From her quiet corner in the great hall at Dunraven, Cristie Ferguson watched the commotion currently taking place at the head table. Alastair, her half-brother, had just hurled a string of vile curses at the little serving maid who’d splashed wine on the table while filling her master’s goblet. Something of an exaggerated show of annoyance, considering the minor offence.
The maid, her face redder than a smacked arse, fled from the table in tears as an uncomfortable hush descended on the room. Elspeth, seated beside Alastair, scowled at him and muttered her obvious disapproval. Lip curled, Alastair sloughed off the reprimand with a flick of his hand and turned to speak to his henchman, Tasgall.
Such scenes had become common since the laird of Dunraven had returned from Castle Cathan two weeks earlier. Like a bear with a thorn in its paw, Alastair been in a continuously vile mood, snapping and growling at everyone. He’d never been the most congenial of men, but these days people went out of their way to avoid him, Cristie included. Then again, she’d never purposely sought out her half-brother’s company, nor would she. There existed no fondness between them.
She released a small sigh. It should have been a happy time at Dunraven. A time of celebration. Elspeth should have been married by now and living in her new home. With her new husband.
Cristie wondered, again, about the unfortunate young man who had died in the mountains. Ruaidri MacKellar. The laird of a neighbouring clan, who’d agreed to marry Elspeth, and who was on his way to do exactly that when he’d met his demise. They’d found his horse, or what little remained of it, in a crevasse. Of the missing laird they’d found no sign other than a bloodied cloak and a silver pin.
Wolves had likely dispatched the remains, Alastair said.
“Mind if I sit with you, lass?” The voice startled her, as did the appearance of her other half-brother, Brochan. Despite being Elspeth’s twin, he shared little physical resemblance to her. Elspeth, with her curly chestnut locks and fair complexion, favoured her sire’s bloodline. Brochan, in contrast, emulated his late mother’s colouring, with sleek hair as black as soot, and skin that never lost its golden glow even in winter. “Alastair’s still in a shite mood,” he continued, settling himself at her side, “and best left to himself, if you ask me.”
“Nay, of course I dinnae mind.” A rare occurrence indeed, for one of her noble siblings to seek out her company. Somewhat unnerved but determined not to show it, Cristie folded her hands atop the table to stop their fidgeting. “Though I can understand him being upset, Brochan. A man has died, and horribly, may God rest his soul.”
Brochan grunted. “Aye, though I get the feeling Alastair’s anger is less about Ruaidri MacKellar and more about Elspeth right now.”
She frowned. “Why would he be angry at Elspeth? He should be sympathizing with her. She’s just lost her betrothed.”
“A man she’d never met,” Brochan pointed out. “She’s genuinely sorry about MacKellar’s death, mind, but in truth, she was never keen on the marriage. It was Alastair that pressed for it.”
“I wasnae aware of that.” Cristie regarded Elspeth with the usual sense of quiet admiration. Secretly, she longed to be more like her older half-sister. More self-assured. More graceful. Less afraid of speaking her mind. Perhaps not as stubborn, however, nor quite as quick to anger. Cristie would never be as beautiful, of course. She had not been bestowed with quite the same comeliness. “I thought she wanted it.”
“Nay, nor does she want the next one. She’s dug her heels deep in the ground this time, too, refusing to budge. ’Tis mostly why Alastair is in such a dark mood. They argue about it all the time.”
Cristie’s brows lifted. “The next one?”
Brochan gave her a bemused glance. “Did you no’ hear about the Templars at Castle Cathan?”
“Um, nay.”
“God’s teeth, lass, where have you been hiding?”
“I’ve no’ been hiding anywhere.” Cristie clenched her hands tighter. “I just dinnae pay attention to gossip.”
“’Tis nae gossip, Cristie. There are Templars at Castle Cathan.” Brochan gave her a playful nudge. “You should be more forthcoming. You’re like a wee, shy mouse, lingering in dark corners, coming out to nibble on a bit of food now and then before scurrying back into your hole. Folks here forget you even exist most of the time.”
