Isobel was outraged.

She was accustomed to having her way, and to ensuring it by whatever means were necessary. How dare Fergus choose his dirty little infidel over her? How dare Fergus insist that she lied about Gavin?

And how dare he send her back to Dunnisbrae? Stewart never had beaten her, but she feared he might do as much after events of this day. She could not return to the keep that had been her father’s holding.

It was unjust!

She had to compel Fergus to let her remain at Killairic. He could not be so indifferent to her fate as he would have her believe. She needed only a few more days to wear down his resistance and gain her sole desire.

But how? He was gone and she was left in this barren hut for the night, with only her son for company. Even the comforts of the hall were denied to her, and this travesty added to her indignation.

Isobel marched around the small hut in a tight circle, thinking furiously as Gavin watched her with uncertainty. How could she set all to rights? That was when she noticed the array of dried plants hanging from the beams of the roof. They were brown and dusty, but the sight reminded her that this had been the healer’s hut.

Herbs! They had been key to the success of the first part of her plan.

Isobel flung open the cupboard that stood in one corner and rummaged through its contents. She would make herself ill. She would ingest some herb or root that would void her stomach. She would be pale and weak, and Fergus would not be able to cast her out. Indeed, he might insist that she be moved to the hall. If he set his whore to tending her, she could tell the other woman more lies, perhaps even encourage her to leave of her own volition.

Aye, it was the perfect scheme.

Its weakness lay in Isobel’s limited knowledge of herbs and healing plants. She sniffed at the various leaves, but doubted any would be strong enough. She could not find the one she had used just weeks before. She had need of a root, for that was where the potency of the plant was concentrated. She found two different ones, stored separately and with a care that indicated their power. She sniffed them both and chose the largest rhizome of the one with the sharpest scent. She then pivoted to meet Gavin’s gaze.

“Run to the keep,” she instructed him. “Tell Laird Fergus that I am taken ill.”

“But you are not, Mother.”

“Aye, Gavin. I am.” Isobel bit the root and chewed it, grimacing at its bitter taste. She managed to swallow that mouthful and take another bite before the convulsion seized her, barely giving her time to realize that she had made a terrible mistake.

---

Leila was sitting on the side of the bed, her innards in turmoil. Could it be true? Could Gavin be Fergus’ son? She knew he had been chaste in Outremer, or even since leaving Killairic, but what about before that? Had his betrothal to Isobel been celebrated in a most earthy way? It might well have been.

What were the ramifications for her if Fergus acknowledged Gavin as his son? Leila doubted that her position would be secure, even if she did bear a son to Fergus, for hers would be the younger and thus not the heir.

She rose from the bed to pace, restless in her uncertainty. She felt the situation more keenly because her own courses were a week late. Was it simply the change in diet and situation, or had she conceived?

If Fergus welcomed Isobel’s return and acknowledged Gavin as his own blood, Leila doubted that she would even be permitted to remain at Killairic. Where would she go, especially if she had a babe in her belly?

Haynesdale, she decided, liking the notion as soon as it occurred to her. Bartholomew had been her friend for many years. He and Anna would give her shelter. Aye, she would ride to Haynesdale. It would take her less than a week, and she was certain she could manage the journey without incident. Perhaps Murdoch would escort her...

“What did she say?” Fergus demanded from behind her.

Leila spun to find him standing in the portal, waiting on the threshold as if he were uncertain of her reaction.

She took a breath. “That the boy is yours.”

Fergus shook his head and stepped into the room, closing the door behind himself. “The same nonsense she said to me.” He came directly to her and took her hands within his own. His gaze was piercing. “You know it is a lie, do you not?”

Leila shook her head. “I do not. You might have been intimate with her before your departure. I cannot fault you for that.”

“I was, at her insistence, though I spilled my seed on the linens out of concern for this very result.”

“That is scarcely a guarantee.”

Fergus smiled and tugged his own hair. “The red cannot be disguised, Leila. Every child in my mother’s family is born with red hair. Mine was almost as bright as that of Hamish when I was a boy.”

“Every one of them?”

“Every single one.” Fergus smiled down at her. “Gavin is not my son. He cannot be. This tale of him being born nine months after my departure sounds like a lie, one contrived because Isobel finds Killairic more alluring than Dunnisbrae. I do not think Stewart could be so readily deceived in such a matter, either. I fear that Duncan saw her truth, that she thinks solely of her own comfort and not that of any other.”

