Chapter Nineteen
Marry?
The word tightened through Keir. Turning away, he lifted his plaid from the floor, stepping into it.
“I’m not asking you to marry me, Keir,” Grace said, sitting up on the bed with the blanket wrapped over her bountiful breasts. “I only want to know if you’ve ever thought about it.”
“The Devil of Dunakin doesn’t wed.”
“Why not?” A frown pinched her angel-like features, her blue eyes serious. Did she hope to one day marry him?
“It is rarely done,” he said, his words short to cut off the conversation. He threw his shirt back on and avoided her gaze.
Grace dragged the blanket behind her as she walked to where he’d lifted her from her many layers. “Oh,” she said, nodding, her brows raised high over her bright blue eyes. “Because to keep up the ruse, you’d have to beat her every night.” She tapped her lip with one finger. “And how could you ever be faithful to a wife when the Devil must spend his days raping the women in every village you storm through? If you think about it, that’s a lot of work, all that swiving. You would hardly have anything left for a wife.”
“Grace,” he said, warning in his voice. “Those are stories, bred by gossips and spun by Brodie to grow the legend.”
Grace dropped the blanket, reaching for her discarded smock. As her breasts hung with their fullness, Keir almost forgot what they were talking about. Och, she was beautiful. She threw the thin, white gown over her head, tugging it into place. Without a word, she moved to the pooled layers of her costume, climbing into the middle.
She sighed. “I know the stories aren’t true, but as long as everyone believes them, no one will come close to you.”
“’Tis how it should be.” He’d been told from the start, as a scrawny lad with freckles across his nose, that one day he would frighten away everyone. He had been given no other option.
“What happens to Keir Mackinnon?” she asked, pausing in her dressing, her eyes sad.
The pity he glimpsed there hardened his jaw. “He protects his clan and dies.”
“What a terrible and boring life,” she said, crossing her arms under her breasts. The skirts still sat around her hips, undone. Her hair wound around her shoulders in wild curls. She looked unbound and free.
When he didn’t respond, she continued. “I doubt you dance, and you hardly laugh. You will never get to hold a small boy who has your beautiful brown eyes or drink fine whisky at your daughter’s wedding. As the damn Devil, you will never know the pleasure of rolling dice with friends over wassail or laughing at the antics of the Abbot of Unreason at Christmastide. The Devil of Dunakin can’t know love—”
“Enough,” he said, the churning in his gut turned to rock, hardened by the mix of pity in her tone and his own regret, which he thought he’d buried ten years ago, the day he’d held his mother for the last time. The day he’d fully become the Devil of Dunakin.
“I thought you liked the words that came from my mouth,” she said, meeting his gaze directly. How could Grace Ellington have ever thought herself a coward? She didn’t seem to care that he’d slaughtered hundreds, that his lethal look had been known to make men piss in fear. Yet, here, alone, Grace wielded a sharper blade than any he had ever carried before. Truth. Even he, Keir Mackinnon, the infamous Devil of Dunakin, struggled not to look away from her gaze.
“It is time to return to Dunakin,” he said finally and pivoted on his boot heel to stride out the door. Welcoming the chill of the winter air, Keir walked briskly to the single stable to re-saddle Cogadh. His horse looked at him with intelligent eyes, as if asking what was amiss, but Keir didn’t need to answer. That was one reason he liked animals. They didn’t require explanations and didn’t pry into issues that had been locked away.
Keir patted Cogadh as he buckled the girth straps, securing the saddle on his back. What had he been thinking, bedding a virgin, an honest, pure-hearted woman? The Devil of Dunakin must be separate, alone, not tied to a soft, beautiful creature who made him question his duty. Bloody hell. He’d add the act of ruining a virgin to the list of his sins, which would surely fly him to Hell. After all, wasn’t that where a devil was destined to spend eternity?
He led Cogadh outside where Grace waited in the doorway. “I’ve stirred the fire apart,” she said. “And fixed the bed.”
He could tell by the color in her cheeks and the tilt of her lips that she was angry. Sard it. Leaving his horse, he walked up to her. “Grace.”
She turned bright blue eyes up to him, and he could see a slight sheen there as if tears had welled up. “Och, lass.” He pulled her into his chest, hugging her. “I have no answers for ye, and I’m sorry if ye regret this afternoon.”
She pulled back, her face serious. “I have no regrets.” She laid her palm flat on his chest over his heart. “Do you?”
