Ewan paused on the threshold of the great hall and absorbed the scene within.
At first, everything appeared to be more or less the same, reminiscent of his first night back at Castle Cathan almost six weeks earlier. Shutters, locked in place with iron bars, kept both cold and daylight at bay, the latter replaced by the warm flicker of rushlight and tallow candles. Smoke from these climbed upwards, joining with the smoke from the fire before seeking escape through the louvre above the central hearth. A thick melange of human, animal, and culinary odours flavoured the air, some less pleasing than others.
The mood on this night, however, felt different. A little less sombre. The hum of conversation was the liveliest it had been since Ewan’s return. Perhaps the spirit of Clan MacKellar, so long burdened by uncertainty and grief, had begun to rally.
The clan needs a laird, Ewan. A man they can trust. Our father is gone. Ruaidri is gone. To you, then, falls the obligation.
If words were weapons, Ewan thought, obligation would be the blade that cut a man off at the knees.
His gaze drifted to the head table, where his wife sat beside Morag and Jacques, the three of them engaged in conversation. Morag and Jacques’ mutual attraction continued to amuse him, especially since both of them seemed intent on denying it.
Then again, perhaps the Basque knight knew exactly how the land lay. Ewan had oft thought there was more to Jacques Aznar than met the eye. The man had hidden depths, and a wile to match that of a fox. He also had the trust and respect of those at the highest level within the Brotherhood and the Holy Church. To underestimate him would be foolish.
And as for female temptation from a fiery-haired Scottish lass, Jacques was unlikely to surrender his vows, despite his obvious fondness for Morag.
Vows.
Ewan leaned against the wall, folded his arms, and suppressed a sigh as he watched his wife. Thus far, his wife in name only. Twelve days had passed since their marriage vows had been spoken, and the union had yet to be consummated.
He’d been patient, quite willing to court the lass. In truth, he’d enjoyed it. It had allowed him to better assume his role as husband and laird. And, despite their lack of intimacy, or perhaps because of it, his passion for his wee bride continued to grow.
Tasgall’s recent visit had unsettled her. She’d disappeared in the night, and Ewan feared she’d intended to return to Dunraven with Alastair’s shifty henchman. He hadn’t voiced his suspicions to her. It was enough that she’d stayed. The reason for Tasgall’s visit, however, continued to puzzle him.
Ewan shifted his thoughts back to his wife. He’d grown fond of the lass. More than fond, perhaps. Her curious nature continued to delight him. She lacked neither intelligence nor piety. Of course, he’d always been well aware of her womanly attributes, the gentle swell of her breasts and the graceful curve of her hips.
But he also admired the delicate shape of her hands and wondered what they would they feel like on his body. He liked the way her lips pouted whenever she pondered something, and he wondered what it would be like to kiss them. Then there was the soft blush that often arose on her cheeks when they conversed.
And her eyes continued to intrigue him with their blue depths. They still held secrets, but no more fear. Recently, he’d seen desire in them as well. He felt sure he’d soon be able to take his place in their bed. The mere thought of making love to her caused a tightening low in his belly.
Perhaps she sensed his gaze upon her, for at that moment she looked his way and smiled. Ewan returned the smile and stepped away from the wall, intent on joining her and the others at the head table.
He took but two steps.
“Laird,” Duncan called, from the doorway, “You have a visitor.”
Ewan turned and regarded the man—a priest—who stood beside Duncan.
“Do you ken who I am, Ewan MacKellar?” the man asked. “True enough, you’ve no’ laid eyes on me for at least a dozen summers.”
Ewan narrowed his eyes as he fished a memory from the depths of his mind. Aye, he knew the man, even though time had mapped its journey on his furrowed face. Of decent height, he possessed a straight posture that belied his age. His plain brown robe, belted with rope, fell to his ankles. A plain wooden cross, dangling from a thin leather thong, hung around his neck.
His hair, once thick as sheep’s wool and the colour of coal, had turned as white as a shroud and circled his balding head like a halo. His blue eyes, however, twinkled as they always had, and showed no sign of shock at the sight of Ewan’s scars.
Grinning, Ewan stepped forward and grasped the man’s outstretched hand. “Father Joseph,” he said. “It pleases me greatly to see you again. You’re still spreading God’s word around the Highlands?”
