Chapter Sixteen
Keir followed Grace out into the vacant corridor, shutting the door. She rounded on him. “You aren’t really going to kill a boy, are you?” Both of her eyebrows rose high. She poked him hard in the chest. “Keir Mackinnon, don’t you dare kill a child.”
“He’s fifteen, considered a man and old enough to know not to steal.”
“What did he steal? The bloody jewels from the Scottish crown? The king’s horse? A galleon perhaps?”
Keir frowned deeply at her. “My room is one floor up. There should be a clean gown for ye laid out by the maid.” Damnation. He didn’t want Grace to think he was… What? The Devil? That was exactly what he was. He raised his fingers to her cheek, marveling in the fact that she didn’t flinch away from him. Maybe it was her bravery to stand up to him, question his heart, that made him lean close, revealing a secret he never had before.
“The lad will be saved,” he whispered by her ear and turned away, not wanting to see his self-loathing reflected on her angel’s face. Keir stepped down the winding stairs, walking into the great hall where Fiona and Dara had retreated to eat at the table. Brodie poked at the growing hearth fire.
Dara frowned at him. “I don’t like her.”
“That doesn’t concern me,” Keir said, grabbing a dark roll. He used his knife to slather on butter from a crock.
“Even Seanmhair hasn’t heard of Spotting Sickness,” Dara said. “She may not know what she’s talking about. She’s not Mairi Maclean.”
Keir centered a hard gaze on his sister. Could she be the one who was dusting the bowls in the kitchen? She’d always liked to spend time in there to sample Nora’s creations. “I find it odd that ye would rather have me bring a woman here whom your betrothed wants.”
She set her clay mug down with a hard tap. “He doesn’t want her. She’s a talented healer, is all.”
Brodie chuckled, walking over to grab a roll.
“What?” Dara snapped.
Brodie shrugged. “Your groom tents out the front of his kilt every time he talks about Mairi Maclean. I’d say he’d like a bit of her healing balm, if she be the one stroking it on.”
Dara’s aim was true as she threw her roll at Brodie’s head, hitting him with a thunk right between the eyes. “Dùin do ghob,” she yelled, stressing each word of the foul phrase.
Seanmhair grinned, shaking her head. Nothing shocked the old woman.
“I don’t know why ye’d want to marry the arsehole, Dara,” Keir said, gaining a glare from her.
“He’s a fierce warrior, Keir,” she said. “The scars he wears proves it.”
“There’s more to a fierce warrior than the evidence of battles,” Keir said. “It could mean he’s a terrible warrior, lucky to be still alive.”
Dara huffed, rolling her eyes. “He’s the only one around here who is strong enough to wed me.”
“I’m strong enough to wed ye,” Brodie said and grinned.
She made a pretend retching sound. “Someone I haven’t spent my life thinking of as a brother.”
Keir touched her shoulder, making her look up to him. Dara really was bonny when her face wasn’t pinched with annoyance. She had their mother’s expressive eyes and thick brown hair. “Ye don’t have to wed him, or anyone, until ye meet someone ye truly fancy. There are others in this big world.”
“None of which come to Skye.” She turned back to her plate where he saw her touch the edge, sliding her finger along the rim. Was she double-checking that she didn’t have one of Lachlan or Rab’s poisoned plates? The suspicion coiled like a snake in his gut.
Brodie came up to him. “Ye heard about Rachel’s lad out in the stocks?”
Keir walked toward the double doors. “Aye, for stealing bread.”
Brodie’s frown turned fierce. “Idiot.” He lowered his voice. “And Rab, in one of his fits, proclaimed he should be flogged until he passes out or dies. He was to be held there until ye arrived to see it done.”
“How long?”
“Only a day, and his mother’s been feeding him. Wrapped him in blankets last night. A group is gathered out there since they saw ye ride into town last night.”
Keir nodded. “Give me a space and then come out.”
“Aye.” Brodie’s face relaxed, and he handed him his black mask. “Make it good.”
Keir turned away, but paused to glance back at his friend. “If Grace comes down, stop her from seeing.”
Brodie looked to the still-vacant stairs. “Even if she doesn’t see the Devil in action, she’ll hear about it.”