The latter remark, though made lightly, had a sting to it. “Which doesnae bother me at all, Brochan.” She raised her chin a notch and feigned nonchalance. “I’m quite happy being by myself.”
“The expression on your face says otherwise,” he replied, gently. “But, to bring you up to date, a few weeks ago, the French king ordered all the Templar knights in France to be arrested. Some managed to escape, and three of them turned up at Castle Cathan, one of them being Ruaidri MacKellar’s younger brother, Ewan, who’s been absent for twelve years. He’ll be the laird now, of course. And Alastair wants Elspeth to marry the man.”
Cristie pondered for a moment. “Why?”
Brochan gave her a puzzled glance. “Same reason as before, silly lass. He wants a blood alliance.”
She shook her head. “Nay, I mean, why have the Templars been arrested?”
“Ah.” Brochan’s expression turned grim. “They’ve been accused of blasphemy and heresy, among other things, though the knights at Castle Cathan say the charges are false.”
Cristie absorbed and pondered further. The renowned Order of the Temple, in her mind at least, possessed something of a mystical status. A holy army that surely even a king should not deign to challenge. For Cristie, the image of a Templar knight was that of a chaste and fearless warrior, sword in hand, fighting battles in the arid heat of the Holy Land. It seemed odd to think of such men exiled to the chilly highlands of Scotland.
“Well, I have to say, ’tis a wee bit soon to be discussing a new marriage alliance.” She glanced at Alastair again, who was still muttering something to Tasgall. “Poor Ruaidri MacKellar has nae been dead even a month. His family surely need time to mourn.”
Brochan grunted. “I agree, but Alastair’s like a dog with a bone for some reason. He willnae let it go. He’s wasting his time with Elspeth, though. She’s as stubborn as an Irish donkey and isnae about to give in. She’ll no’ marry a battle-scarred monk, she says.”
Cristie’s eyes widened. “A battle-scarred monk?’
“Ewan MacKellar’s face has been scarred by fire, apparently.” Brochan shrugged. “As for being a monk, I dinnae see how he can sustain his Templar vows anymore, now that he’s laird.”
“’Twould be difficult,” Cristie said, cocking her head. “Can Alastair no’ try asking for the MacKellar lass’s hand again?”
“Morag is her name, and I believe she’s made it very clear she’d never marry our dear brother, no matter what.” Brochan chuckled. “For all his bluster, Alastair is nae match for two stubborn Highland lasses. He may as well bang his head against yon wall.”
“Well, that does explain his mood.” Cristie rose to her feet, thinking she couldn’t really blame Morag MacKellar for refusing Alastair’s proposal. “If you’ll excuse me, Brochan, I’m going for a wee walk before I scurry back into my mouse hole.”
He grimaced. “Och, I meant no offence, lass. But I wasnae jesting about being more forthcoming. We share the same sire, after all.” A twinkle came to his eye. “In truth, I’d say Alastair is actually the bastard in this family, but dinnae tell him I said that.”
Cristie laughed. “I willnae.”
“And dinnae wander too far from Dunraven on your walk. The wolves are bold right now. They’ve been attacking the livestock. Fergus has been setting traps and putting out poisoned meat.”
Brochan’s unexpected concern brought a grateful smile to Cristie’s face. “Thank you, but I never go very far. Around the castle walls, is all. Or perhaps along the shore of the loch.”
Turning to leave, Cristie cast another glance toward the head table and froze as her gaze collided with Alastair’s. This was no random glance on his part, however. It felt more like a scrutiny, as if he’d been watching her for a prolonged moment. As if to confirm Cristie’s gut feeling, his eyes narrowed a little and his mouth curved into a slow smile. Then he raised his goblet as if making a toast, the smile staying with him as he turned away.
Cristie closed her slack jaw, puzzled by Alastair’s behaviour. Perhaps she should have returned his smile and acknowledged his perusal, but the encounter had taken her by surprise. First Brochan. Now Alastair. She asked herself why, all of a sudden, her brothers were taking notice of her. Especially in Alastair’s case. The man had never paid her any mind. Then again, maybe he’d simply seen her chatting to Brochan, and it had drawn his attention.