“And beyond,” the priest replied. “I returned from Ireland nigh on a month ago. Been there almost two years. ’Tis a grand place with fine people, but the land of my birth always draws me back. I heard you’d also returned, and of the tragedy that greeted you. A shame about Ruaidri, may he rest in peace.” He crossed himself. “To be more accurate, I only heard, at first, that we had knights of the Temple in our midst, and I wondered if they’d sought sanctuary from the persecution in France. I didnae ken you were one of them till I enquired further. Och, but your sire would have been proud, lad. As would your grandsire.”
The priest’s words summoned up a familiar pang of regret. “What news from France, Father? We’ve yet to hear anything of it.”
The priest grimaced. “Widespread arrests and imprisonment are all I’ve heard about, Ewan, which is likely as much as you. But it doesnae bode well, I’m afraid.”
“Nay, Father, it doesnae.” Ewan sighed. “And I’m nae longer with the Order. If you dinnae already ken, I’m now clan laird and married to the wee lass seated beside Morag over there.”
“Married?” Frowning, the priest followed Ewan’s gaze. “Who is she, Ewan?”
“Elspeth MacAulay. Alastair’s sister. You’re aware auld Malcolm died?”
“Aye, I heard he’d passed.” The priest’s frown deepened. “Elspeth MacAulay, you say? Brochan’s twin?”
“Aye.”
Are you referring to the lass with the dark hair?”
“Aye.”
“The one in the grey robe?”
“Aye, the very same.” Ewan wondered if the years had turned the priest a bit daft. “Come. I’ll introduce you.”
Father Joseph touched Ewan’s arm as if to stop him. “I’ve already met Elspeth MacAulay, lad. It was some time ago, but I remember her well enough.”
“Even better.” Ewan smiled. “’Twill be nice for her to see a familiar face.”
The priest clicked his tongue. “Och, somehow I dinnae think she’ll be very glad to see mine.”
“Why not?” Ewan looked over at the table again to see his wife watching them. “I dinnae understand, Father. Is there a problem?”
“Aye, it would seem there is.” Father Joseph grimaced and rubbed the back of his neck. “And I’m no’ quite sure how to tell you about it.”
A chill settled between Ewan’s shoulder blades. “Tell me about what?”
“I’m thinking you should sit first, Ewan. Or, better yet, maybe we should go somewhere a wee bit more priv—”
“Nay, Father.” Ewan ran a hand through his hair and glanced again at the head table. “You’ll say what you have to say right here. I assume it has to do with my wife?”
“Aye, I’m afraid it does.” Father Joseph grimaced again. “And I fear you’re no’ going to like it very much.”
Ewan’s hand drifted to his sword hilt. “Tell me.”
“Well…” The priest drew breath and met Ewan’s gaze. “I dinnae ken who you’ve married, Ewan, but that lass sitting over there isnae Elspeth MacAulay.”
The man might as well have stuck a blade in Ewan’s heart. Stupefied, he could but stare at the priest for a moment. “You jest,” he said on an exhale.
Father Joseph shook his head. “May God strike me dead if I do.”
An icy wave of disbelief filtered through Ewan’s brain as he turned his gaze back to his wife. She appeared to be listening to Morag, but even as he watched, her eyes once again met his and her smile faded.
“Nay, Father Joseph, you surely are mistaken.” Bile scorched the back of Ewan’s throat. “The… the lass has likely changed since you last saw her. You said yourself, it’s been a while, aye?”
“It has indeed, but such a transformation isnae possible,” Father Joseph replied. “The lass seated over there looks nothing like Elspeth MacAulay. Brochan is dark-haired, but Elspeth MacAulay has hair a similar colour to your own. I’d never make such a claim ‘less I was certain of it, Ewan. If you still dinnae believe me, confront her with it. See if she denies it.”
“Confront her,” Ewan repeated, still staring at his wife, who stared back. Had she paled? Or was it a trick of the light? Morag, perhaps sensing the scrutiny, also looked their way. Recognition turned her questioning expression into a smile, and she waved them over.
“Come,” the priest said, urging Ewan forward. “It would seem a sin of great proportions has been committed. Let’s find out what this imposter is doing here.”
Imposter? Ewan’s pulse throbbed in his throat they approached the table.
“Father Joseph!” Still smiling, Morag rose to her feet as the men drew near. “I confess it took me a wee moment to realize who stood at my brother’s side. ’Tis pleasing to see you again.” Her expression sobered. “Much has happened since your last visit, I’m afraid. Judging by the look on your face, I’m thinking Ewan must have told you some of it already.”
Father Joseph didn’t answer, nor did he give any indication he’d even heard Morag’s greeting. His sombre gaze stayed on Ewan’s wife, who remained seated, her chest rising and falling as she met the priest’s scrutiny. Fear evident in her eyes, her knuckles whitened as she grasped the chair arm.
