aye,” said Shona, and laughed softly. “Someone’s been feasting on the lass, true enough. ’Tis a love bite, Gemma, ye foolish cow. Now cease your nonsense and help your mon. He has a son to bury.”
“I thought ye said it wouldnae show if I kept my cloak tied,” Sophie grumbled to Nella.
“Weel, it would have, if ye didnae have such a wee skinny neck that pokes its way out of anything one tries to lash to it.”
Sophie’s response to that insult was lost as her gaze became fixed upon Gemma. It took all of her willpower not to cry out in accusation, to remain calm. She knew who had killed Donald, although she could not yet even guess why.
“Ian,” she called, drawing the man’s attention back to her, “until we ken who murdered your son and why, ’twould be wise to guard his widow and bairns.”
She held his gaze and inwardly sighed with relief when he nodded. The brief look of fury that touched Gemma’s round face only confirmed Sophie’s suspicions. The problem was going to be proving the woman’s guilt without revealing any of her own special gifts. She shook her head, then noticed Shona remained although everyone else had left, and the woman was watching her with an unsettling intensity.
“The laird didnae kill Donald,” Sophie said.
“I ken it,” replied Shona. “I dinnae ken what to think about the mon who lives in that shadowed place, but I do believe he didnae do this. Ye shouldnae hope that many will share my opinion, however.” She smiled faintly. “Ye ken who did it, dinnae ye? Do ye have the sight?”
A scowling Nella stepped between Shona and Sophie before Sophie could reply. “Aye, she does, but if ye tell anyone I will take a searing hot poker to your rattling tongue.”
“Nella,” Sophie protested.
“Fair enough,” said Shona, grinning at Nella. She stepped a little to the side, reached out, and touched the mark upon Sophie’s neck. “Mayhap I have the sight, too, for I am that sure ’tis the laird himself who has been nibbling on ye. Best ye push the rogue away.”
“He willnae hurt me,” Sophie said.
“ ’Tisnae him ye need worry on, but them.” She nodded toward the keep.
Sophie stared at the people, horses, and carts entering the gates of Nochdaidh. “Who are they?”
“The laird’s betrothed and her kinsmen.”
“His what?”
“The marriage was arranged years ago. The deed will be done in a fortnight. He didnae tell ye?”
“Nay, he didnae.” Torn between pain and fury, Sophie spoke through tightly clenched teeth, then started to march back toward the keep.
“Wheesht, she looked verra angry,” murmured Shona.
“Aye, she did,” Nella agreed in a mournful voice.
“Will she put a curse on him?”
“She isnae a witch,” Nella snapped, then sighed as she started to follow Sophie. “Howbeit, she is so angry that the laird may begin to think another curse upon The MacCordy is the lesser of two evils.”
Chapter Five
It was going to be a long night, Alpin mused as he sprawled indolently in his chair. He surveyed all the people seated at his table and decided it was going to be a very long night indeed. Except for Eric, who sat on his right and looked too cursed amused for Alpin’s liking, everyone else did not appear to be feeling the least bit congenial. Since he had long ago lost the art of pleasant conversation, if he had ever even possessed such a skill, silence reigned.
Alpin looked at Sophie as he sipped his wine and inwardly winced. She had returned from the village to find him greeting his newly arrived guests. One look at her face told him she knew exactly who these people were. He was not accustomed to the look she had given him. People usually eyed him with wary respect or fear. She had looked at him as if he were no more than some impertinent spatter of mud that had soiled her ladyship’s best dancing slippers. He had wanted some distance between them and now he had it. Alpin was not sure why he felt both guilty and desolate. He suspected she would leave now, just as he had been wanting her to, yet he was fighting the urge to hold her at Nochdaidh even if he had to use chains.
He looked at his bride next and watched her tremble so badly the food she had been about to eat fell from her plump white hand. Lady Margaret MacLane was pretty enough with her brown hair and gray eyes, her body rounded with all the appropriate curves most men craved. At the moment, she was ghostly pale, her eyes so wide with fright they had to sting, and her body shook almost continuously. She had already fainted once, and Alpin dared not speak to her for fear she would do so again.
And then there were his bride’s kinsmen, he thought with a sigh. Most of them seemed oblivious to the tense quiet, their sole interest being in consuming as much food and drink as possible. The only time any of them was diverted was when he felt a need to cast a lecherous glance Sophie’s way. Margaret’s father also kept looking at Sophie, although curiosity was mixed with the desire in his gaze. A strong urge to do violence to the MacLanes was stirring to life within Alpin, but he struggled to control it. Slaughtering many of his bride’s kinsmen was not an acceptable way to celebrate a wedding, he mused.
Unable to resist, he looked at Sophie again and tensed. She smiled at him, then smiled at Sir Peter MacLane, Margaret’s father. Although Alpin had hated her silence, felt wretched over the hurt he knew he had inflicted upon her, he felt her sudden cheer was an ominous sign. She was planning some mischief. He was certain of it.
“There was a murder in the village today,” Sophie announced. “Donald, the butcher’s eldest son.”
He was going to beat her, Alpin thought, and took a deep drink of wine.
“Are ye certain ’twas murder, m’lady?” asked Eric.
“Och, aye. His throat was cut. Ear to ear.” Sophie ignored Margaret’s gasp of horror and blithely continued. “His belly was cut open, too.” Margaret groaned and her eyes rolled back in their sockets. “Oh, and his poor face was beaten so badly ’twas difficult to recognize him.” Sophie calmly watched Margaret slide out of her seat to sprawl unconscious upon the floor. “If she is to make a habit of that, Sir Alpin, mayhap ye ought to scatter a few cushions about her chair.” She smiled sweetly at Alpin.
Perhaps he would strangle her, Alpin thought. Slowly.
“Why was the laird nay called to make a judgment?” asked Sir Peter.
“Weel, most of the villagers thought he had already come and gone, that ’twas his work,” Sophie replied, then looked at Alpin again. “Of course, I convinced them that ye didnae do it, at least those of them who would heed sense.”
“How verra kind of ye,” Alpin drawled.
“Aye, it was. I pointed out that all his blood had soaked into the ground and that, if ye were what they thought ye were, ye wouldnae have let it go to waste like that.”
“Nay, I would have supped upon it.”
“Exactly. And I pointed out that all his innards were still there, plus