Yet, she felt there had been more to it. Alastair’s expression had been one of attainment, as if he’d just solved an unsolvable riddle. The brief exchange had been unusual and, for some unfathomable reason, unsettling.
“Are you all right, lass?” Brochan asked. He followed her gaze to the head table, where Alastair was now saying something to Tasgall. “Is something wrong?”
“Nay. My mind wandered for a moment, is all.” Cristie tugged her wool shawl tight around her shoulders and gave him a quick smile. “Good eve, Brochan.”
A chill breeze awaited her outside. It clouded her breath and chased the stink of peat-smoke from her hair. For a moment, she considered going to fetch her cloak, but shook off the idea. If she set a good pace, she’d stay warm enough.
She nodded her thanks to the gatekeeper and exited through the castle’s postern gate. Then, she picked up her feet, headed along the path that skirted around the loch, and soon became lost in thought.
For the first time since moving into Dunraven, and despite Alastair’s questionable attention, Cristie felt the inherent stirrings of kinship. As Brochan had pointed out, she shared the same sire as the noble family. Her mother, Fiona Ferguson, had been a weaver of the fine woollen cloth that kept the MacAulay clan clothed and warm. A bonny woman, it seemed she had, at one time, caught the roving eye of Malcolm MacAulay, the previous laird.
Whether her mother had been ravished or seduced, Cristie didn’t know for sure, though she tended to believe the latter. Cristie had never heard a bad word spoken about the laird, who had openly acknowledged Cristie’s heritage. Too, as long as Malcolm MacAulay lived, and even after his death, Fiona Ferguson’s small cottage had always been kept in good repair and there had always been food on the table.
It seemed, then, that the laird had retained some fondness for the lass whose virtue he had claimed, though he’d shown little interest in his baseborn daughter over the years. Only after her mother’s demise, three months earlier, had Cristie learned of the auld laird’s wishes. That Fiona’s child—their child—should not be left alone and unprotected, but allowed to live at Dunraven.
Not so much a child anymore. This was Cristie’s seventeenth winter this side of Heaven, the day of her birth not easily forgotten since she shared it with that of the Christ child. From whence came her name. She had also learned her mother’s trade, and found much pleasure in working her loom, which now sat by the window in her small chamber.
The hoot of a nearby owl intruded into her thoughts, and her step faltered as awareness returned. She let out a soft gasp, unaware, till then, of how far she’d walked and how dark it had become. Ahead lay a wooded area, the path disappearing into eerie blackness. The owl hooted again, and a mild thrust of panic hastened Cristie’s heart.
Mindful of Brochan’s warning, she turned, meaning to scoot back to Dunraven before night descended in full. The unexpected sight of large, dark figure moving toward her forced a stifled scream into her throat. The figure halted and held up a hand.
“Dinnae be afeared, Cristie,” a familiar voice said. “’Tis I, Tasgall.”
“Tasgall!” Cristie’s hand flew to her chest as she let out a sigh of pure relief. “By all the saints of Alba, you scared me near to death.”
Tasgall approached, his bearded countenance wearing what might have passed for a smile, but in the twilight looked more like a snarl. The man’s appearance alone intimidated most folks at Dunraven, and his gruff manner only added to his daunting demeanour. Yet, oddly, Cristie had never feared the man, nor felt any kind of apprehension in his presence.
“You’ve been gone a wee while, so thought I’d make sure you’d no’ come to harm.” He gave her a reproving look. “You should know better than to be out here after dark. I warrant you dinnae have a blade with you, either.”
Cristie wrinkled her nose. “Nay.”
“Daft lass.”
“I was daydreaming and lost track of time,” she said in defence as warmth flared in her cheeks. “And I wasnae aware you were watching out for me, Tasgall.”
“I wasnae, but perhaps I should from now on,” he said, his tone teasing. “Alastair was asking for you, and Brochan said you’d gone for a walk. When you didnae return, I thought I’d better come looking.”
“I see. Well, thank you.” Frowning, she tugged her shawl tighter. “What does Alastair want with me?”