Hadn’t he been damning himself moments ago for taking her, making her writhe and burn with passion? He exhaled, shaking his head. “Nay. I will cherish the memory, but I regret putting those tears in your eyes.”
She blinked but didn’t deny them.
He released an exhale. “Ye have to know, Grace, that I hurt all the people who come close to me. I am not just a man. I carry the devil’s name and his duty.”
Her lips pursed tight but then opened. “And you have to know, Keir, that I will always speak my mind when I think someone about whom I care is headed toward pain and sorrow.”
Her words coursed through him, but he squelched the small flame of happiness they sprouted. “Ye should not care for me.”
She gathered her skirts to climb upon the horse and narrowed her eyes at him. “Too late.”
…
Grace watched the weathered, gray stone of Dunakin’s wall grow crisper as Little Warrior carried them closer to the open, toothed portcullis.
A shiver trailed through her at the feel of riding into the gaping maw of a monster. Only Keir’s strength at her back kept her sitting straight, eyes forward and gaze steady. The ride back through the perimeter of heads had reeked of death. Even closing off the sight didn’t stop her mind from conjuring the horrific images behind her eyelids.
The villagers had retreated as they rode slowly between the thatched houses. With each closing door, Grace’s emotions twisted with anger and sadness. Keir didn’t flinch at the obvious shunning, the villagers’ fear making them abandon any type of loyalty to him. If Keir ever met a foe more powerful than himself, no one would come to his aid. Perhaps Brodie, but none of his clan. It didn’t matter if the Devil of Dunakin had been a Mackinnon guardian for generations, fear would cause his people to leave him to the wolves.
She leaned into the warmth he gave off, enjoying these last moments of closeness they might have before he became the damned Devil again. They had become lovers this afternoon, but she had no idea what that meant or if it would continue. In England, she would be considered ruined. At Aros, she might be thought of as weak and wanton to crave the touch of her captor. But was she truly a prisoner now? She’d agreed to see Lachlan through his illness, and she would stay to see justice uncover the assassin.
And what about Keir? Could she leave him here, embroiled in his clan’s fear and disloyalty? Suddenly, everything that had been straightforward—her attempted plans for escape, her hate for her captor—had been blurred by the passion they’d just shared.
Lifting her down, Keir squeezed her hand, bending toward her ear. “Only Brodie knows of the poisoning. I asked him to watch both Rab and Lachlan today if we were away.”
They climbed the few steps into the keep where Dara and Fiona sat at the center table. Keir’s sister stood, scowling at them both. “Where have ye been?”
“Has something happened to Lachlan?” Grace asked, breaking away from Keir to head toward the steps.
“Nay, but now Rab looks ill,” Fiona said. “This Spotting Sickness is spreading. Brodie has been up with them. He sent us away.” She frowned. “Here. Take this up if ye are allowed in.” She handed Keir a wooden plate that held bread, cheese, and a cooked egg.
“Ye said eggs could help,” Fiona said, looking at Grace.
“Yes, thank you.”
Grace and Keir climbed the dark stairs silently and stopped before a sconce outside Lachlan’s door. “Is there a fine powder on the plate or on the food?” she asked.
“I can’t see for certain in this light.” Keir knocked.
“Aye?” The voice sounded like Brodie.
“It’s Keir.”
“And Grace.”
The bar scraped down the door on the other side, and Brodie opened it. The room smelled of human sickness. “Make sure the shutters are cracked to let in fresh air,” Grace said as she passed to Lachlan. The boy’s eyes were open, but he still seemed weak. She smiled as she sat on the chair by his bed. “Awake is good. Have you taken in anything? Broth or ale?”
“Some,” he whispered. Relief at the simple word filled Grace, changing her forced smile into a real one. The boy’s mind wasn’t muddled from the poison.
She stroked his cool forehead. “Always make certain that one of us, in this room, has inspected your food or drink before you take it in.”
He gave a little nod, and Grace patted his arm, looking to a pale Rab. He sat in a chair near the fire. “You have a strong boy.”
“We are a solid lot,” he said.
“Who is doing this?” Brodie asked, his voice soft as he checked the hall outside the door. It remained empty. “And why?”
Grace pulled her wild hair to the side and hoped no one noticed the tangles. “I have my theories.”
“Which are?” Rab asked and sipped at a flask.
She glanced at Keir and then his brother. “You have a visitor. Normond MacInnes.”
Rab’s lips pulled back as if he’d tasted something bad and wished to spit. “He’s more than a visitor. He’s betrothed to Dara and soon to be a member of our clan.”