“Seeing is worse,” he murmured and headed into the entryway chamber where he removed his shirt. After years of snow baths and showing he was impervious to cold, it hardly bothered him anymore. It was a discomfort that seemed a warranted punishment for the fear he was about to sow.
He grabbed the lash that hung inside the door, the braided leather handle rubbed soft by generations of Dunakin Devils holding it. Long black leather strips hung from it, several peppered with sharp metal teeth to bite into skin. Keir stepped outside the double doors.
At the top of the keep stairs, he braced his legs, crossing his arms over his bare chest where his ancient markings stood out like swirling serpents over his biceps. Several of his warriors looked up, bowing their heads in greeting and respect. He was their feared leader, the one who pulled them through battles when they were vastly outnumbered. His reputation alone evened the odds by striking fear in their enemies before the fighting began. It was a strategy, sharpened over the centuries, until the Devil of Dunakin and his fierce fighting men had become legend. The Devil was usually the second son of the chief or the son of the Devil of Dunakin himself, which was why Keir had never sought to sire a child. He wouldn’t raise a son to be the monster that he’d been trained to be.
Keir inhaled, filling his lungs, and let out a fierce yell. “Where is the thief?” His men pointed toward the gates, and he walked down each step, snapping the lash, the ends cracking in the air. Power radiated from each of his steps, his boots crunching on the pebbles in the heavy silence. Villagers lined the short path to the stocks beyond the gate. Tears sat in some eyes, tears he ignored. To acknowledge them would show he could be swayed from his purpose. Several older women held the boy’s mother back as if she would lose her mind and throw herself on the Devil.
“Please,” Rachel said. “Have mercy. He’s just a boy.”
“He’s old enough to hold a sword, he’s old enough to know that no one is above the law,” Keir said, his words breaking through the gray morning. He stared at the streaked face of Niall Mackinnon. The boy had at least some bravery to hold his gaze for a moment before dropping it back to the dirt. “Niall Mackinnon, your chief has found ye guilty of thievery and has sentenced ye to be lashed until ye either pass out or die where ye stand.”
“Nay,” Rachel cried, but the ladies dragged her back when Keir’s gaze swung around to her. They obviously thought she would be next to feel the lash. Bloody hell, he hated this.
Gritting his teeth, Keir stepped up to the stocks. “Tie him to the lashing pole.” Two of his warriors came forward and lifted the heavy yoke of the stock that had held Niall all night through the freezing temperatures. He remembered how that felt, the aches in the back from bending. He remembered the humiliation when his father’s men had dragged him to that same pole, tying him to receive his beating. But instead of the lash, Aonghus Mackinnon had punched him in the gut and nose until he bled and vomited. Grooming him to be the next Devil of Dunakin had saved Keir’s skin from deep lash scars that would be evidence, later on, of his weakness. The internal scars were the same, however.
The crowd stood silent, faces grave, as Niall was tied and his shirt stripped to hang around his hips. Keir saw Normond MacInnes standing off to the side, watching. Perhaps the brutal show would make him pause if he ever tried to lift a hand against Dara. Keir flicked the lash out, making it snap like lightning. Several people jumped, and Rachel wailed until one of her friends, desperate to save her, threw a hand over her mouth.
A burst of movement near the gate caught Keir’s attention. Bloody damnation. Grace. She pushed into the crowd. Brodie ran out the gate two steps after her, but she’d managed to weave between people, dodging toward the front. He turned away from her. It was too late for them anyway, not that he could ever earn the affection of a woman like Grace, gentle, intelligent, and strong. He snapped the whip again, regret turning to fury.
“Prepare to feel the results of your thievery, Niall Mackinnon!” he yelled, bringing the whip down to hit the ground next to the lad.
Brodie marched forward. “Ho there, Devil of Dunakin,” he called out and bowed his head low until Keir turned to him. “I would not interrupt your duty, but Rab has commanded ye come to him.”
“I am delivering justice in his name,” Keir said, raising his hand. Everyone around him seemed to hold their breath, not knowing the outcome he had already planned with Brodie, like all the beatings of children and minor offenses his cruel brother insisted upon. There were a few worthy offenses in grown clan members that Keir did deliver with brutal strength, but if Rachel had paid attention, she’d know that Niall would not feel Keir’s spiked lash.
