“She’s descended from a mare that belonged to my grandmother,” Ewan said, his arms folded atop the gate. “Once this cursed rain stops, we’ll go for a ride, and you can try her out. She’s been well schooled and is a gentle wee thing. She’ll give you nae trouble.”
As if to agree, the white mare nickered softly.
“I have her elder sister.” Morag pointed. “That bonny wee piebald down there. Her name is Aggie. You’ll have to think of a name for this one.”
Cristie, standing beside Ewan, stroked the mare’s nose. “She’s beautiful. I hardly ken what to say.” Not a lie. She really did not know what to say. Any display of gratitude would be merely an act, and she wanted to weep for the dishonesty of it. Such a gift could never really be hers.
Morag shrugged. “Say, ‘Thank you, Ewan, for this gift.’”
Cristie couldn’t help but laugh. “Thank you, Ewan, for this beautiful gift.”
“You’re welcome, mo chridhe,” he said, his smile brief.
Her treacherous heart quickened, as it did each time Ewan used a term of endearment with her.
“A gift of necessity,” Morag said, “since your charming brother took your wee horse back with him.”
Cristie grimaced. “It wasnae my horse, in truth.”
“Still, I cannae fathom why the silly arse would be so mean as to—”
“Morag.” Ewan gave her a pointed look.
She shrugged. “Sorry. Nay, I’m not sorry. Alastair is an arse. ’Tis a blessing you dinnae seem to have any of his traits, Elspeth. ’Tis cold out here, so I’m going in. I promised Jacques I’d beat him at chess again.”
“Aye, we’ll come too,” Ewan said. “Unless you want to stay a while longer?” This last to Cristie.
“Nay.” She shivered, a reaction to Morag’s observation more than anything else. One day, they would all know the truth about her. They would understand that they had all been wrong. That she was as bad as Alastair, if not worse. “I’m a wee bit cold as well.”
Ewan gave her a concerned look and slid his hand into hers. “Come.”
Cristie’s heart quickened again. His voice, his touch, simply being near him—all these things set her pulse rattling.
Nine days had gone by since the wedding, but it felt longer. With each passing day—and night—it became more and more difficult for Cristie to maintain her false identity and to keep Ewan at arm’s length. Not that he’d shown any sign of impatience or frustration. To the contrary. He had courted her magnificently.
But that had actually made things worse
The burden on Cristie’s conscience, and on her heart, had become a misery. She could neither deny nor arrest her growing attraction to Ewan, and had not thought to feel as strongly for him as she did. One thing she knew for certain, this fallacy could not continue.
She’d already considered running away. Absconding in the depths of night, and making her way back to Dunraven. The thought of such a venture terrified her, but she increasingly had little choice. Except, maybe, to confess all, and throw herself on Ewan’s mercy.
But that would mean betraying her kin. And her clan.
She wondered when Tasgall might show up. Soon, she hoped, then she could beg him to take her home. Alastair’s mad scheme had all been for naught. None of her enquiries led her to believe that any kind of wealth or Templar treasure had been hidden away at Castle Cathan. She had even explored the place for herself, to no avail. She had seen an empty wagon in the stable, unsure of whether it had been the one supposedly brought back by Ewan. If so, it had likely carried food, armour and weapons. Nothing more.
Ewan’s hand tightened on hers. “Where are you, lass?”
She blinked and drew breath. “Sorry,” she said, lifting her skirts as they climbed the steps to the keep. “I drifted away there for a moment.”
“Are you ill? You’ve been pale of late.”
“Nay, I’m fine.”
“Homesick?”
The question almost made her laugh. “Maybe a little.”
Ewan grunted and looked up at the dreary sky. “If the weather improves, we can arrange to visit Dunraven if you like.”
Cristie’s gut clenched. “Aye, that might be nice.”
If I asked him for the moon, I suspect he’d find a way to capture it for me. He doesnae deserve this treachery. God help me.
Despite her denials of ill health, Ewan fussed over her that afternoon, tucking a blanket around her as they sat in his private chamber. On dreary days such as this, when the weather confined them indoors, he would tell her stories of the places he had seen. And she would listen, enthralled by conjured images of lands faraway; France, Spain, Egypt, and the Holy Land.
He described them well, making it easy for her to imagine the scenery and the people. That afternoon, he told her of the mirages in the desert. False images of palm trees and watering holes that beckoned the weary and the thirsty. And an illusion of a great sea, spread out over the sand, shimmering in the sun.
“But there is no water there,” he said. “At midday, the sand is so hot you cannae walk on it without shoes.”
“You never talk about the conflict,” Cristie said. “Is it too painful?”
He gave her a sharp look. “Why would you want to hear about that?”
“I dinnae want to hear about it, precisely. But you were a Templar, there to fight for God. And obviously you did. So, I wonder why you never speak of it.”
Ewan drew a slow breath and looked away. “You wouldnae recognize me, lass,” he said, at last.