Ewan felt another thrust of pain beneath his ribs. He bit down and tightened his grip on his sword hilt. Christ have mercy. What kind of evil is this?
Jacques’ scraped his chair back and rose to his feet. “Is something wrong, Ewan?”
Ewan drew a hard breath. “I’m told there is,” he said, staring at the woman who he believed to be his wife. “But I pray to God I’ve been misinformed.”
“What do you mean? Misinformed about what?” Morag tipped her head and regarded Ewan with a frown before glancing down at her sister-in-law. “What is this about?”
“Step aside, Morag.” Ewan moved forward. “I wish to speak to my wife. On your feet, Elspeth.”
All colour drained from the lass’s face as she rose. She appeared shaken, and reached for the table, using it as support. Her obvious discomfort only served to heighten Ewan’s growing fear. In a practiced stroke, he unsheathed his sword, the tell-tale hiss of the blade’s withdrawal enough to draw attention. Around him, the clamour of conversation receded like a tide, and the room fell silent.
Ewan narrowed his eyes at his wife. “This priest here tells me you’re no’ who you claim to be,” he said, pointing his sword at Father Joseph. “Tell me he’s lying, and I swear I’ll cut him down where he stands.”
Father Joseph’s mouth fell open. “What? Och, nay, Ewan Mackellar, you’ll lower your blade this instant. I dinnae lie. I ken Elspeth MacAulay by sight and, as God is my witness, this woman isnae Elspeth MacAulay!”
A collective gasp rippled through the hall, and Morag let out a soft cry. “Nay, Father Joseph, what are you saying? You’re surely mistaken. I cannae believe—”
“Be silent, all of you! Let’s give my…” Ewan drew a harsh breath. “Let’s give this lass a chance to defend herself.” He pinned her with his gaze. “Well? I’m waiting. Speak, for Christ’s sake. Deny the priest’s accusations. Declare him to be a liar.”
A hand settled on Ewan’s shoulder, startling him. “Easy, Brother.” Gabriel’s calm voice drifted into his ear. “Lower your sword.”
Ewan growled and shrugged Gabriel’s hand away. “Why do you hesitate, lass? Why do you no’ defend yourself? Answer me.”
“Because I… I cannae,” she replied, her lips trembling.
Ewan heard her response, and yet still he reached, hoping. Praying. “Aye, you can, Elspeth. Deny it. Deny him. Tell me he lies.”
“She cannae deny it,” Father Joseph said. “Can you, lass?”
“Nay, I… I cannae.” A feverish glaze shone in her eyes. “I’m so sorry, Ewan. The priest speaks the truth.”
Another collective gasp, more pronounced, swept through the room as Ewan’s blood turned to ice. “Christ, help me,” he whispered. “What treachery is this?”
“I was going to tell you the truth, I swear it.” The lass clasped her hands, prayer-like, beneath her chin. “May God forgive me, I’m so sorry.”
Body and soul torn apart, Ewan stood as if made of stone, his wretched mind struggling to reconcile the devastating truth. In a single, perverted moment of time, his wife had become a complete stranger. Someone he knew nothing about. Everything she’d said, all they’d shared, had been a complete lie.
All of it.
Worse, he’d been gullible—nay, stupid—enough to believe her. He’d trusted her. Courted her. Desired her. Most devastating of all, he’d surrendered his holy vows for her, and had all but surrendered his heart. Meanwhile, every passing day—and every night, damn her to Hell—she had mocked him. Made a fool out of him.
The initial, mind-numbing impact of shock waned, replaced by a choking noose of fury and shame. The lass who called herself Elspeth continued to gaze up at him, pale-faced, her expression taut and anxious. Ewan’s heartbeat thundered in his ears as he moved his blade away from the priest and pointed it at her heart. A surge of rage swept through him like wildfire. It took all he had not to strike her down.
“May the Devil take you,” he murmured, his throat so tight he could scarcely draw breath. “Who are you, then, you lying bitch?”
The lass flinched and let out a cry.
“We’ll get to the truth of it, Brother.” Jacques moved between them, placed his hand atop Ewan’s where it rested on the hilt, and pushed the blade down. “But not here. Not like this. Stay your weapon.”
But Ewan couldn’t tear his gaze away from the lass who had deceived him. How could he have been so blind, so easily fooled? Her eyes remained locked with his, spilling tears that tumbled down her cheeks. False tears, no doubt.