“Forgive me, powerful Devil of Dunakin,” Brodie said. “But Rab demands your presence now.”
“Mo chreach,” he cursed and slammed the handle of the lash into Brodie’s hand. “Finish his sentence and cut him down. If he lives, he will learn never to steal again.”
“Aye, sir,” Brodie said, lowering his eyes as if the sight of Keir was frightening to him as well.
Keir turned, his boots grinding in the pebbles beneath his heels as he hiked toward the gate. Would Grace follow him? He whipped off the black mask, clenching it in his hand. Nay, not after witnessing the truth of his foulness.
…
A brisk wind sent snowflakes swirling down from the clouds to prick against Grace’s hot cheeks. She blinked against the tears threatening to spill from her eyes as she watched Keir stalk off, his hair in disarray from yanking off the hellish black mask. His skin, bared to show he was immune to the cold, showed his markings, the crosses of those he’d killed pocked across his back. She’d touched them all, yet now he seemed untouchable.
“Are ye the Maclean lass he brought back?” a woman next to Grace asked in a near whisper. “To heal wee Lachlan?”
Grace cleared her throat. “Yes, though I am not the one he sought, but I’m a healer, too.”
The woman passed the sign of the cross over her chest. “I will pray for ye, milady.”
Grace felt a hollow flutter in her chest. “Thank you, however I’m sure Lachlan could use your prayers more than I.”
“So, brave,” the woman said, shaking her head. She leaned closer to Grace’s ear. “Prepare yerself, lass. If he hasn’t raped ye yet, he will. He’s a true devil. Even killed his own mother.”
Grace’s breath balled up inside her for several heartbeats. Killed his own mother? She didn’t believe it for a moment.
“Please, Brodie,” the woman who must be the boy’s mother, called across the circle of villagers. She shook her head. The ladies who had held her in Keir’s presence released her to run over to Brodie, falling on her knees. “He’s a stupid, hungry boy.”
Brodie looked out at the gathered crowd while holding the lash. His voice boomed as loudly as his face was dark with anger. “A hungry boy, son of a valiant warrior killed in battle, and none of ye brought them bread or meat?” His gaze scanned the crowd, and Grace watched as many of them shifted, looking down at the dirt beneath them.
Brodie snapped the whip, and several people flinched. “We are a clan, all of us. The only time one family should be hungry is if we are all hungry. We had a good harvest, and the only way the Mackinnon clan can remain strong is if we all partake in it.” He folded the flail, pointing the heavy handle around the circle as he pivoted on one heel. “If one is forced to steal bread, ye are all guilty of the same. Each of ye should stand in the stocks and feel the strike of the Devil of Dunakin.”
The weight of his stare fell heavily on each person in the crowd. After several long moments, he moved around to stand in front of the boy. “Ye will stay within your mother’s house for a week and keep your shirt on whenever out, until spring. I will tell the Devil that I delivered three lashes before ye fell unconscious and were carried home by several villagers.” He looked out, and two men stepped forward. Brodie nodded, and with his dagger, cut the boy loose. His mother wrapped Niall in a hug.
“Thank ye, sir Brodie,” she called, tears coursing down her cheeks.
Brodie nodded and turned, traipsing away from the crowd. The woman next to Grace squeezed her hand. “What is yer name, lass?”
“Grace,” she answered numbly.
“The ladies will offer prayers to Saint Mary to keep ye brave and alive.”
Grace had no idea how to reply. Her mouth opened. “Thank you?” she said, but it sounded like a question. She turned away before the woman could say anything else and saw Brodie striding along the outside of the great castle wall. He walked with purpose, the lash still in his fist. Grace followed at a distance, glancing over her shoulder, but no one followed.
Brodie ducked into a low, thatched barn. Grace hurried toward it and circled behind where it butted up against a copse of trees near the river, concealing her from anyone walking by. The gurgle of the water made her heart thump faster, but she focused on the building before her. The chinks of daub between the hewn planks were loose, and she searched until she found a missing chunk.
Peering in, she saw Brodie and Keir. Keir had donned a shirt and took the flask Brodie handed him. “Thank ye,” Keir said.
Brodie slapped a palm down on his shoulder. “It was earned. The boy was scared enough to piss himself.”
