the proof? You said...”

  “If we go to Buccleigh, I think we might just find all the proof we need.”

  Joanna tried to sound absolutely certain. She almost was, too.

  She hoped and prayed that she was absolutely right.

  In three days' time, they would reach Buccleigh. If she was right, they would have all the proof they needed already there. The assassins would have to stop haunting Lochlann as well.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  A DISCOVERY IS MADE

  A DISCOVERY IS MADE

  Dougal felt strangely wistful as he rode down the hill from Dunkeld. He was sorry, he realized, to be leaving it.

  The place is more homely than anywhere I've ever been in my life.

  It was an odd realization. He had come to like her family, too – though none of them was like Joanna, not exactly, since he was sure there was no one in the world as wonderful – they all had a trace of that generous quality which characterized her.

  I've come to like it here.

  He sighed. The woodlands were cold and as he rode below the tall, forbidding pine trees, he found that his joy evaporated, giving way to his worries about the future.

  He could love Joanna as much as he liked. However, his father would still not agree to a marriage with her.

  Or would he?

  As he rode back, he found that some of the optimistic views he had seen in Dunkeld were still with him. He had not actually asked his father anything.

  It's about time I did.

  He knew his own mind. He knew he wanted Joanna. He also knew he wanted her as his wife as much as he wanted to continue drawing breath.

  His father might even say yes. If he didn't, though? Well, then. He had another son. Let Alexander manage things; marry whom he was ordered to. He might end up father to a king one day! However, Dougal did not want that. He wanted to be free.

  Free to follow his heart.

  As the day wore on, the sun starting to filter through the mists, he found himself changing his plans. It was perfectly allowable for him to go to Buccleigh. Why shouldn't he?

  He ought to report to his father in any case, to tell him of his troubles with the management of Lochlann. If nothing else, perhaps his father had masons who could help him mend the rear wall of the fortress. As well as some men to supplement the guardsmen, and some provisions to help them that winter.

  The more he thought about it, the more he realized it was a good idea. Lochlann would benefit.

  His motive, of course, was to see his father. Ask him if he was free to wed whom he would wed.

  And if I'm not? Well, then. France seems a fair prospect.

  He felt a sudden bright flash of hope as he thought of it. Rather a beggar in France than an earl or duke here, where he could not be married to his Joanna.

  The ride through the forest took six hours. At the edge, he stopped. Here he had to choose whether to go on to Lochlann, or whether to stop at an outpost, leave a message for his steward and perhaps change horses, heading on to Buccleigh.

  “I'm going to Buccleigh.” He said aloud, sure of it now. It was a long ride – three days at most – but it was worth the trip. It was the rest of his life.

  At the outpost, he reined in his horse.

  “Good evening!” he shouted, surprised that no one had spotted him.

  A guard appeared in the window. “What're you...? Oh!” He snapped to attention, recognizing Dougal, and suddenly blanching with fear. “Sir!”

  “Yes,” Dougal said lightly. “It's me. And I expect guardsmen to be more attentive than that.”

  “Yes, sir,” the man said, nodding crisply. “Absolutely.”

  Dougal wanted to laugh. He could, if he was feeling harsh, have the man dismissed or suspended from his duties. However, right now he was in a strangely good mood. He was happy to be resolving this finally. Facing the future he truly wanted, with all its wonderful unknowns.

  “Well, don't stand about,” he said gruffly to the guard. “I'll want a message taken up to Lochlann. Tell them I'll be away a week.”

  A week ought to do the trick – three days either way on the road, and one day at Buccleigh. He could afford no more time away from his duties at Lochlann.

  If they would be his duties that much longer.

&nbs
p; The thought filled him with a wild sense of wonder. This was the first time in his life that he would truly be doing as he chose to.

  The guard looked oddly at him, and Dougal realized he must look unsuitably happy. He wiped any trace of smiling from his countenance, and gave him a suitably baleful look.

  The guard headed up the hill with the message, and the other two stabled his horse and found a fresh mount for him, a bay stallion with a restless temperament.

  At this rate, I'll be in Buccleigh in two days' time, Douglas thought to himself as he headed up the hill.

  All he has to do was cross the moors, pass through two or three towns and reach the main road. From there it would be a short and easy journey into his father's lands.

  The journey took three days.

  After two days, the rain started. Dougal, traveling across the countryside, soaked to the skin, his tunic plastered to his back and his wounds stinging as the cold and rainwater touched them, decided it would be more sensible to stay in the village of Tynbrook than carry on and risk further injury.

  On the afternoon of the third day, he found himself riding up to the gates of his father's castle.

  “My lord!”

  The guards here greeted him like a long-lost friend, and Dougal felt his heart soar at their friendly welcome. He had not realized how being unwelcome had distressed him so.

  “Bronn. Is my father in?”

  “He's out riding with Alexander. Your uncle stayed on.”

  “Oh?” Dougal blinked in surprise. He had not known his uncle Fergal was here at all.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “Thank you,” Dougal called as someone led his horse away. Unencumbered by luggage, he headed up the steps to the great hall. The place was as rigidly ordered, as scrupulously maintained, as he remembered. Guards saluted and he nodded back, the recognition making him smile.

  Funny how I missed that.

  Upstairs, he washed the grime of the journey from his face and hands, changed into a fresh tunic and headed down to the solar.

  “Uncle?”

  “Ah! Nephew! Dougal!”