“I feel sorry for the boy.”

“As do I.” Fergus sighed and shed his boots. “She gave no consideration to the fact that he stood there, that he could hear her words. When they arrived, she did not spare a thought to his discomfort or his hunger.” He shook his head. “Her disinterest in the welfare of her own son is most troubling.” He unbuckled his belt and unwound his plaid, granting her a smile that warmed her to her toes. “I am sorry for her words this day, Leila, but she will be gone in the morning at least.”

“I doubt her claim will be dismissed that easily,” Leila could not help but say. Fergus granted her an enquiring glance. “I wonder what she said to Stewart when she left. Will he welcome her back to Dunnisbrae?”

“If he does not, it has been her own doing.” He shed his chemise and came to take her in his arms. His caress was welcome and his touch warm. He touched his lips to her temple in that gentle way that awakened the heat within Leila, and drew her against himself. He speared his fingers into her hair and tipped her head back, smiling down at her. “Matters could have gone much further awry this night,” he murmured. “Yet we defeated her scheme for we worked together.”

“Do you ask if I mean to welcome you abed this night, my lord?” Leila asked with a smile.

“I do, my lady.”

“You are always welcome in my bed, Fergus.”

“And you, Leila, are always welcome in mine.” Fergus bent to capture her lips with his own and Leila stretched to her toes to welcome him. Just before their lips touched, someone hammered on the solar door.

“My lord!” Murdoch said in his familiar growl. “My lord, you must come. It is Lady Isobel!”

“I will not tolerate any interruption from her,” Fergus said firmly and did not relinquish his grip upon Leila.

“But, sir, she sent the boy to say that she was ill. He seems most upset.”

“God in Heaven,” Fergus whispered. “Is there no limit to her disregard for the child?”

They both seized their cloaks and boots. Fergus raced down the stairs, calling for aid, and Leila followed as quickly as she could, wondering what Isobel had done.

Perhaps the portent of Fergus’ nightmare had not been dispelled, after all.

---

Isobel was not ill: she was dead.

Fergus and Leila entered the hut, Murdoch and the Templars close behind. Gavin was kept at the portal by the knights, but Fergus knew he had already seen the worst. Fergus crouched beside Isobel’s body, noting her grimace and the contortion of her posture. He wondered that she had made a choice that led to a death of such pain.

Leila was at the far wall, surveying the midwife’s herbs. Fergus did not recall that they had been in such disarray when he had been in the hut earlier.

There was something clasped in Isobel’s hand. He uncurled her fingers to reveal the root there. Clearly, she had bitten part of it. Leila bent to sniff it, then looked at Fergus.

“Do you know what it is?” he asked.

“The scent is familiar, I think.” She gestured and Fergus sniffed the root himself, then sat back on his heels again.

“Monkshood?” he guessed.

Leila nodded. “I believe so.”

“How strange that she and Kerr would be felled by the same toxin.”

“Not so strange as that, for it is a poison of high repute and grows in most climes.” Leila glanced around the hut. “I would wager that every healer across the breadth of Christendom and all the way to China has monkshood amongst his or her collection.”

“Why would Isobel kill herself? And why in such a painful manner?” Fergus shook his head. “I cannot understand it. She did not seem so troubled when I left her.”

“What was her mood?”

“She was angry because I denied her desire to remain in the hall, and because I refused to acknowledge Gavin as my son. Her will had been denied.” He raised his gaze to that of his wife. “I would have expected her to do injury to me, or even to you, but not to herself.”

Leila bit her lip as she thought. “Was she learned in the use of herbs?”

“Not when I left these parts but it has been four years. She would not be the first woman to find an interest in the healing arts after bearing a child.”

“Nay, she would not.” Leila looked skeptical, and Fergus thought it unlikely that Isobel would have shown the patience to study any art. He could not think of a way to say as much without speaking ill of the dead, but he had always found her attention to be short-lived.

With the exception of her interest in him.

Unless, her interest in him had been short-lived and then reborn upon his return. He frowned, not liking Isobel’s death even though he had found her irksome. It seemed to Fergus that even their dispute was no cause for her to wish to die.

