Twenty-three

When they reached their room, Callum curled up with Maggie on the bed, and she wept in his arms for what seemed like hours, sobbing and talking gibberish, and he never once told her to hush or to calm herself. Nay, he’d just held her and rubbed her hair and back, pressed kisses to her brow and temple.

She’d cried for Ross, for the loss of the brother who had been as bright as the sun in her life for so many years. She’d cried for the death of his wife, Eleanor, whom Maggie had loved like a sister, and for the lost bairn whom she’d talked to and teased when he was still inside his mother’s womb. She’d sobbed for John’s heartbreak when Eleanor chose Ross over him and for the turmoil in her family afterward.

And she’d mourned her mother. Buckets of tears for the tragic, early loss of Margaret MacDonnell, and for the young lass Maggie had been—filled with fear, guilt, and helplessness as her mother had died slowly in the old well beside her.

And with her tears, Maggie had let her old self go, forgave the wee lass who had disobeyed and followed the butterfly toward the old well where she wasn’t allowed to play. She forgave herself for the death of her mother—just as Flora had encouraged. And ultimately for the death of her father, who never forgave himself for not having had the well properly sealed.

She’d cried for the disappointment and feelings of rejection and worthlessness she’d felt when Callum hadn’t returned for her after his father died. And she’d wept over knowing that he was here now, loving her and caring for her—and that she believed in his love and had been able to forgive him. She’d cried grateful tears for their union and the life they planned to build together.

When the torrent had subsided, she’d felt empty but full at the same time; heavy but lighter than she had in years; exhausted yet also uplifted. She stayed in Callum’s arms in a strange twilight of sleep. And when a knock came on the door, she remained lying on the bed while he gently moved out from under her to answer it. She watched through half-closed eyes as Gavin entered and had a hushed conversation with Callum.

When her husband came back, she reached for his hand. He sat beside her on the bed.

“Is it John?” she asked. “He’s here, isn’t he? I canna imagine that he would send anyone else to get me if he feared for my safety.”

“Aye. He and several of his men attempted to sneak over the castle wall rather than riding under the portcullis. Why would he think you unsafe, Maggie? John and I have always been friends. And it’s not as though he wouldn’t have expected our marriage. We’ve been betrothed for years.”

She sat up, and the tears rolled down her face as she imagined the mess of emotions her brother must be experiencing right now. “He’s grieving; probably angry and distrustful. And I have to believe he’s feeling guilty. If he hadn’t left in the first place, Irvin couldnae have done what he did. He’ll be determined to get to me—save me—no matter what. And of course as much as I love him, he’s still a wee ablach. John’s always been reckless.”

Callum nodded. “Aye. Maggie, I have to…”

When he didn’t finish, obviously conflicted, she cupped his face and drew him forward for a kiss. “You have to go. I understand. Take your brothers and find my brother. Bring him back to me safely. And doona worry about me. I’m tired, Callum. I’ll sleep well knowing you’re a part of the search.”

She knew her husband would sort it out, and when he left, she fell into a dead sleep.

Upon waking, her eyes felt gritty and heavy, almost glued shut from all her weeping. She rubbed them as she sat up, then pushed off the cover Callum had placed over her. The fire burned high, so she knew someone must have been in to check on her recently. Treading over the soft rug, she crossed to the window and opened the shutter, expecting to see the light of dawn brightening the sky, but it was still dark. Despite that, the bailey was busy with men on horses coming and going. Burning torches lit the night, and she wanted to yell out to John and tell him she was safe and happy, but she knew that was foolish. Instead, she closed the shutters and crossed to a small writing desk in the corner. She would write a letter to her brother—several of them—that could be delivered by whoever found him. A letter to ease his mind.

The words came easily to her: she loved Callum, they were happily married, and she wasn’t leaving his side. She asked John to come to her so they could grieve Ross together and then, with Callum’s and his allies’ help, take back their clan and castle.

She’d just finished writing the last of four letters when a knock sounded at the door. She hurried over, hoping for good news as she brushed her hands down her creased arisaid and tucked her hair behind her ears.