Grace stood. “He’s also the bastard who is being hunted by four powerful clans, south of here, for terrorizing and nearly raping Mairi Maclean, the woman whom he convinced you to retrieve.”
“Shite,” Brodie said. “Ye know him?”
“I’ve never met him in the flesh before Dunakin, but I know his name, and he fits the description. Also, he cornered me today, and my instincts tell me he’s not to be trusted.”
Rab rubbed his beard, tugging.
Grace continued. “Even if Normond MacInnes isn’t behind the poisoning, he should be held for the chiefs of Mull, Barra, and Islay, as well as the new chief of the MacInnes. If he becomes part of your clan, you will have four powerful clans against the Mackinnons.”
Rab leaned back in his chair and nodded toward Keir. “I care not, for the Devil of Dunakin guards our clan.”
“One man against four clans is hardly a defense,” Grace said. “Even if he is a devil.”
Keir stood as if carved from stone, his expression flat.
“And when the English decide that Skye is worth fighting for,” Grace said, “you will want allies, not enemies among the clans.”
Rab cursed under his breath and said something in Gaelic. “We will watch MacInnes, but I will not throw Dara’s betrothed into my dungeon until I’ve heard his explanations and we’ve caught the bloody culprit.”
“How shall we flush the traitor out?” Brodie asked.
She studied the white powder under the egg. “Considering the amount of arsenic dust on this plate marked for the chief, the assassin is trying to complete the deed. Perhaps because I’ve arrived and might figure out that you aren’t succumbing to an illness.” Grace pinched her lips, while all four males in the room stared at her. She needed a reason for a gathering. “It is February,” she said, her words slow, and looked to Keir. “I think we shall have a St. Valentine’s Day feast in the hall.”
“To celebrate my near death?” Rab asked. His face turned red, and he coughed for several long moments into his fist.
“Dara has mentioned before that we don’t celebrate holidays,” Keir said. “Not since Bradana died—”
“Don’t say her name,” Rab said, his voice forceful even as he gasped, recovering from the coughing fit.
“If we have the gathering, the fiend is likely to try to poison you there,” Grace said. “We will be watching, and you will make sure not to let anything pass your lips.” She tipped her head, studying Rab as a plan solidified in her mind. “How well can you act?”
…
Keir stood in the decorated great hall. Over the last two days he’d seen Grace only in Lachlan’s room. When the circles around her eyes darkened with exhaustion, he’d convinced her to sleep in his bed while he guarded his nephew. He’d asked Dara to instruct the cooks to make a small feast for St. Valentine’s Day. She’d seemed surprised but pleased, rushing off to the kitchens. He’d asked his seanmhair to find a gown that Grace could alter for the celebration.
Meanwhile, the kitchen staff must think Grace was the clumsiest lass to walk the halls of Dunakin. She went by several times each day to replace the bowls and plates of food that she’d spilled in Lachlan’s room.
Keir kept the tankard he’d been careful to wash himself. He filled it from a common butt of ale and sipped while watching two maids scurry about with linens, dressing the table that ran the length of the hall. In the corner, three musicians gathered with their instruments, discussing the folk songs they would perform. Keir ignored their cautious glances. When one passed the sign of the cross before his chest, Keir snorted softly. Aonghus Mackinnon would be pleased. He took a swig of the brew, realizing that every time he thought of the man who’d raised him, he craved a strong drink.
Dara entered the hall from the back corridor, wearing a dark red dress, the color like old blood. But what tainted the air more than the grim reminder of the lives he’d taken was the man leading her in. Normond MacInnes was not someone with whom his sister should tangle. If Keir had been chief, Normond MacInnes would be in Dunakin’s dungeon right now instead of strutting across the room, a belligerent smirk on his face.
“No fighting, Keir,” Dara said, her voice sharp.
“’Tis a day to commemorate the beheading of a saint,” Keir said with a shrug. “Blood spilling seems appropriate.”
“Ye best get used to me being here, Devil,” MacInnes said and patted Dara’s arm. “I will soon be part of the family.”
Keir watched the man saunter off with Dara, parading as if he were waiting to swoop in and take over. Aye, Normond MacInnes dripped smug deceit.
Wooden plates were placed at each station, with a gold one set before Rab’s chair in the center of the long table. Keir would sit to the right of Rab and Dara to the left. Grace announced that Lachlan was still too weak to be from bed.