“I’m sorry to the depths of my soul, Ewan,” she said, her ragged voice barely more than a whisper. “I was going to tell you the truth tonight. I swear before God, I regret deceiving you.”
Before God?
The vow jerked Ewan from his paralysis, and his mouth lifted in a sneer. “Bring her,” he snarled, slamming his sword into its scabbard. Then he turned on his heel and left the hall, the silence of his clan ringing in his ears.
*
The laird’s chamber seemed to be void of air. Teeth chattering, Cristie stood in the middle of the floor and fought wave after wave of giddiness, each one threatening to topple her.
“Slow your breathing,” Gabriel muttered as he moved to stand beside her, “and the vertigo will pass.”
She tried to do as he said, willing her broken heart to lessen its dreadful clatter. Her life lay in worthless ruins. What a fool she had been. She would never be the same. Never. No amount of Templar treasure could justify the harm she had done to Ewan. A good man. A man she had come to love. Nothing could justify it. At that moment, she would have given her life to turn back time and put things right.
God help me.
Five pairs of eyes were trained on her: Gabriel, Jacques, Morag, the priest… and Ewan, of course. Animosity thickened the air, the worst of it coming from Ewan. Despite sensing his hostility, she dared to meet his gaze. Her remorse, after all, was genuine, although she knew he’d never believe it. The warmth of affection she’d seen in his eyes had gone, replaced by something cold and unreadable. She shivered. “Ewan, I—”
“Be silent,” he snarled. “You’ll speak only when spoken to. Is that clear?”
Cristie gave a hesitant nod.
“First,” he said, “I’ll have your name. Your real name.”
“C-Cristie,” she said, knotting her fingers together. “My real name is Cristie Ferguson.”
Ewan gave a bitter laugh. “Named for our Lord,” he muttered, shaking his head. “May He forgive you for what you’ve done, lass.”
“He might, but I never will,” Morag said, her voice strained. “I cannae fathom the depth of this… this deceit. Or the reason for it.”
“Aye, she had us all fooled, for sure,” Ewan said, his voice softening but his expression still grim. “I cannae quite grasp the enormity of it.”
Fresh tears welled in Cristie’s eyes. She felt Ewan’s pain more acutely than her own, and ached to tell him, over and over, how sorry she was. How much she regretted betraying him. How much she loved him.
“So, Cristie Ferguson, what is your real purpose here?” he asked. “I’ve nae doubt it’s at Alastair MacAulay’s behest, but why would you pretend to be his sister?”
To hear her real name on Ewan’s lips for the first time, spoken with such contempt, almost pushed her to her knees. “I’m Alastair’s half-sister,” she replied. “Malcolm MacAulay sired me, but I… I am base-born.”
Morag snorted. “Och, well, there you go. A bastard. Just like all the Macaulay clan.”
Ewan frowned. “Enough, Morag. Let her finish her sordid wee tale.”
Cristie blinked and rubbed her temple. “When… when your brother didnae show up, Alastair was angry. He thought Ruaidri had changed his mind about the alliance and came here to challenge him. He didnae expect to see three Templar knights freshly arrived from France. I was sent here to find out… to find out if…”
“What?” Ewan’s nostrils flared. “To find out what?”
“If you brought, um, gold with you, or any other kind of… of treasure.”
“Treasure?” Ewan stared at her for a moment and then scoffed. “Do you jest?”
Cristie shook her head. “N-nay. Alastair heard you’d arrived with a loaded cart, but no one had seen it since then, and no one knew what was on it. He thought maybe you’d smuggled out some of the Templar wealth and brought it with you. He wanted me to… to get close to you and find out if it was true.”
“Pfft, well, of course it’s true. You only needed to ask.” Morag folded her arms and glared at Cristie. “We stashed it all away in a nearby faerie cave, where it’s being guarded by the wee folk. By Thor’s hairy arse, are you believing this nonsense she’s spouting, Ewan?”
“Sadly, aye.” Ewan frowned. “It explains all the questions she’s been asking me about the Templars. And I’m thinking that’s why Tasgall happened by the other day with a bag of clothes and some other daft tale. My gut told me there was more to it. He was there to see if his laird’s wee spy had found anything. Am I right?”
Cristie stifled a sob and nodded her reply.
“And if you’d happened to stumble onto this supposed Templar treasure, what did Alastair intend to do about it?” Ewan raised a brow and looked vaguely amused. “Lay siege to Castle Cathan?”
Cristie fingered her shawl. “I… I’m no’ sure. He didnae say.”