“You should ask the boy what she did at the end,” Leila counseled quietly.

Fergus met her gaze. “You think you know.”

“I merely guess.” His wife straightened, her thoughts hidden from him once more. Fergus wondered in that moment what it would take for Leila to open herself to him fully. He wished he knew, for he would do it. “The boy may know more than he realizes,” she added gently.

“I will take her to Dunnisbrae at first light,” Fergus rose to his feet as he spoke to the Templars. He heard Leila swiftly inhale, but her gaze was averted. “She must be laid to rest with her kin, Leila. Surely you see as much. Dunnisbrae was her father’s holding and that of his father before him. Her brother is laid to rest there, as well.”

“Of course. You must show every consideration to Lady Isobel.”

There was a curious note in Leila’s tone. Was she jealous? Fergus hoped she was, for he would be glad to see their relationship deepen beyond affection into love. He could not see her features, for she was drawing a cloak over Isobel’s face. He wished there was time to discuss all the details with her, but that would have to wait until his return.

In this moment, there were obligations to be fulfilled. He addressed the Templars. “We depart for Dunnisbrae at first light. See that no one enters the hut until then.”

“Aye, my lord,” agreed Yvan.

“We?” repeated Enguerrand, his gaze flicking to Leila. She stood a little straighter but pretended not to have noted his comment. “I must remain at Killairic. As you can surely guess, this disruption to the routine offers opportunities.”

Fergus sighed. “Then you must remain, of course, Enguerrand.”

Leila was again inscrutable and had stepped back into the shadows to watch and listen. Fergus changed to Gaelic to address the boy, ensuring that he blocked the view of the corpse. “Gavin, can you tell me if your mother said anything after my departure?” he asked. Gavin swallowed, his gaze clinging to his mother’s body. He seemed to have been struck dumb. Fergus guided him outside of the hut and crouched down before him there, repeating his question.

“She told me to run to the keep and tell you that she was sick,” Gavin provided. “But she was not sick. I said so, and she said I was wrong. She ate it.” His face crumpled as he fought tears. “Then she was sick.”

“The root in her hand?”

The boy nodded.

Fergus recalled well enough the speed with which monkshood did its deadly business. “Where did she get it?”

“She smelled the herbs after you left and found it there.”

“Was your mother a healer?”

The boy shook his head, his eyes wide. “Nay, sir. It is Helga at Dunnisbrae who tends the sick.”

“Did your mother name the root she ate?”

The boy shook his head again.

Was it possible that Isobel had chosen a root on a whim and had the misfortune to choose the most toxic one? Or had she been intent upon destroying Fergus’ happiness, because he had denied her? He could not say, but the shadow of dream seemed very dark in this moment. He sent the boy to the kitchens with Murdoch, for he knew he would be treated with care there. Fergus stood outside the hut, considering his course, then Leila joined him. He told her what the boy had said.

Leila nodded. “Was she sufficiently angry to kill herself in order to cause you trouble?”

“Who can say?”

“I did not know her, but she did not strike me as a woman who would willingly endure such torment. There were other herbs that would have been more kind.”

“What else was there?”

“There was the milk of poppies, which surprised me. I know it well from home. It offers a gentle death. One sleeps deeply and, with sufficient dosage, never awakens.”

“She might not have known it.” Fergus nodded. “I will ask this Helga, the healer of Dunnisbrae, when I take Isobel’s body home.”

Leila frowned. “Are you certain you must take her there yourself?”

“I would rather not, but I fear that Stewart may be insulted if I do otherwise.”

“I suspect he may be insulted either way,” Leila said, her manner pragmatic. “His wife is dead, after she fled to you.”

“And after I brought her a rich gift.” Fergus grimaced. “I should have taken your advice, Leila, and forgone the gift. I fear it encouraged Isobel to believe that more was possible between us than could be. I thought only to be kind, and to show her the respect to tell her of Kerr myself. He was under my protection, after all.”

Leila nodded. “You are kind, Fergus, but there are others who are not. I understand why you would take Lady Isobel home, but I fear for your reception. Will you take as many men as possible with you as escort?”

“You think Stewart will assault me?” Fergus considered what he knew of his neighbor and had to admit that it was a possibility. “I will take your advice this time, Leila, though I hope that you are mistaken. I will take Yvan and Murdoch with me, as well as Hamish.”