“I havenae a clue. ’Tis not just you, either. Brochan and Elspeth have been summoned also. I’m sure it’s naught to worry about.”
Unbidden, and somewhat brazenly, he tucked Cristie’s hand into the crook of his elbow. “In case you stumble,” he said, by way of explanation.
Cristie smiled but said nothing, though she silently admitted to feeling reassured to have Tasgall at her side. He was, without doubt, Alastair’s best and most fearless warrior.
*
Judging by the glaze in his eyes and the crimson flush on his neck, Alastair had obviously had a drink or two. He stood, feet apart, hands behind his back, and studied the three faces before him. Tasgall, as always, lingered nearby, leaning against the wall, a casual hand resting on his sword hilt.
They had gathered in the solar, where a lazy peat fire smouldered in the blackened hearth and light from several tapers chased shadows into the corners.
‘Well?” Elspeth raised her brows and regarded her elder brother. “What is this about, Alastair?”
He sniffed and rocked on his heels. “A marriage.”
She gave him a wary look. “A marriage?”
“Aye. ’Tween the MacAulays and the MacKellars.”
“God’s bollocks.” She huffed and folded her arms. “Here we go again. Get it through your daft skull. You’ll have to roast my feet over a fire before I agree to marry Ewan MacKellar.”
“Dinnae tempt me,” Alastair growled, fixing her with a dark glare. “I might be persuaded to pluck out that wicked tongue o’ yours, as well. But, as it happens, I’ve done Ewan MacKellar a favour and found him a more amenable bride.”
Elspeth gave a humourless laugh. “And who might that be?”
An odd little chill brushed over Cristie’s scalp. She held her breath, awaiting Alastair’s answer. He didn’t give it. A movement to her side drew her attention. She glanced over at Tasgall, who had straightened his spine and was regarding Alastair with a puzzled frown.
“My motivation for this alliance has changed a wee bit,” Alastair continued, ignoring Elspeth’s question, “and that’s because I have reason to believe the MacKellar clan has recently acquired some additional wealth. A good deal of wealth, in fact.”
He fell silent and regarded his small audience as if waiting for someone to speak.
“The Templars,” Brochan said, after a few moments. “Is that what you mean? You think they brought some kind of… of treasure with them?”
“I’m certain of it.” A telling gleam lit Alastair’s eyes. “The so-called ‘poor soldiers of Christ’ are the wealthiest military order in Christendom. Do you really think Ewan MacKellar and his cohorts would leave France empty handed? Nay, never. You cannae convince me they didnae have any time to stash some of their coin on the ship. I found out they arrived at Castle Cathan with a half-dozen horses and an ox pulling a wagon. What I need to find out is what was on that wagon and where it went. No one I spoke to seems to ken, or else they dinnae care to speak of it. The latter, I suspect.”
“Even if you’re right, what does that have to do with us?” Brochan asked. “’Tis nae business of ours what the Templars brought with them.”
“Who is this bride you mentioned?” Elspeth demanded.
Again, Alastair ignored her. “I disagree, Brochan. I mean to find out what, exactly, those knights brought with them. And I reckon the only way to do that is to insist the marriage agreement is fulfilled, thereby allying ourselves with the MacKellar clan on an intimate level.”
Elspeth gasped. “You expect a lass to marry Ewan MacKellar and become your spy?”
“Aye, I do,” Alastair said, his lip curling “’Tis traitorous to be hiding wealth that might be used for Scotland’s cause.”
Elspeth blew out a breath. “How much coin have you given to Scotland’s cause? This addlepated obsession of yours has naught to do with Scotland. It has everything to do with you!”
“The Templars have naught to do with our political conflicts, Alastair,” Brochan said, his tone composed. “Why should they volunteer support to Scotland, financially or otherwise?”
Alastair scoffed. “Because they’ve been given safe haven here.”
Brochan shook his head. “Nay, I cannae agree with your logic. Besides, Ewan MacKellar is no foreigner to these shores. He’s a Highlander, born and bred.”