Keir walked along the table, scanning for the fine dusting that Grace had found on the plates in the kitchen, but the napkins looked clean and had been taken from a common stack, and Rab’s gold plate glinted with the candlelight. Grace’s plan was rash and could make them look like fools, but if it worked, they would unmask the bastard tonight.
Keir turned toward the steps, as if a noise had called to him over the sound of the musicians. When he turned, Grace stood at the bottom, staring his way. Had he felt her gaze?
She tipped her head to him, the delicate fall of pale blue silk of her hood sliding over her shoulder where it reached down her back, covering her hair, hair he knew to be soft with fragrant waves. She wore a blue bodice and skirt, to match the color of her eyes, a gown that his seanmhair said had belonged to his mother long ago. Just the sight of Grace sent strange sensations through his gut. He’d played a part his whole life, seeking confirmation of his success in the worried glances and pale faces of those he encountered. But Grace was the first person, since his mother, to see him for who he was, or who he hoped he still was. A man, not a devil. Perhaps… Was there a chance for a future with her? Hope cracked a small chink in the Devil’s mantle.
Cream-colored flowers were embroidered along the blue silk of her gown, giving her the appearance of a walking garden as she neared. An underskirt skimmed the tops of her slippers, the cream-colored silk embroidered with blue thread into the pattern of dragonflies. Small puffs of fabric sat at her shoulders, the material hugging her slender arms down to her wrists. She looked every bit the proper English lady. Only the mischievous tilt of her lips, her gaze meeting his, changed the angel to a siren. With her natural grace, the gown flowed around her as she walked forward, and the rest of the hall seemed to fade away.
Grace’s gaze traveled over his clean plaid. “You look good enough to eat,” she said, stopping before him. Bloody hell, he wished to sweep her away that very moment, loving her all night. Her cheeks flushed beautifully. “It’s an expression. I mean, you look quite handsome.”
His lips curved into a smile, one he rarely showed anywhere near his family. “Ye look like an angel straight from King James’s court.” He leaned in to her ear, inhaling the floral scent of her skin. “And ye look delicious, too.”
Her lips quivered on a little laugh. “I hardly believe there would be any angels at a royal court. I’ve heard from a friend, quite acquainted with the French court, that royal abodes are viper pits where slithering, gold-bedecked serpents breed and kill.”
Keir wished he could listen to Grace speak the whole evening, but that wasn’t the plan nor his duty. Letting his grin fade, he turned to take her elbow and glanced about the room. MacInnes stood with Dara, talking with the head of the archers, Edward Mackinnon, a distant cousin. Keir’s seanmhair came in from the kitchens, speaking with the cook, Nora MacDonald. “I see Rab made it down,” Keir said as his brother walked in from the bailey, his face still pale, though he looked better after two days of untainted food and ale. Brodie entered, talking with Will Mackinnon and Angus Macleod, two prominent men in the village who could possibly want Rab and his son out of the way.
“Yes, he looks better,” Grace said, the smile in her voice also gone. “As does Lachlan, although Rab will say he looks worse if anyone asks.”
Keir watched the village woodworker, Hamish Mackinnon, walk in, hat clutched in his hands. His wife stood beside him, both with wide eyes. They had to be wondering why they’d been invited up to the castle to dine. When questioned earlier in the week about the plates, Hamish said he hadn’t made any specific plates for Rab and Lachlan. Either he lied and was terrified at being caught, or the true assassin had carried them to Dunakin.
Keir’s gaze shifted to Normond MacInnes. The man had brought a trunk with him when he’d arrived last fall, and he’d made several trips off the isle since. Aye, he was the most likely traitor. But could Dara know about it?
The thought clenched inside his ribs. When his sister had discovered the truth about their mother during one of Rab’s drunken rantings, she’d questioned Rab’s sanity more and more. It was true that their brother took after Aonghus Mackinnon in temperament: rash, brutal, and quick to judge. But until his wife, Bradana, had died two years ago, Rab had been a fair chief. Now though, Keir agreed that some of Rab’s dictates were questionable, and he called on the Devil of Dunakin more and more.
“Let us sit,” Rab called, bringing people toward the long table. He made an exaggerated gesture toward his stomach as if it pained him, carrying on the ruse. Grace had instructed them on their rolls in this performance, but Rab had little talent for acting.
The platemaker and his wife took seats at the end of the table, farthest away, as was their station. With a nod from Keir, Brodie sat down near the couple, his merry disposition sure to put them at ease. Unless, of course, they were guilty of a heinous crime that would see them executed.