Leila’s lips thinned but she said no more.

“Tell me,” Fergus prompted.

“I know you think it prudent to show such courtesy to your former betrothed.” Leila’s dark eyes flashed. “But you cannot be surprised if there are those who imagine me to be your whore and little more.”

“What did Isobel say to you?”

“That a handfast suited a man’s convenience, just as I suspected.” Leila shook her head. “I am not certain that I can make a home here, Fergus, though perhaps I am simply tired in this moment.” She turned away and he sensed that she hid some detail from him. Then she spoke and he guessed that she was shy. “Perhaps you should stay in the hall this night. My courses have begun and I cannot welcome you abed.”

Fergus thought there was more to sharing a bed than the efforts to create a child, but bit back his words. He thought Leila looked smaller than was her wont. More fragile and in need of his protection.

“I am sorry.”

“As am I,” she said softly.

Had Leila found another man who could claim her heart? Fergus hoped it was not so, but he had noted how much time she spent with Murdoch.

Would she request a release from their handfast now that there was no chance of a child to bind them together? Fergus hoped not but he sensed her withdrawal and wished to speak to her.

Yet, he would not decline her request.

If she loved another, he would release her so that she could be happy.

Fergus was vexed that he had duties to attend the next day and resolved to do whatever was necessary to hear all of her doubts and fears upon his return.

“As you wish,” he ceded, hoping his agreement would please Leila but she gave no indication of her thoughts. “We will ride out before the dawn and return as quickly as possible. I pray it will be just after midday.”

Leila nodded, but her concern was clear. “Do you see the shadow yet?”

“I do,” Fergus admitted, though he did not tell her that it had become much darker. They would each keep their secrets, though he regretted the change. “But do not tell my father of it. I hope it will dissipate when Isobel is home forever.”

“As do I, Fergus,” Leila murmured. “As do I.”

He claimed her hand in his and kissed her fingertips, holding her gaze. “When I return, Leila, we must talk of our present and our future. You must tell me your hopes and fears, and I vow I will see that all evolves as you desire.”

She stared into his eyes for a long moment, but he could not guess her thoughts. “Aye, you will,” she agreed quietly. “For you are a man who keeps his vow, regardless of the cost.”

“Will you tell me about your home in Jerusalem?” Fergus asked, not wanting to be spent the night apart. Leila cast a glance at him that made her look vulnerable. “You never have. I did not wish to prompt sad memories, but I would like to hear of it.”

Leila considered this for a moment, then nodded. “If you desire, my lord.”

“I will come to you after I have arranged all for the morning.”

She shook her head with a resolve he recognized. “You will need your rest before you depart. I will tell you after you return.”

It was a rebuff and one that stung.

With a nod, Leila turned and left him there. Fergus watched her go, his gaze clinging to her small figure, unable to fight the sense that something precious slipped through his fingers.

---

Leila did not sleep.

It was not solely because she had lied to Fergus. She felt as if her tale about her courses planted a stake between them, the beginning of a barrier that could quickly become an insurmountable wall.

She felt as if she had erred in beginning the construction of that obstacle.

On the other hand, she tired of his persistent consideration for beautiful Isobel. Even in death, the other woman drew his attention and his time. Leila suspected Fergus did not understand how difficult it had been for her to try to make allies in a strange land, with unfamiliar customs, where people spoke a language in which she was not fluent. She missed having a friend or a confidante, and though she had hoped that might be Fergus, it seemed that it was only abed that they had a perfect union.

The fact was that she would have done as much as she had done already and more besides, simply for the promise of winning his heart. Her determination faltered because she began to fear that his heart would never again be his to surrender.

Isobel had died with it securely in her grasp.

She knew from Radegunde that it had taken Duncan twenty years to dare to love again after the death of his beloved. Leila knew she was not so patient as that.

Did she desire too much too fast? Was she overly impatient? Perhaps her dutiful attempts to be the wife Fergus needed were not sufficient to win him truly.

Perhaps they never could be.

She would never be tall, beautiful or blond, after all. Aye, as Leila stared at the canopy overhead, her doubts redoubled and redoubled again. Should she tell him that she had conceived? She did not know. She was not even certain herself. She feared that Fergus would make theirs a marriage in truth, then, but for the sake of the child’s legitimacy, not out of any affection for her.