Alastair scowled. “All the more reason for him to offer support for his homeland. And dinnae forget, he’s harbouring a Sasunnach. An enemy of Scotland. I dinnae much trust that Basque knight, either.”
Brochan shook his head again. “The Sasunnach has no allegiance to the English king. He’s sworn to his Order and to the Pope. I cannae speak for the Basque’s integrity, but I doubt he’s a threat, either.”
Alastair waved a dismissive hand. “I dinnae care what you think. I mean to find out what was on that wagon.”
“Which begs me to ask again, who is this bride you speak of?” Elspeth put her hands on her hips. “And what makes you think Ewan MacKellar will agree to wed some lass who isnae MacAulay blood?”
“But she is MacAulay blood,” Alastair said, his gaze sliding over to Cristie. “And he’ll agree to the union. I’ll make sure of that.”
The air stilled as all eyes turned toward her. Cristie stood as if made of stone, unable to move or speak. She had misheard, surely. Or misunderstood. Me? Wed Ewan MacKellar? Alastair had to be jesting. Besides, her MacAulay blood had no political value. She was base-born. The daughter of a weaver. No laird in the land would ever consider her a suitable bride.
“Nay!” The challenge shattered the fragile silence. Hand atop his sword hilt, Tasgall stepped forward, his gaze darting between Alastair and Cristie. “Laird, you said—”
“Step back, Tasgall, and hold your tongue,” Alastair snarled at his henchman. “I’ll no’ tell you again.”
Tasgall’s nostrils flared and the grip on his sword tightened visibly. For a moment, he held his ground. Then, with a sullen glance at Cristie, he retook his place by the wall.
“Well, I’ll no’ be holding my tongue.” Mouth twisted into a sneer, Elspeth glared at Alastair. “You’ve truly lost your mind, brother. What, under God’s great sky, makes you think Ewan MacKellar will even consider marrying a bas—?” She faltered and gave Cristie a contrite smile. “I meant to say, Cristie might carry our blood, but she doesnae carry our name.”
Alastair rocked back on his heels. “Ewan MacKellar doesnae know that.”
“What do you mean?” Cristie asked, at last finding the wherewithal to speak. “Elspeth is right. He’ll no’ marry me.”
“I believe he will.” A gleam came to Alastair’s eyes. “If he thinks you’re Elspeth.”
Silence descended once more, broken a moment later by a burst of mocking laughter—from Brochan. “Christ almighty, Alastair,” he said. “Listen to what you’re saying! You cannae give the man a false bride.”
“Why not?” Alastair shrugged. “I need someone to get close to Ewan MacKellar, to find out what those Templars managed to smuggle out of France. A lass—a wife—can get intimately close. Think of it as a mission, Cristie. An assignment, if you please.”
“I cannae believe what I’m hearing.” Elspeth tapped a forefinger to her temple. “Have you lost your mind?”
“I’ll no’ do it.” Cristie folded her arms across her chest as if to muffle the frantic clatter of her heart. Alastair had obviously over imbibed. Or maybe the wine he’d drunk had been sour. “You cannae make me.”
A corner of Alastair’s mouth lifted. “Och, I think I can, lass, but I’d rather you agreed without forcing me to take more… drastic measures.”
“Meaning what?” Brochan asked. “Are you threatening her?”
“Nay, of course not.” Alastair gave Cristie a sober smile. “Well, maybe a wee bit. But I trust it willnae come to that.”
Cristie swallowed. “I cannae marry a man falsely, Alastair. You ask too much of me.”
“’Nay, she cannae. ’Tis madness.” Elspeth shook her head. “The repercussions dinnae bear thinking about. To Cristie. To you. To the clan.”
“Elspeth is right, Alastair. You have to think about this.” Again, Brochan kept his tone calm. “Even if you discover the existence of this supposed wealth, what do you intend to do? Ask Ewan MacKellar to simply hand it over? He’ll laugh at you.”
“Let me worry about that.” Alastair waved a dismissive hand. “I’ve said all I’m going to say for now. I wish to speak with Cristie alone, so the rest of you begone. And you’ll say naught of this to anyone, is that clear?”
