Page 53 of Darach

“Who’s the handsome swain you brought to us, Charlotte?” Luthias asked her. “Surely he’s no’ my second, the ugliest MacRoss in the clan?”

Darach laughed, setting off everyone else, and pulled the laird into his arms for a long hug. He then gazed around at the other MacRoss, his smile wide and his eyes filled with merriment.

“Dinnae be deceived by this pretty face, lads,” he warned them. “I’m yet the Chieftain of the garrison, and more than ready to drill you until you drop.” His gaze shifted up to the gallery level. “My lord, I need a word in private with you about the bone cobbler and what happened to me and my lady in the future.”

Charlotte saw the armorer turn and walk off, and put her hand on Darach’s arm. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

He scowled for a moment, but then nodded. “Hurry. We’ve much to tell the laird.”

She had to go all the way to the forge to find Camdyn, who sat in front of the furnace holding the wooden dagger she had splintered while training with him. He looked so miserable she almost turned around to go back to the great hall, but she knew she couldn’t avoid this forever.

“I fought with my heart instead of a blade,” Charlotte said, closing the door and leaning back against it. “You were right about me. I’m never going to be a killer.”

His eyes glittered as he looked up at her. “And if I’d been the one in the spring that night you came? Would I hold you in my arms, and call you my lady now?”

“I lost my heart to Darach years before I came here.” It seemed like a terrible answer, but it was honest. “I’m sorry, Camdyn.”

“Aye, well.” He rose and came over to her. “I’ll collect the boon you yet owe me, my lady.” He took hold of her hand, and raised it to his lips. “I ask you love my brother with all that fierce heart of yours. He’s the best of men––and never tell him I said thus.”

“I can do that.” For a moment she thought he might kiss more than her knuckles, and then he tucked her arm through his and opened the door. “Are you coming back to the hall with me?”

“’Tis becoming my duty to escort there the ladies who save the clan,” he told her. “Mayhap ’tis better. I’ve no patience with you wenches.”

Chapter Fourteen

Well-cloaked against the setting sun, Struan left Dun Deigh alone, riding down to the small graveyard outside the village. All of the revelations that had come from the MacRoss about Fyn had at last quieted the Carack clan. After seeing the ghastly things the hunter had cobbled together out of bone in the slope cave, the war master had returned to his stronghold and gathered the clan. Telling them the repulsive work Fyn had done in secret for centuries had left everyone appalled, as did the revelation that he had tortured and killed vassals from both clans.

“Laird Luthias agrees that we shallnae be held responsible for our demented brother’s crimes against their vassals,” Struan said, and saw many avert their gazes in shame. “I neednae tell you how fortunate ’tis for us that the truce remains yet intact. Nor shall we mourn Fyn, for he murdered Callum, and that I shall never forgive.”

The one question no one dared ask yet lingered in Struan’s thoughts: who had turned Fyn from a madman into a murderer?

He stopped a short distance outside the cemetery, tethering his horse before he approached the burial being performed. Revna stood by the grave as it was filled in by a pair of stocky villagers, her hair covered by a linen veil and her gown concealed under a dark tartan. She flinched each time the crier walking the narrow streets in the nearby village struck the bell he carried and called out the name of the dead. In her hands she held a small, ragged poppet that, suddenly leaning forward, she dropped into the grave. The men shoveling stopped their work and touched their brows, and she turned and walked toward Struan.

“What do you here, my lord?” she asked, her voice toneless.

“I wish to pay my respects to your sire.” He looked past her at the villagers. “’Twas my brother murdered him.”

Revna nodded, and went around him, walking toward a tiny cottage not far from the graveyard. He took a moment to stand before the grave and offer his silent apologies before he followed her. Someone had draped the cottage’s threshold in nettles, which Struan knew the local mortals believed protected them against witchcraft. A small group of village men waited a short distance away, watching until he turned to regard them. Frustration and disappointment showed on their faces as they scattered.

Vultures, Struan thought, eager to feast on the unprotected.

After he knocked, the maid opened the door and stared at his boots. “My da cannae forgive you, my lord. He cannae even forgive your brother. He’s dead and gone.”

Struan grabbed the door before she could shut it in his face. “Nor can I make amends to the dead. I came to see you.”

Revna went inside, removing her veil and the mourning tartan, and letting them drop on the oiled dirt floor.

To see where the young maid had lived before coming to Dun Deigh made Struan’s jaw tighten. The clan provided better accommodations for livestock compared to the tiny, dingy, single room Revna had called home. No fire burned in the blackened hearth, and only a few moldy pears sat on the rough table. An ancient wooden bucket held cloudy water, obviously used time and again for washing. She had no bed, no furniture, and no candles or lantern; only one tiny window let in a little sunlight. On the floor the tartan he had given her lay in a bundle atop an ancient, moth-eaten woolen blanket. He knew she had used it as a pillow for her head, just as he knew after he left she would wash herself with the murky water, and perhaps even eat the spoiled pears.

“’Tis no’ as nice as my room at the castle, I ken.” Revna sounded disinterested. “Only ’tis how the poor live, my lord. My whole life I spent here, happy enough, I reckon.”

“You neednae live in such squalor,” Struan told her. “Gather your things. You shall return with me to Dun Deigh.”

“So you may make better use of me, my lord?” She cocked her head. “You’ve plenty of wenches far prettier than me for that.”

“You mistake your importance,” he told her. “My steward cannae spare the time to train another to serve me.”

“You’re a clever one. The lies, they roll off your tongue so smooth.” She began unlacing her bodice. “I’m yet a maiden, so you’ve the right according to the old ways. You neednae take me back to your castle for such. Fack me here, where none may see us.”