And she would be trapped in this land, trapped with a man who forever yearned for another, trapped amongst strangers.

Alone.

It was unlike Leila to be indecisive, but when it came to the matter of Fergus, she was torn. Could he ever come to love her? She was not interested in half-measures and she did not need his complete commitment immediately—what she did need was hope. She wanted her husband to be Fergus, and for Fergus to love her as completely as she loved him. She wanted their children to be conceived in love and raised in a loving household. She wanted all of him and was prepared to surrender all of herself. But though she made progress with others at Killairic, she felt that Fergus still regarded her as a comrade.

Was it true about the babes in his family all having red hair? Or had Fergus denied Gavin to avoid a confrontation with Stewart? Leila wished she knew. Could there be more to the matter than that? There might well be a custom of which she was ignorant.

She rolled over, vexed with her own endless questions.

Had Fergus lied to her about the import of the handfast? Leila doubted as much, but after Isobel’s words, she wondered. It was likely the other woman had intended to cause dissent, but that did not mean there was no truth to her words.

Leila exhaled mightily. The truth was that she was prepared to accept less for herself, in the hope of the future bringing more, but she was not willing to compromise the future of her child. She might be second-best, a substitute for the dead Isobel, but her child would not stand second to Gavin. She would leave Killairic, Scotland, and Fergus before she let her child grow up with the conviction that he or she was not good enough.

The possibility that she had conceived changed all for her.

Was that selfish? Did she make too emotional a choice? Leila’s thoughts spun and she knew it was because she had no anchor, no friend, no one to hear her worst fears and dispel them, either with laughter or practicality. She had no one in whom she could confide, no one she trusted fully, no one who would tell her when she was wrong.

She ached to see Aziza again, to talk to her just once, to pour out her worries and have her cousin laugh at her, then help her to see the solution.

Leila’s heart clenched and she closed her eyes against unwelcome tears, refusing to recall her parting from Aziza. She would think of her cousin’s life on this day instead.

It was yet dark here, but the first tinge of the sun was on the horizon. It would be morning at home by now and Leila envisioned her cousin there. Aziza would be in the kitchen, where the sun shone brightly in the morning, warming the room. Leila’s uncle would be in the adjacent smithy, greeting his neighbors and starting the fire in his forge. There would be the sound of horses being brought to the smithy, and those stabled there being fed by the two boys who worked for her uncle.

Karayan would be telling the woman who helped in the house what to do, though Noura knew her labor well enough. Noura would roll her eyes at his bossiness even as she complied. Aziza and Noura would have started the bread already and the house would be filled with the scent of it. Aziza would be playing with her son, Kamal, in the sunlight, and Noura would halt her tasks to admire the baby at such frequent intervals that Karayan would chide her for her laziness. They would bicker, as familiar with each other as a married couple, though in truth they were not.

Leila smiled, able to perfectly envision the house.

Kamal had been a new babe when Leila had touched her lips to his soft brow in farewell, the dark tangle of his baby hair tickling her face. He had chortled at her, his dark eyes wide, not understanding that they parted forever.

Kamal would be crawling by now, chubby with Aziza’s good care, strong and tall for his age. He had been a long baby, and even then, the cousins had agreed that Kamal would take after his father, Husain.

A handsome man and a hard worker, Husain was soft spoken and kind, as well as honorable. His eyes shone when he entered Aziza’s presence, and Leila’s cousin always smiled at the sight of her husband. The love between them had been so strong from the outset that it was clear they had been meant for each other.

How much would Kamal have grown by now? How much more silver was in Noura’s hair? Had Aziza conceived again? What of Husain? Was his business thriving? He had wanted to put his olive press in the house, a matter of great contention with Leila’s uncle, though Hakim well understood the urge to keep one’s eye upon one’s trade. She wondered if those two had found a solution. Aziza had been adamant that she would not move from her father’s home to her own. Perhaps Hakim had built that small addition to the back of the kitchens, as Karayan had quietly suggested one night as a compromise.

If only Hakim could have chosen such a good man for Leila as he had selected for his own daughter.

If only the cousins’ dreams of raising their children together could have come true.