“As if I would.” Elspeth gave a bitter laugh. “I’m ashamed just thinking about it. Dinnae do this, Cristie. You’ll regret it more than anything our daft brother might threaten you with. Mark my words.”
“Our father would never have done such a thing, Alastair,” Brochan said, giving Cristie a concerned glance.
Alastair grunted. “Our father isnae here.” He glanced over at his henchman. “You too, Tasgall. Out. And close the door behind you.”
The man frowned. “But, laird, there are—”
“Out, I said! I’ll speak to you later.”
Cristie waited till the door closed. “I’ll no’ do this, Alastair.” She clenched her fists. “You cannae make me, no matter what you say.”
Alastair heaved a sigh and settled into one of the two throne-like chairs by the brazier. “Sit,” he commanded, gesturing to an adjacent chair.
Cristie stared at him in defiance for a moment, but her courage soon crumbled beneath his hard, unwavering stare. “I’ll no’ marry Ewan MacKellar,” she muttered, sliding into the chair.
A corner of his mouth lifted. “Aye, you will.”
Cristie shook her head and attempted a different argument. “What if he doesnae want a wife?”
“We have an agreement. He’s obliged to hold to it.”
“But you made the agreement with Ruaidri MacKellar. Not—”
“It was an agreement ’tween clan chiefs.” Alastair sniffed. “Ewan MacKellar must honour it. He will honour it.”
“But there is no honour in what you ask of me.” Cristie gripped the chair’s arms. “To wed a man falsely? To lie with him? I cannae do that. ’Twould be a carnal sin.”
“So saith a wee bastard,” he muttered, callously. “You’d no’ be here if your mother hadnae lain with my father.”
“You cannae compare that to this,” she cried. “My mother didnae deceive your father.”
“He was your father too.” Alastair leaned forward, pinning her with a dark gaze that surely emulated the Devil himself. “Do this, and you’ll want for naught for the rest of your life, no matter the outcome. I’ll make certain of it. Just like our father did for your mother.”
“But I’m the daughter of a weaver. I ken little about clan affairs.” Tears of desperation pricked at the back of Cristie’s eyes. “What if Ewan MacKellar finds out the truth about me? Which he surely will. I’ll hang for it!”
“I’ll no’ let that happen. As for clan affairs, I doubt you’ll have much to do with them. Bear in mind, no one at Castle Cathan has ever seen Elspeth, and few beyond Dunraven even know about your existence.” Alastair sighed and sat back. “If you work quickly, you’ll no’ be there very long. Just find out where the Templars have hidden their spoils, and leave the rest to me.”
A whisper of fear told her to accept. Her conscience warned against it. “And… if I refuse?”
“You do so at your peril.”
“Meaning what?”
“You’re here at our father’s behest, Cristie.” His arrogant smile lasted but a heartbeat. “And, like I said, our father isnae here anymore.”
His meaning was quite clear, yet still she dared to resist. “You cannae be sure they even have any spoils. This might all be for naught.”
He grunted. “They’re hiding something. I’m sure of it.”
“But, what you ask of me…” She shook her head. “Please, Alastair. There must be another way.”
A tic arose in Alastair’s jaw and his knuckles paled as his grip tightened on the chair arms. “Dinnae disappoint me, lass. ’Twould no’ be wise.”
‘You’re like a wee, shy mouse, lingering in dark corners…’
And Alastair was like a serpent. Coiled and ready to strike at the wee mouse should it dare to attempt an escape. The whispers of fear grew louder.
“If… if I should discover what they brought with them, what then?” Bile burned the back of her throat. “How… how do I let you know?”
His taut expression slackened a little. “Tasgall will pay you a visit every fortnight or so. I’ll think of some ruse. If and when you have news, you can pass it on to him.”
She tried one final, feeble attempt at reason. “But, as Brochan said, Ewan MacKellar isnae about to hand anything over. At least, not without a fight.”
“And, as I told him, I’ll worry about that.” One russet brow arched, Alastair leaned forward. “So, what’s it to be, lass? Aye or nay?”
