with tears.
Juliana could not stand such abuse. “Stop!”
Mary seized her hand and gave her an incredulous and warning look.
Alasdair faced Juliana, and suddenly it was so still and silent in the cathedral that Juliana could hear her own breathing, which was labored, and her sister’s, which was as harsh. “I beg yer pardon?” One black brow slashed upwards.
She now noticed just how even his features were, and that he had a crescent scar under his right eye. She wet her lips. She could hardly order Alasdair MacDonald around. “Please, reconsider what you intend to do.”
He smiled, amused, and turned to his foremost soldier, a Highlander with long, curly red hair. “Take him outside. Shackle him. I’ll be out to dispose of him in a moment.”
“I didn’t betray you!” Alan screamed.
“Liar.” Alasdair struck him with the back of his hand, across the face. The slap was made effortlessly but was so powerful that bone and cartilage cracked, blood streamed, and Alan was propelled across the nave. Another soldier caught him before he fell and forced him outside.
She could not allow this! Juliana rushed forward. “Stop! What quarrel do you have with the bishop? Why do you torment him so?”
His eyes wide, he looked at her anew. This time, speculation was clear in his gaze. “The bishop has betrayed me, lady. If ye must ken.”
“Could there be a mistake? I have known the good bishop for ten years, if not more. He is a good man.”
“Ah, why am I not surprised that ye, lady, would think so?” He slowly smiled, and she shivered because she did not care for the way he was regarding her—he was looking very carefully at her every feature and at her figure. “Ye must be the lady of Lismore.”
He had been bound to realize her identity, sooner or later. It was common knowledge that Lismore was her dowry. She was clearly a noblewoman, and her red hair was always the cause of interest and admiration—it often gave her away. “I am Lady Juliana MacDougall.”
“The bards have not done ye justice, lady,” he said, very softly. “They have sung of yer beauty, but not well enough. Their songs cannot match it.”
Juliana trembled. Ian lay dead not far from the vestibule, as did another of her knights. And he dared to flatter her now? “You have attacked my lands, you have killed my men!”
“And I am sorry—but the bishop must pay for his treachery.”
Juliana did not want to argue with him. “Bishop Alan does not have a treacherous nature.” She did not add what she wished to state—that he must be wrong.
“I am not surprised ye’d be loyal—yer a MacDougall.”
She tensed, breathing hard. “Are you Alasdair Og?” she finally asked.
He smiled. “The very one.”
So she was confronting her worst enemy. “I thought you were in the south—fighting with Robert Bruce.”
“I returned—for revenge.”
“What do you think he has done?” she cried.
Mary now hurried up to her. “Juliana, leave it be. You cannot save him.”
Her sister was so pale, and her hand was on the protrusion of her pregnant belly. She knew what Mary truly meant to say—leave war to the men. Their brother would hunt down Alasdair for what he had done today. Of that, there was no doubt.
But she had to do something, to try to save Bishop Alan’s life. Juliana took Mary’s arm and guided her to the steps before the altar, pushing her to sit. “I do not want you to jeopardize the babe,” she said low.
“You are placing yourself in jeopardy. You will never persuade him to leave the bishop in peace,” Mary whispered back, but her gaze was on Alasdair.
He hadn’t moved, and from the end of the nave, he stared at them.
Juliana turned back to her sister. “Too many have already died! And he has attacked my land!”
Before Mary could rebut, Juliana straightened and walked back to Alasdair. He shook his head. “Ye should heed yer sister—she is wise.”
“What did he do?”
“I will not debate ye, Lady Juliana. But I am pleased to tell ye the truth. The good bishop came to me, claiming to support Bruce as king. But I am no fool. I tested him and discovered he was naught but a spy sent by your brother. He spied on me, he spied on my brother and he spied on my father. I cannot let such treachery go.”
Juliana knew her brother—he was a man of great ambition as well. He had played kings against one another—and he had won. It was probable that he had pushed the good bishop to spy.
“I see ye believe me.”
She met his gaze, which wasn’t as ice-cold as before. “Please spare him,” Juliana heard herself whisper.
His stare was piercing. “And what would I gain from such an act of mercy? Yer brother will have won. He will think to send another spy—and another one.”
“I am not my brother.”
He shook his head, as if perplexed—or amused. “When I leave here, ye will run to yer brother, and even if ye do not, others will.”
“I can hardly ignore this attack.”
“Ye have courage, Lady Juliana, but ye should not be in the midst of wars between men.”
“You have put me in their midst. And you are in God’s house. Maybe God will forgive you for the blood spilled here, today, if you spare Alan. Maybe you will gain God’s grace.”
“I have no use for grace, not even from God.” And he whirled and strode down the nave, vanishing into the vestibule.
Juliana felt her knees buckle. As she fought to stand, her mind spun. She looked at her two dead soldiers, and another dead Highlander, one of Macdonald’s.
Mary reached her, taking her arm. “We cannot save him.”
“We must save him!”
“How can we manage that? Juliana—you cannot stop Alasdair Og, a warrior well versed in revenge, by every account I have ever heard! And you heard him yourself. He doesn’t care whether he goes to hell or not!”
Mary was right. Juliana had tried to reason with MacDonald, but she had failed. She could not think just then, not at all, and certainly not of another way to beg for the bishop’s life.
“We should go—we should get back to Coeffin Castle,” Mary said, “where we will be safe.”
Juliana looked at her, suddenly afraid. She had not considered that Alasdair might also mean to harm them.
They hurried outside. Clouds were gathering, and the bishop was hanging