But it was not to be, and Leila would not mourn what could not be hers. She was more pragmatic than that. As the sun brightened the sky, she thought of the donkey in the tale and smiled. She recalled all that was good about her life, instead of dwelling upon the lack. She was handfasted to Fergus, a good and honorable man who treated her well, and resided in his home. She reminded herself that the smith thought well of her, as did Hamish and Murdoch. She, Hamish and Fergus had ensured the safety of the reliquary, and Calum was kind to her. She had been in Scotland a mere month.

Instead of reassuring her, that fact made her realize that she might have only eleven more months with Fergus as her husband.

Still, she did not know whether to tell him about the child. She might be wrong, after all, and she would not raise his hopes. Perhaps, she should wait until she missed a second bleeding, to be certain.

It felt like a deception, another post in that barrier—though it was an omission and not a lie. Still, it seemed like splitting hairs to note the difference.

Leila heard horses and rose from the bed, standing at the window but ensuring that she was hidden by the shutter. She caught her breath when Fergus glanced up as he mounted Tempest. The sight of him, she feared, would always have the power to stir her. She watched as they made their preparations.

The small party rode through the gates just as the sun slipped over the horizon. Fergus rode Tempest, Hamish rode a palfrey, Yvan rode his destrier and Murdoch rode another palfrey. A third palfrey pulled a wagon with a shrouded bundle in the back, and Gavin sat alongside the villager who rode in the wagon. Was it the young miller? Leila thought as much but could not be certain.

Leila watched the party until it were out of sight, still snared in indecision. Then she shook her head and decided to act rather than fret. She bathed in the cooled water from the night before, then dressed. She picked up her small rug, hoping the day ended with more promise than it had begun.

It should do so, for Fergus would be returned.

---

It was late morning when Fergus and his party reached Dunnisbrae.

Stewart came to the gates himself to meet them. He was dressed for battle, as seemed to be his custom, and there was now a patch over his right eye. His expression was grim. “Where is she?” he demanded, then his gaze fell upon the bundle in the cart and he paled.

Fergus knew then that Stewart had cared for Isobel.

Gavin jumped from the wagon as soon as it stopped and ran to his father, who swept him up immediately. “She is dead, Father. She died!”

“What is this?” Stewart demanded. “Where? When?” He came to the side of the cart, and held the boy’s head against his shoulder, then flicked a finger. The miller’s son pulled back the shroud so he could see Isobel’s face and Stewart’s jaw clenched. He crossed himself and stepped back, obviously shaken.

“She came to Killairic yesterday,” Fergus said, choosing his words with care. “She said you had had a disagreement but I bade her to return home to resolve matters with you. It was too late for her to complete the journey before darkness fell, so she was to sleep in an empty hut in the village, then ride out this morning.”

“Not in the hall?” Stewart demanded.

“Not in the hall,” Fergus confirmed.

The other man winced. “Whatever killed her was not kind.”

“She ate a root,” Gavin said.

“What manner of root?” Stewart asked and the boy shrugged.

“I believe it was monkshood,” Fergus said. “My question is whether she knew the healing plants. Did she err in choosing this one, or did she select it apurpose?”

“You infer that my wife sinned and took her own life by choice? How dare you say as much!” Stewart’s voice rose. “Of course, she erred! What manner of hut did she occupy that such a root was even there?”

“It was the abode of the former healer of Killairic, and the sole one empty,” Fergus said with growing impatience. “I sought to give her shelter, naught more, Stewart, and to ensure that she was not riding during the night, when ill could befall her.”

Stewart took a deep breath and stepped back. “Of course, Fergus. I would ask your forgiveness for my sharp words.” He ran a hand over his head and looked almost lost. “This is a most unwelcome surprise.”

Although Fergus could appreciate the sentiment, it seemed most odd for it to have been expressed by Stewart. That man had not shown any such sensitivity or tact in the past, but he dared to hope that there was a change. It was clear that he was distraught by the loss of Isobel, which indicated that he had loved her. Perhaps there was more to his neighbor than he had glimpsed in the past. At Stewart’s gesture, Fergus’ company rode through the gates, where the villagers came to their doors to watch their passage.

“My lady Isobel is dead,” Stewart cried and the tale was repeated, the news spreading through the village. “I ask you all to name her in your prayers. She will be buried on the morrow.” He indicated the chapel ahead to Fergus. “Let us take her there, that the candles can be lit for the vigil. Summon the priest!” he called and a boy ran to do his bidding.