*
Fingers woven into a prayer-knot beneath her chin, Cristie knelt beside her bed and stared up at the dark recesses of her ceiling, where the light from her small candle could not reach. A sennight had passed since her meeting with Alastair, since the struggle with her conscience had begun. Her mind still refused to be quiet, yet Alastair’s quietly spoken threats subdued the voices of reason and honesty.
“I dare nae refuse him,” she whispered. “I’m afeared of what he’ll do. God, please, help me.”
But her prayers provided sparse comfort. Her apprehension persisted, writhing mercilessly in her gut. Fearful of being cast out, or worse, she had made her choice. She had agreed to give false testimony before God. To mislead a man into a fraudulent marriage—a man she knew by name only. Surrender to him, not as an innocent young wife, but as a deceiver.
Ewan Tormod MacKellar.
She knew little of him. He was, or had been, a Templar knight. Therefore, a devout man. Yet also a warrior, his face supposedly scarred in battle, though she cared little about his appearance. Rather, she cared more about his demeanour. Was he kindly, or brutish? Either way, he surely did not merit such wicked deceit.
“Nay, I cannae do this,” Cristie whispered, for the hundredth time that week. “I cannae—”
But what hellish choice do I have?
Her time was up. They were due to leave at dawn. She squeezed her eyes shut.
A sudden rap at the door startled her. Wincing, Cristie struggled to her feet, turning to face the door as it swung open.
Elspeth stood on the threshold, her face steeped in shadow.
Cristie bristled at the blatant lack of respect. Such displays from her half-sibling had been common of late. Cristie understood why, of course, but her stretched nerves were at the point of snapping. “’Tis courteous to wait for permission to enter,” she said, raising her chin, “and I didnae give it.”
“Dinnae speak to me of courtesy,” Elspeth replied, a chill in her voice. “And I dinnae need to enter. I can say what I have to say from here.”
“Well, I’ve nae wish to hear it.” Cristie folded her arms. “You’ve made your feelings plain enough these past few days.”
“Because what you’re doing is wrong,” Elspeth countered, “and you’ll live to regret it, believe me.”
“As you’ve told me several times.” Cristie shrugged. “And I havenae once denied it. Maybe if you’d agreed to marry the man, I’d no’ be in this—”
“Dinnae dare place any blame for this madness on my shoulders,” Elspeth snarled, the shadows on her face serving to accentuate her displeasure. Cristie opened her mouth to rebut, but paused. Weary of arguing—weary of everything in her life at that moment—she heaved a doleful sigh.
“I dinnae blame you for any of it, Elspeth,” she said, her throat tightening. “Please, just… just leave me alone.”
Elspeth didn’t move. “I dinnae doubt Alastair’s threatened you,” she said, after a moment, her voice softer, “and I realize there’s little to be done about it, since you’re at his mercy. He’ll no’ listen to me or Brochan, either. To tell you true, I also get the feeling there’s more to this than he’s saying.”
Cristie frowned. “What do you mean?”
Elspeth shrugged. “I dinnae ken. All I can do is pray his cursed scheme does less harm than good to you, as well as the poor man you’re deceiving. And, with that in mind, I brought you this.” She held out a hand. “You might need it.”
Cristie stepped forward and took the small, leather pouch from the girl’s grasp. “What is it?”
“The solution to a possible problem.”
“What problem?”
“If you…” Elspeth heaved a soft sigh. “If you should find yourself carrying Ewan MacKellar’s child, make a tisane from this and drink it. ’Tis very potent, so a small pinch is all you’ll need, steeped in a cup of hot water.” She crossed herself. “And may God forgive me. May He forgive you too, Cristie.”
Cristie looked down at the small, nondescript pouch resting in her palm, her blood chilling as understanding seeped into her brain.
“Och, nay, Elspeth,” she said, lifting her head. “I could never do such a—”
But the threshold stood empty. Elspeth had gone.
Cristie’s gaze shifted to where the saddle bags sat, packed in readiness for her journey on the morrow. Tears clouding her vision, she wandered over, opened one of the bags, and tucked the small pouch safely inside.