Keir claimed Grace’s arm, leading her with him toward the top of the table, which was reserved for family. The gentle pressure of her hand was like an anchor in the surging tensions and suspicions in the hall. Even the music seemed to be theatrically dark as Keir brought Grace to the chair next to his.
“Seanmhair should sit next to Keir,” Dara said from the other side of Rab. She frowned at Grace. Had his sister picked up on her betrothed’s interest in Grace, or was Dara still angry over their earlier interactions?
Keir ignored her and held the chair for Grace.
“Ye have your man, Dara. Let Keir choose his woman,” Rab said and threw his weight down into his chair. The solid strength of oak kept the chair from buckling. Fiona moved down to sit on the other side of Grace, nodding to her as they both pulled up to the table.
Grace leaned around Keir to frown at Rab. “Are you feeling well? You look pale,” she said without lowering her voice.
He dismissed her question with a wave of his hand, carrying off his performance with an authentic frown. Food was brought in, and Keir saw Grace run a finger over the surface of his wooden trencher, but she found nothing. He leaned toward her ear. “Rab’s gold plate is clean as well, and I watched the napkins dispersed from a common stack.”
Grace smiled as if he’d whispered something sweet. The lass could add acting to her list of talents, along with healing, cursing, and making his blood run hot. Her scent and the closeness of her soft skin were making it difficult to concentrate on their prearranged drama. Keir’s body had a different plan for the night, and he reached under to adjust his rigid member. Bloody hell, but Grace turned him into an undisciplined lad. He grabbed his ale cup, but Grace’s gentle touch on his wrist stayed his hand. They were not to eat or drink at this meal.
Nora, the cook, stood near the archway, watching the male attendants bring out the courses of roast venison and goose, dark and light rolls, cheese, and cooked vegetables. She looked anxious, and Keir studied her for several moments. Food was placed upon plates by the servers, starting with Rab as was custom. Everyone waited for his short blessing and watched for him to take the first bite.
Obviously irritated, Rab looked around the room. “We will share food tonight.” He gestured toward Grace. Keir felt her arm go rigid against him. Rab hadn’t recited anything that she’d told him to say.
In the stilted silence, Grace inhaled and slowly spoke, her lips set in a calm smile. “How gracious.” She bowed her head toward Rab and looked at the confused diners. “I was telling your chief about a custom we adhered to in York, to celebrate the day of St. Valentine.” She folded her small hands before her, resting them on the table. “My father, the Earl of Somerset, would pass around his own plate to those he favored. It was a cherished practice.”
Rab nodded. “Aye, ’tis a noble gesture.”
“’Tis an English gesture if an English earl practiced it,” Angus MacLeod said, his frown fierce.
“Aye,” said Will Mackinnon. “It sounds dangerous. Don’t Englishmen poison those who are a nuisance?”
Rab coughed and cleared his throat. “But we are Scotsmen.” He met Will’s stare. “We lop off heads, not kill in the shadows with poison.”
Keir kept his face neutral yet quickly scanned the guests. Dara looked down at the napkin lying in her lap. Coincidence, or did shame make her bow her head?
“In fact, I think ye, Will Mackinnon, will be the first to receive my reward,” Rab said and gestured for the liveryman to take his gold plate down the table to the man.
Will chuckled. “I have no doubt that you’d dispatch your Devil to lop off my head, Rab, if ye wanted me dead.” He stuck his eating dagger into a slice of venison and placed it in his mouth, chewing. The room seemed to wait, but Will smiled as he swallowed. “Quite flavorful.”
Beside him, Keir heard Grace curse under her breath. Rab hadn’t followed the plan. While he called upon Normond MacInnes to eat next, they knew the food wasn’t tainted.
“I am honored,” MacInnes said with a lopsided smile and shoved a large piece of venison between his lips. He chewed without worry, as if he knew for certain the meat was untainted.
Once Rab’s plate was refilled, the others began to eat. MacInnes pushed back his chair and stood, helping Dara stand. The man cleared his throat. “Since this is a feast to celebrate St. Valentine’s sacrifice in the name of mortal love, Dara and I have an announcement.”
There was a pause, and Keir watched concern flicker across Dara’s smooth features. Gone in an instant, she smiled sweetly. “Normond and I are betrothed.”
MacInnes laughed. “Go on, woman. Tell them the rest.” She glanced at him with wide eyes, and he looked along the table. “We are already wed.”