Cristie frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Battle does something to a man.” He levelled his gaze at her. “’Tis as if an unknown being steps into his body and uses it. He cannae stop it. To resist it is to die. So, he gives it freedom. He allows it to maim and kill without mercy. But in the bloody aftermath of battle, he is forced to face the truth.”
“The truth?”
“That the unknown being is him.” He crossed himself. “The merciless killer is him. The truth of it can be difficult to bear. I know of some men who have found it impossible.”
Cristie gripped the arm of her chair. “Oh, but Ewan, you cannae—”
A sharp rap came to the door.
Ewan heaved a sigh. “Come.”
Morag popped her head around the door, looking decidedly sour-faced. “You have a visitor, Elspeth.”
*
“Clothes?” Face flushed, Ewan regarded Tasgall with a look of disbelief. “You came all this way to bring my wife some clothes?”
“She didnae bring many with her from Dunraven.” Tasgall set a bag down at Cristie’s feet. “Alastair though she might need them, and—”
Ewan scoffed. “He thinks me incapable of providing for her? And you will address me as ‘laird’.”
They stood in a quiet corner at the back of the great hall. The shock of seeing Tasgall at Castle Cathan still had Cristie’s head reeling. It seemed a prayer had been answered. Not that she would leave Ewan without feeling a good measure of heartache.
She placed a hand on his arm. “I’m sure Alastair didnae mean it that way, Ewan.”
Tasgall cleared his throat. “If you’ll just hear me out, Laird MacKellar. A few of these items belonged to Lady MacAulay, Elspeth’s mother, may God rest her soul. Alastair felt Elspeth might like them.”
Cristie tamped down an urge to vomit. Tasgall’s explanation sounded ridiculous. Utterly implausible. Apparently, Ewan thought so too.
“Bollocks,” he said. “You’re lying, Tasgall. Dinnae take me for a fool. Just tell why you’re here. What does Alastair want this time?”
Certain she was about to faint, Cristie tucked a hand into Ewan’s elbow for support. He gave her a swift glance as his arm tightened around her fingers. Tasgall regarded her too, his brow furrowed.
“You’re right, Laird MacKellar,” he said, after a moment. “The clothes were naught more than a ruse. I’m here to enquire, on Laird MacAulay’s behalf, about Elspeth.”
Cristie felt Ewan’s arm muscles twitch. “Explain.”
“Laird MacAulay is worried about his sister,” Tasgall said. “He knew she wasnae too keen on the marriage, so he sent me to make sure she is well and happy. ’Tis as simple as that. He’d have come himself, but he’s a wee bit under the weather right now.”
Cristie didn’t think the second explanation to be any more plausible than the first. Then again, Alastair had a penchant for erratic behaviour, which possibly added credence to Tasgall’s unlikely tale.
Ewan gave Cristie another glance and then turned a skeptical gaze to Tasgall. “And if I told you I beat the lass every night, what would you do?”
Tasgall tensed, visibly. “Surely, you dinnae… If that were so, I’d be obliged to tell Laird MacAulay.”
“And what could he do? She’s my wife, which means she is no longer his responsibility.”
“I should imagine he’d pay you a visit anyway, but ’tis of nae consequence, since I dinnae see any evidence that she’s been harmed.” He looked at Cristie. “Have you?”
Cristie gasped. “Of course not. You can tell Alastair that I’m—”
“You can tell your laird that his sister is perfectly fine,” Ewan said. “Though in truth, I find it hard to believe that he cares about her as much as you’re implying. He didnae even bid her farewell after the wedding. Just left without a word.”
Tasgall scowled. “He was nae feeling too good that day.”
“I wonder why,” Ewan muttered. “You may rest here a while, sirrah, but I want you gone by morning. And in case I dinnae speak to you again, be sure to tell your laird that any future concerns about my wife will be voiced by him personally. Not delivered by his lap dog.”
Tasgall’s hand dropped to where his sword hilt would have been had his weapon not already been confiscated. “I’ll be sure to tell him, Laird MacKellar,” he replied, hostility dripping from his words.
“Um, do you mind if I speak with Tasgall for a few minutes, Ewan?” Cristie asked. “I just have some questions about… about Brochan and some others at Dunraven. People I miss.”
“Aye, I do mind.” Ewan grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “But go ahead and ask your questions. I’ll be in my chamber.”
Cristie barely waited till Ewan had left the hall. She glanced about, thankful to see no one nearby. “Thank God you’re here, Tasgall.”
He frowned. “Why? What’s happened? Have you found anything?”
“I just need to get out of here. Can we leave tonight?”
“But have you found anything?”
“Nay. But I cannae do this anymore.”
“You have to wait a wee while longer.” Tasgall shrugged. “Another ten days or so, Alastair said.”
Cristie gasped. “Another ten…? Nay, please, I cannae. I want to go home, Tasgall.”
“Alastair also said—”
“I dinnae give a shite what Alastair also said.” Cristie gritted her teeth. “You have to take me back with you.”