When she opened the door, Drustan stood there, his head down and rubbing his neck.

“Drustan?” she queried when he didn’t look up right away.

He dropped his hand and met her gaze. “May I come in?”

She hesitated, the tiny hairs standing up on her skin. Two guards stood behind Drustan—men she barely knew, but who wore plaids that resembled Callum’s. She thought on her husband’s words and remembered how Drustan had fought beside the others at the hot pool and that he’d been one of the many targets in the courtyard when the rocks had fallen. She had no reason to suspect him, and guilt flashed through her for doing so.

“Callum’s not here,” she said.

He looked at her blankly for a moment, then nodded. “Aye.”

When he said no more yet didn’t leave, she took an uncertain step back. He passed her into the chamber, eyes darting everywhere—to the rumpled bed, to her letters on the desk, to an extra pair of Callum’s boots on the floor.

Maggie left the door ajar and walked toward him. “Is there news about my brother?”

He stopped in front of the hearth and turned to her, his hand tapping his leg, his brow shiny with sweat. “Your brother?”

“Aye. My brother John. ’Tis what the uproar outside is all about.” She took a concerned step forward. “Drustan, are you ill? You doona seem well.”

He raised his hand and wiped the sweat from his forehead. “Nay, Abi. I…I canna catch my thoughts. They keep drifting away from me.”

A chill ran down Maggie’s spine. She took a slow step backward. “What did you call me?” It sounded like Maggie but…not quite. Had she misheard? Or maybe he’d just mumbled?

He rubbed his neck again. “Stay away from the laird, sweetling. He has a wandering eye.”

The laird? Did he mean Callum? Or perhaps Callum’s father? She took another step back, now within equal distance to the door and one of Callum’s daggers hidden behind the tapestry on the wall. “I canna stay away from Callum, Drustan. He’s my husband.”

When he didn’t respond, she stepped closer to the tapestry, pulled out the dagger, and held it loosely by her side. Her heart was pounding, but she felt safer now.

She gentled her voice. “I’m Maggie, Drustan. Maybe we should wait for Callum to be here to have this conversation.” She edged slowly to the door. He watched her, standing so very still. Other than his fingers tap, tap, tapping on his leg.

When she pulled the door open all the way, the two guards looked in. She held her breath as Drustan nodded then walked toward her, eyes ahead, never once glancing in her direction. She tensed, dagger at the ready, as he passed her, but he left without incident.

When he disappeared down the passageway, she said to the nearest guard, “Go get my husband. Now. And hurry.” She shut and barred the door, her stomach roiling. She backed into the center of the room, her dagger trembling in her hand.

What had just happened? Had she imagined it, or was Drustan losing his mind? She turned and hurried to the bed where her arm sheath lay on a side table with several more daggers, crowding out the finely wrought candleholder and silver-backed hair brush.

She strapped on the sheath and inserted three daggers into it, then hurried to a satchel against the wall by the hearth. Inside lay her crossbow and several specially made arrows and bolts. She loaded one arrow so she’d be ready for anything, then inserted the extra arrows into another sheath she attached to her other arm.

Armed, she stood facing the door, with the crossbow ready. Several minutes of quiet later, she rolled her eyes at her own foolishness. The door was barred. What did she think was going to happen? She put the bow down on the chair in front of the fire then paced around the room a few times before she hurried to the bed and pulled up the feather mattress. Underneath was the sturdy rope Callum had promised her. She checked to see that one end was tied to the foot of the bed before she dragged the remainder of the rope to the window and readied it to be thrown out if she needed an escape route.

When she finished, she returned to pacing. Each time she neared the door, she leaned her ear against the wood and listened, but she couldn’t hear anything.

Where is Callum? Why is he taking so long?

She sighed and rubbed her hand over the nape of her neck. He was out trying to track down her clever, reckless, ablach of a brother, that’s where he was. And John would be hard to find.