Keir frowned. “And ye couldn’t keep Grace out of it.”
Her breath stopped altogether. He hadn’t wanted her to witness his abuse. She blinked, her eyelashes touching the outside of the barn.
“The woman is slippery,” Brodie said. “When I told her she must stay inside, she excused herself to the privy, but that’s not where she was going. Dara saw her sneaking out.”
Brodie pointed to something Keir held wrapped in cloth. “Bread for Rachel and Niall?”
“Aye. I didn’t know they were short on food,” Keir said.
“Rachel’s too proud to go to Rab for more, and Niall is growing so fast, I don’t think she can keep him fed. I shamed the villagers for letting them get hungry when others are not.”
Keir nodded. “Good. And bring Niall to training,” Keir said. “He’s old enough and will receive two hearty meals a day up at the castle.”
Brodie nodded. “I told him to act like he was healing for a week. If anyone comes to tell Rab—”
“I’ll intercept,” Keir said, “and scare the piss out of them for trying to curry favor. Make sure Rachel’s given a few chickens for eggs, and teach Niall how to set traps for rabbits. Even with the others helping them now, the lad needs to learn to feed himself. Without a father to teach him, I am responsible.”
“Actually, as chief, Rab is responsible,” Brodie said. Grace couldn’t see his face, but his tone was solemn. Keir’s face was hard, his brows low.
“What would have happened if we hadn’t come back for weeks?” Brodie asked. “A perfectly good lad would die, bent over in those damn stocks.” He shook his head. “Rab’s gone mad since Bradana died, Keir. Perhaps it is time for ye to replace him.”
Grace’s eyes opened wider, and she pulled away to readjust over the open chink in the daub. Could Brodie want Rab and his son out of the chief’s seat? Enough to poison them?
“’Tis treason,” Keir said.
“Or is it liberation from a tyrant who forces ye to do his dirty work?” Brodie asked, his voice low.
Keir stared back for a long moment. “Are ye poisoning my brother and nephew?”
Brodie took a step back as if Keir had struck him. He shook his head. “How could ye ask if I’d poison Lachlan? Nay, Keir, I am not.”
Keir’s shoulders slumped forward, and he set his hands on his knees, propping himself up. “I know, but I had to ask.”
“Now if it was just Rab…” Brodie said and chuckled, breaking the tension Grace could feel permeating the low barn, the ewes clustered at the far end, barely paying the two men any attention.
“Well now, what do we have here?” A man’s voice made Grace fall forward, her forehead thumping the side of the barn. She turned to see the man from the dark corridor this morning standing there. “Peeping at some sheep, Sassenach?” The words were teasing, but the leer that tightened his face once again stiffened the hairs on the back of Grace’s neck. His gaze stripped her bare, making Grace cross her arms over her breasts.
She stepped away, sliding back along the edge of the barn until only a few trees separated her from the river. “I was happening by and wondered what animals dwelled within,” she whispered, the man’s large frame trapping her against a tree flanking the water. “I need to…go,” she said.
“Ah now, not so fast, lass. I hear ye’re from Aros.” His grin turned dark. “I have an acquaintance with the chief there, Torquil Maclean. I’ve heard that ye are sister to his wife.”
Between the man before her, who held himself in a very predatory fashion, and the sound of water behind her, Grace’s panic reared up with paralyzing strength. She stood there, unable to yank her sgian dubh from the inside of her pocket. Her lips parted to gather more air to feed her fleeing heart.
As if sensing his menacing power over her, the man stepped closer. A wicked grin darkened his features, making it clear that he enjoyed frightening her. “If ye survive Dunakin, lass, perhaps ye could take a message back to your bloody chief.”
Riding over the pounding in Grace’s ears, a voice made the evil man pivot, hand to the hilt of his sword. “Normond MacInnes, your ragged head will be atop a pike by nightfall if ye don’t step back. Now.” Keir. Relief flooded Grace, making her sag against the tree.
Normond MacInnes? Her eyes widened as she stared at the back of the stranger’s head. God’s teeth. She’d found the man that the chiefs of Barra, Mull, and Islay Isles all wanted dead, the man who’d disappeared after stalking and trying to rape her friend, Mairi Maclean.