Tasgall shook his head. “You’d be seen leaving, lass. I cannae risk it.”
“Well, you have to risk it at some point, so why not tonight? I can sneak out of the postern gate and meet you around the front.”
“Alastair will no’ be pleased, Cristie.”
“Elspeth!” she hissed, glancing about. “And I dinnae care if Alastair is angry. I just cannae stay here anymore. I’ll wait till Ewan is asleep and then I’ll sneak downstairs to find you. Take a pallet by the door here, so I dinnae have to come all the way in.”
Frowning, he raked his gaze over her. “You’ve no’ been badly treated?”
“Nay.” I have never been treated so well. She bit down against a sudden rise of tears. “I have to go, Tasgall. I’ll see you later, all right?”
A growl sounded in his throat. “All right.”
*
Cristie bent her head, pulled her braid over her shoulder, and closed her eyes. This would be the last time she’d feel Ewan’s fingers brushing across her neck. The last time she’d hear his soft, focused breathing as he undid the laces on her robe.
It had become something of a night-time ritual. Intimate, yet innocent. He seemed to be taking longer tonight. She felt him pause, and his hands moved upwards till they rested on her shoulders. This, he had not done before. She held her breath.
The silence implied he had done the same.
His fingertips pressed gently into her flesh as his thumbs drew small circles at the base of her neck. Cristie pulled in a short breath as a delicious shiver slid down her spine. She should move away. Twist out of his grasp. Tonight, of all nights, she needed to be strong, and his touch weakened her.
Stop. Please. Stop.
His kiss brushed across the nape of her neck, soft and secretive, like a whisper.
And then he stepped away.
Cristie waited, hoping he’d touch her again and praying he wouldn’t. She didn’t dare turn around. Not immediately. For he might see the blur of tears in her eyes and misunderstand their meaning.
So, she blinked several times, lifted her head, and filled her lungs. Somewhat settled, she turned to see him arranging his furs and pillow on the floor, as he did every night. Every morning, he moved them back onto the bed.
“How is everyone at Dunraven?” he asked, rising to his feet and regarding her as if nothing had just happened. “Did Tasgall answer your questions?”
She nodded. “Aye, he did. Everyone is fine, thank you. Well, except for Alastair, of course, who is apparently under the weather.”
“Hmm.” A muscle ticked in his jaw. “I’m sorry if I was a wee bit harsh earlier. I’m afraid I dinnae like Tasgall much.”
Cristie smiled. “Aye, I can tell. He’s never done me any harm, though. And he’s very loyal to Alastair.”
Ewan’s eyes narrowed slightly as he regarded her. “Did you choose a name yet?”
“A name?”
“For the wee mare.”
“Ah.” She shrugged off her robe, kicked off her slippers, and clambered up onto the bed in her shift. “Nay, not yet. I’ll try and think of one before I go to sleep.”
Later, Cristie lay awake, staring into darkness, listening to Ewan’s breathing. Before too long, his gentle snores told her he’d fallen asleep. Yet still she waited, needing to be sure. Assured at last, she left her bed, slid her feet into her shoes, and gathered up her cloak.
The chamber door gave a slight creak as it opened. Cristie cursed inwardly, holding her breath as she waited to see if Ewan had been disturbed. But his quiet snores continued. After closing the door behind her with a little more care, she scurried down the candlelit stairs.
It felt like the dead of night, the hallways shadowed and silent. Sounds of slumber drifted out of the hall from those who slept within. Cristie tiptoed to the doorway and squinted into the gloom.
The glow of the fire and an hour-candle cast enough light to at least make out some detail. Cristie looked left and right, seeking Tasgall’s pallet, which should have been by the door. Finding it proved to be easy, since there was only one pallet anywhere near the door. But it was empty.
Tasgall, it seemed, had gone.
Shivering, Cristie went and sat on the stairs, trying to see a way forward. She had choices, none of them easy. She could continue with the deception and continue to refuse to consummate the marriage. She could leave, sneak out of the postern gate, and make her way to Dunraven on foot. Or she could tell Ewan the truth. Throw herself on his mercy, and pray she wouldn’t be hung for her treachery.
“Please God,” she whispered. “Help me. Tell me what I must do.”
Lost in the depths of despair, she didn’t hear Ewan’s approach. Only when he sat down beside her did she startle. “Ewan!”
“Has he gone?”
She almost feigned ignorance but decided against it. “Aye.”
“Good.” Frowning, he lifted her hand and brought it to his lips. “You’re shivering, lass. Come back to bed afore you catch cold.”
No reprimand. No questions. Just concern for her.
Tomorrow, she thought. I’ll tell him tomorrow.
“Mirage.” she said, seeing her reflection in his eyes.
A false reflection. An illusion.
He raised a brow. “Mirage?”
“’Tis the name I’ve chosen for the mare.” She gave him a false smile. “Mirage.”