The little party followed his direction and dismounted before the chapel. The miller’s son halted the cart and Hamish helped him to lift Isobel. All were silent and the villagers crossed themselves solemnly. Together, Hamish and the miller’s son moved Isobel on to a board. Murdoch and Yvan aided them to carry her into the shadowed darkness of the chapel. Fergus followed out of respect.

The chapel had no windows and there was only a beam of light from the open door to illuminate the interior. The sole piece of furniture within it was the table that served as an altar. The cup and plate must have been locked away, for the table was bare. It was cool inside the chapel, and the floor was of beaten earth. They were lowering Isobel’s corpse before the alter when the chapel was plunged into sudden darkness.

All five of them started and spun. No doubt they each believed, as Fergus had, that the door had swung shut. Then Fergus heard a bar drop and knew otherwise. He lunged for the door but by the time he reached it, it was too late. The heavy wooden portal was secured from the outside, and he could not wrench it open.

“Stewart! Open the door!”

“Never!” that man said, his tone more characteristic. “You have taken what was mine, Fergus. Now I will take what is yours to see my vengeance served.”

“Stewart!” Fergus roared, but he realized the other man had moved away. Stewart shouted for horses, and Fergus heard Tempest whinny in fear. There was a sound of racing hoofbeats, then Stewart’s voice again.

“We ride to assault and seize Killairic!” He shouted and Fergus heard the clatter of arms and horses, as well as the stamping boots of soldiers. “My lady will be avenged upon those who saw her dead—and may the Lady of Killairic be prepared to welcome me.” He laughed. “Take your leisure this day, Fergus. I will have a tale of conquest to share with you upon my return.”

Leila!

“Stewart!” Fergus bellowed and shook at the door. He hammered upon it, to no avail, and even with the aid of the others, could not force it open. “He will kill Leila to settle the score,” he whispered. “And I have left her undefended.”

His father would protect Leila but was scarcely at his greatest strength. Fergus could not be certain that Enguerrand would defend her, given that man’s lingering suspicions that Leila had stolen the reliquary.

Fergus turned to the others in appeal, even as the sound of Stewart’s forces riding out carried to their ears.

They must have been preparing to do as much before Fergus’ arrival.

Stewart must have concluded that Isobel had gone to Killairic and had already planned his assault. If he had not done the noble deed and brought Isobel home to rest, he would have been at Killairic to defend it.

Did Agnes have any part in this?

“We must escape this chapel with all haste!” His eyes had adjusted to the darkness, but he could see that there was little in the chapel that could be used to their advantage.

“We must aid Lady Leila,” Hamish agreed.

“But the walls are sturdy and the portal is barred,” Murdoch said.

“There is not a single window,” Yvan agreed. “Only a dove hole in the roof.”

They all tipped their heads back to consider the dove hole that Yvan had noticed. It was covered, for it was not Whitsunday, but it gave Fergus an idea.

“And naught that can be used to batter the door,” Murdoch agreed. “We are trapped.” The miller’s son looked fearful at this and glanced toward the shrouded Isobel.

“But it is all timber,” Fergus said and the others turned to face him. “We must uncover the dove hole, then light a fire. The smoke will escape while we burn a hole in the walls to aid our own escape.”

Yvan and the miller’s son moved the table so that it was beneath the covered hold. Murdoch stood atop it, then helped Hamish to climb to his shoulders. The boy’s fingertips brushed the underside of the roof and Fergus feared he might be too short. But Hamish jumped a little and managed to poke at the cover so that it was dislodged. Sunlight came through the hole and the sense of triumph was tangible.

“Who has a flint?” Fergus demanded.

The miller’s son grinned and removed a flint from his purse. “I never am without one, my lord.”

Fergus grinned in turn and accepted the flint, then chose a corner to begin their fire. “To the right of the altar,” he decided. “It faces south and will be the driest. It also faces away from the village. Those remaining may not notice it as soon.”

Hamish took his knife and began to make shavings from the interior of the walls. The miller’s son watched, then did the same. The Templar grimaced, then took his knife to the legs of the table that served as an altar. Murdoch joined the task. Within moments, Fergus had a pile of tinder against that corner. When the flint sparked and the tinder lit, he hoped they would reach Killairic in time.