Ewan regarded her a moment longer and then leaned forward, eyes narrowing. “Tell me, Cristie Ferguson,” he said, his voice low and menacing. “Did the whoreson kill Ruaidri?”
Morag let out a soft gasp. “Oh, surely not. Please God.”
Cristie shook her head. “Nay! Nay, I’m certain he didnae. Alastair is… is quick to anger, but I dinnae believe he’d ever do a thing like that.”
Ewan regarded her in silence a moment longer and then straightened. “I still cannae understand why I was sent a false bride. If I’d married Elspeth, the union would have at least been binding, and MacAulay would have had his alliance, Templar treasure or no’. As it stands, our marriage is a falsehood. Worthless. So why did he send you in Elspeth’s place? It doesnae make sense.”
Worthless? Cristie’s heart shrivelled a little. “Because Elspeth refused outright to marry you. So, Alastair said I… I should go instead. But it wasnae meant to be permanent.”
“And you obviously agreed,” Morag said, with scorn in her voice.
“Aye, but I wish I hadnae.” Cristie blinked away tears. “I changed my mind once I got here. I wanted to tell you the truth about everything, Ewan, I swear it.”
“You’ve had almost a fortnight to do so.” He tasted bile. “Plenty of opportunity.”
“This lass is a jezebel,” Father Joseph muttered. “A deceitful whore, who has tricked a Christian man to lie with her out of wedlock.”
Cristie’s hands flew to her face, stifling her cry as she gazed up at Ewan.
Nay! Tell them I am yet untouched, Ewan. Defend me, please. It has to come from you. They’ll never believe me if I deny it.
Ewan regarded her for several moments, and then gave a bitter smile as he shook his head. “The marriage has nae been consummated,” he said, tonelessly, prompting a gasp from Morag. “The lass is still an innocent.”
Cristie dropped her hands to her side. “Thank you,” she whispered, but Ewan merely threw her a look of utter contempt.
“False gratitude from a liar.” Father Joseph’s voice cut into the silence. “Obviously, some greater power allowed you to resist her evil temptation, Ewan. The truth remains, however. This woman has mocked the sacred vows of marriage and sworn falsely before God. ’Tis blasphemy. A crime. And she should hang for it.”
“Aye, she should.” Morag’s voice shook with emotion. “She has mocked all of us.”
A shudder of fear tore through Cristie. The surrounding walls seemed to move, expanding and shrinking as if the room itself drew breath. Thrown off balance by the nauseating illusion, she swayed once more, set straight by Gabriel’s strong hand beneath her elbow.
“I have no wish to die,” she said, swallowing against an urge to be sick. “But if my death will make restitution for what I have done to you, Ewan, then… then so be it.”
“A false lament,” Father Joseph muttered. “Dinnae be fooled by it.”
A brief expression of sadness flitted crossed Ewan’s face. He mumbled something unintelligible and looked away as if pondering. “Nay, I’ll no’ see her hang,” he said, his voice void of emotion. “But we’ll leave on the morrow at first light. Till then, she’ll stay in her chamber under guard.”
“Wh-where are we going?” Cristie asked, swiping tears from her eyes.
“I’m taking you back to your wretched clan,” Ewan replied, and shifted his gaze to Gabriel. “Brother, please get this accursed woman out my sight.”
“P-please, Ewan.” She gazed up at the man she loved. “There are thi—”
“Be silent!” Ewan’s lip curled. “Gabriel?”
Gabriel’s voice murmured in her ear. “Come, my lady.”
“Wait!” Morag stepped forward, hand outstretched. “The ring,” she said. “Take it off.”
Cristie tugged the ring from her finger and placed it in Morag’s open palm. Then, dizzy with grief and fear, she followed the English knight, hardly aware of their silent progression till he opened the door to her chamber. Ewan’s chamber.
“I must arrange for a guard,” Gabriel said. “In the meantime, I ask that you remain here. To disobey Ewan further would not be wise.”
She regarded the English knight, whose expression gave no indication as to the direction of his thoughts. “I willnae disobey him, but please, Gabriel, tell him I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”
“I fear he’s not of a mind to hear it right now, my lady,” he replied, his tone solemn. “I can only suggest you ask God for forgiveness, and pray for Ewan as well.”
The door closed with barely a sound.
Sobbing, Cristie turned, wandered over to the bed, and clambered onto it. She held up her left hand and regarded the fading mark left by the ring.
A holy symbol of commitment, falsely used.
Worthless.
“Dear God, what have I done?” she whispered, dropping her face into the hands. “What have I done?”