The only thing she could do to help was finish her letters. With quick strides, she reached the desk, folded a piece of parchment, then poured hot wax from the candle on the overlapping edges to seal it. When she was done, she undid her mother’s brooch from her arisaid and pushed it into the wax. John would recognize the imprint.

Her eyes fell on her hands as they lifted the brooch, and alarm skittered through her. Her fingers were bare. Where was the heavy silver ring Callum had given her? She’d barely had it half a day, and she’d lost it?

God’s blood, he’ll ne’er forgive me! I’ll ne’er forgive myself!

She quickly searched the desk and then the bed, shaking out the linens and quilt—but she’d lifted up the mattress, so it could have flung anywhere. She crouched down on her hands and knees with the candle and began a thorough search of the floor, including the coiled rope beneath the window.

Fifteen minutes later, she sat back on her heels, empty-handed, closed her eyes, and breathed deeply to calm her racing heart and thoughts.

Where did I have it last?

Dancing with Callum just before they left the courtyard. She’d loved how her ring had shone on her hand when it was clasped with his during the reel. When they’d walked out, she’d lifted her hand to the light just for that reason, and he’d spun her in a circle.

The alcove!

Aye, she could easily have lost it there. She’d used that hand to stroke her husband, and she’d been so involved with their intimate play, she would never have noticed it coming off.

She still had on her soft leather boots, but her dress was completely askew. She quickly retrieved her mother’s brooch from the desk and repinned her plaid. Then she tied the mess of her hair at the nape of her neck with a ribbon, grabbed her crossbow from the bed, and headed out. The men on guard could just follow her.

She pulled open the door, her shoulders square and chin raised in case they gave her any trouble—which they shouldn’t. She was not a prisoner.

But only one man stood guard in the lit passageway, which struck Maggie as odd. She would have thought the guard she’d sent to find Callum would have passed on the message to another warrior and returned immediately.

Callum’s men did not disobey orders, and with the threats looming over them, she knew he’d want at least two guards watching her at all times.

Something is wrong.

“Lady MacLean?” the guard asked, looking at her with a brow raised.

“Good morrow, Hew,” she said, recognizing the warrior from her wedding feast. She’d danced a lively reel with him and clapped as he and some other warriors performed an energetic dance with his sword. “Where’s the other guard?” she asked.

“You sent him to find Laird MacLean.”

She nodded. He didn’t seem concerned, so maybe she was overreacting. She’d been rattled by Drustan’s behavior.

“No word yet about my brother, Laird MacDonnell?”

“Nay. We have men looking though. We’ll find him.”

“Aye, I heard the commotion in the bailey.” She stepped past him into the hallway and proceeded toward the courtyard, scanning for trouble.

“Lady MacLean,” he said anxiously as he hurried after her, “we should wait until we have a second guard.”

“I am the second guard, Hew. No one will get past my crossbow. Callum knows I can protect myself.”

Still, the guard whistled behind her, a different tone than any she’d heard before, and she half expected men to come flooding out of every nook and cranny. They didn’t, which she also found odd.

“They must all be outside, then,” she said to Hew.

“Aye, maybe. Keep your bow raised, Lady MacLean.”

Just then, someone moved in the dark ahead of them. “Halt!” Maggie yelled, her finger on the trigger. A head poked out of an alcove. Bright green eyes, so much like Callum’s, stared back at her, filled with fright.

Maggie lowered her bow a few inches. “Aileen?”

Aileen stepped slowly into the passageway, holding a lit candle in her hand. Her hair and clothes looked mussed, and a bright flush covered her cheeks.

“What are you doing out here by yourself?” Maggie asked.

“I…I was…working on a song.”

She was lying. Maggie could hear it in her voice and see it in her face. Surely she isn’t…nay, it canna be. Not Aileen—anyone but Aileen!

“’Tis not safe here. Go to your room and bar the door.” Maggie put as much authority into her voice as she could. It worked. Aileen’s face paled, and her eyes grew round. She bobbed a quick curtsy and ran down another corridor.

Maggie raised her bow again and hurried down the stairs to the ground level. At the bottom, she turned to the courtyard. Just around the corner from the stairs was the alcove she’d hidden in with Callum only hours before. Well, done more than hidden in.

She almost smiled, but then she saw Keith enter the passageway ahead of her. He hadn’t seen them, and he headed in the opposite direction.

For some reason, she stayed quiet. Keith wasn’t a trained warrior and wouldn’t be able to help them if they were attacked. Nay, he’d just be someone else she’d have to worry about. And who knew what he might tell Glynis.

She took a lit candle and its holder from the wall and drew the heavy drape. “I’m going in here.”

Hew approached her with his sword out. She had a moment of fright, eyes going wide and stomach dropping, but he just stepped past her and checked to make sure the alcove was empty. “I’ll be right outside.”

He didn’t ask her for an explanation as to why she was there, and she sighed inwardly in relief. She didn’t want anyone knowing she’d already lost her wedding ring—Callum’s grandmother’s ring!

Sending up a quick prayer for help to find it, she pulled the drape closed. But a moment later, she huffed out a resigned breath, opened the curtain, and stuck out her head. “I doona want you thinking I’m doing anything daft. I’m looking for my wedding ring. I lost it…already. Doona tell a soul, Hew MacLean, especially my husband. ’Tis not wise to be on my bad side.”

He raised a brow, his lip quirking. “So I’ve heard. I’d help you look, but I need to be on guard. Especially if our laird comes around the corner.”

She huffed out another breath and closed the curtain. Leaning her crossbow against the wall, she crouched down on her hands and knees with the candle. No rushes covered the floor in here, making her search easier. She looked on the ground beneath where she and Callum had tupped but didn’t see it. Panic rose inside her again, tightening her throat, and she took a deep breath to loosen it before starting in one corner of the tiny room and very carefully going over every inch.

When she neared the opposite corner and no silver glint caught her eye, her panic returned, and tears threatened to spill down her cheeks. She wiped the wetness away and kept looking, but she soon found herself at the edge of the wall—and nothing. Maggie was staring down at the rock in the corner, willing her ring to appear, when she became aware of two things: a cold, almost indiscernible breeze blew onto her wet fingers from a tiny gap in the cornerstone on the floor, and when she dug her nails into that gap, the stone lifted.

“God’s blood,” she whispered. “A tunnel.”

The drape swished open behind her, and she rolled and reached for her daggers in one motion. The intruder stepped into the alcove and onto her skirt, trapping her. Maggie’s heart raced as she raised her daggers, one in each hand and ready to throw, when Aileen wailed, “I lied. I wasn’t writing, I was with Keith. Oh, Maggie, what am I going to do? I love him so much, and he’s married to Glynis. I’m just like my mother!” Then she took a gulping breath and peered closely at her sister-in-law. “What are you doing down there?”

“I’m looking for my wedding ring, and I found this.” Maggie tugged her skirt free, rolled to her knees, and slid her knives into the gap between the loose stone and the next. It lifted easily. She put it to the side and lowered her candle to see five steep stairs leading into a tunnel that ran toward the courtyard.

Aileen crouched beside her and picked up something from the top stair. “Is this a clue?” she asked and handed Maggie her ring.

Joyful, Maggie cried, “Oh, thank you!”

She held it close to her heart before sliding it over her thumb, where it fit snugly. “And it is a clue. It tells us that someone has used these tunnels in the last six hours. Can you ask Hew to come in, please?”

Aileen crinkled her brow in confusion. “Hew? He’s not there. No one’s there.”

Maggie’s blood ran cold, and she readied her dagger just in case. “Then how did you know I was in here?”

“I followed the two of you. But then I lost my nerve and turned around, only to return. Maggie, what’s going on?”

Maggie searched her sister-in-law’s face—eyes wide, bottom lip trembling, skin blotchy from her tears—before she passed Aileen the dagger. “Take your candle and get in the tunnel.” She hefted the stone into her arms and then hurled it into the hallway where it hit the opposite wall and smashed into several pieces. “We’re being followed.”