Chapter Twenty
Normond MacInnes stood tall, the gash across his face stark in the candlelight from the chandelier overhead.
Grace’s stomach tightened at his words. Dara had no idea what type of monster she had pledged to be true to until death. And from the shock on her face, she wasn’t expecting the revelation at tonight’s feast.
Keir shifted, ready to stand, but Grace placed her hand on his arm. Amazingly, he stilled, waiting with all of them to see what happened next.
“We can still observe a church wedding,” Dara said, her gaze shifting from Rab to Keir. “But we thought it best to take our vows now.”
“Already consummated,” Normond said with a flourish and a leering grin, which brought a rare blush to Dara’s cheeks.
“We haven’t finalized the bride price yet,” Rab said, his voice low.
Keir perched his tight fists on the edge of the table but didn’t stir. He reminded Grace of a horse, waiting with determined focus for the start of a joust.
Normond waved off Rab’s concern. “A conversation for later tonight. First, my love and I bring ye a gift together.”
Dara smiled and stepped away from her chair to pluck two cloth-wrapped items from behind a reed basket in the corner. She brought them forth, setting one before Rab and one before Keir. Dara bent near Keir’s ear, and Grace barely heard her whisper. “I would not forget my true brother.”
Rab was the first to open the cloth, revealing a polished pewter goblet. The candles before him, reflected flames in the mirrorlike side. Grace gave Keir a little nudge with her elbow, and he unwrapped an identical goblet. “It is a set,” Dara said. “I have one, too.” She raised a hand, and one of the liverymen brought a third goblet from the archway.
Normond placed a wooden cask on the table and untied the leather cord holding the wineskin on top. “I obtained this wine from a monk who felt it was holy in its deliciousness.” He grinned. “I would share it with you all to lift in celebration over our union.”
He handed the small wooden cask to the liveryman near him and indicated their cups. “See that it stretches to at least the family,” he said. “And don’t forget Dara and me.”
The man poured the wine into Normond’s cup, then Dara’s, moving down the table to Rab. Before he reached Keir’s cup, Grace picked it up, glancing inside. Blast. She couldn’t see the bottom of the vessel in the low light. She set it down, frowning, and squeezed her nails into Keir’s leg. He must assume there was arsenic in the bottom. Would he follow Grace’s risky plan or not, for fear of looking foolish?
“I am not fond of wine,” Rab said. “Whisky is a Scotsman’s drink.”
Normond brought his cup to his lips and took a long swallow, his tongue coming out to lick a red drop from his bottom lip. The gesture turned Grace’s stomach. Her friend, Mairi, had fought against the man for months. What a horror.
“’Tis from a sweet vine,” Normond said. “For your sister, Rab, raise a cup to her health.”
Rab lifted his cup, and everyone around the table followed suit, including Keir. “Slàinte mhath!”
“Slàinte mhath!” followed from the people in the hall. Everyone raised their cups, and Grace held hers to her lips. Although she was certain her ordinary cup wasn’t poisoned, she performed the act she’d told Keir and Rab to follow. She slipped a small bit of bread into her mouth as she raised the cup. Keeping her lips tightly closed, she tipped the wine against her lips, but stopped it from entering her mouth. Instead, she let her throat work to swallow the bread and lowered the cup, quickly wiping away the excess with the napkin. Rab used his sleeve to wipe his mouth. Keir stared at Normond, watching, the stain of wine on his lips.
Don’t lick your lips, Grace screamed in her head.
Normond’s smile grew as he watched them all. Was he actually waiting?
“Uhhh…” Rab groaned, his mouth falling open, and with a thump, he fell forward, his arm hitting the goblet to spill red wine across the bleached linen. The platemaker’s wife screamed, and everyone jumped up, except for Keir.
He leaned back as if dizzy, his eyes shutting before falling off to the side of his chair to the floor. “Keir!” Grace yelled, dropping to paw at his lips with her napkin. When his eyes opened, meeting hers, she pulled in a breath to smother her panic. He shut his eyes again.
“No,” she yelled. “Keir.”
Chaos erupted around the table. “The sickness,” the older man that Rab had given the first bite to yelled. “They both have it.” He covered his mouth with his napkin, backing up. Keir’s grandmother dove down to touch Keir’s face. Would she give away the fact that he still lived?
Grace dropped to her ear. “We are catching a traitor. Keir and Rab are dead.”
Fiona’s wide eyes snapped toward her. Despite her age, she was as sharp in wit and mind as a young warrior. She stood, tears gathering in her narrowed eyes. “He is dead. They are both dead. Stay back.” She spread her arms wide.
Grace watched Dara’s openmouthed stare. Her eyes welled with tears, and she blinked rapidly as if trying to retain them. “Nay,” she said, hand to her breast. “Nay. They were well.” Unless the woman was a practiced actress, Grace read real anguish and shock in her expression.
“The bodies will be burned,” Normond said, grabbing Dara’s arm to pull her away as if fearing a contagion. “And Dara Mackinnon, being the last of Aonghus Mackinnon’s children, and I, will lead the clan until Lachlan returns to health.”
Fiona stepped around the table, striding right up to Normond, her arm back. With power, she slapped him across his bristly cheek, mouth open, voice strong. “Mortair!”
Normond’s face contorted in rage with the sting of the woman’s slap. His fist came around and struck her, sending the old woman toppling backward even as Dara tried to catch her grandmother. “I will cut off your lying tongue, old woman,” he yelled.
“Nay,” Dara called back, but her word was overridden by the fierce battle cry from Keir as he rose behind Grace, pulling his sword.
“Traitor,” Keir said, and Grace watched Normond’s face turn from brutal conqueror to panicked prey. Without an ounce of dignity, the man turned to run, but Keir leaped up onto the table, his boots knocking off most of the dishes as he ran its length.
Grace dropped beside Fiona with Dara, her hand going to the line in the old woman’s neck in search of a pulse. Dara said nothing, just looked to Grace. Grace swallowed and met her anxious eyes. “She lives.”
Dara’s eyes closed, and she murmured something that sounded like a prayer, her inhale shaking. She opened her eyes to stare at Grace. “There was no Spotting Sickness, was there?”
Grace shook her head, and Dara blinked back tears, her eyes growing cold. She inhaled through her nose, nostrils flaring, and she turned to stand. “Normond MacInnes,” she yelled, but it was too late.
Grace turned in time to see Keir’s sword swing down, clanging against Normond’s blade, making it fly from his hands to skitter across the floor. “The Devil of Dunakin sends ye to Hell,” Keir said. His claymore changed directions, the blade whistling through the air as if time itself couldn’t keep up with it. The glinting edge met Normond MacInnes’s neck. The blade was lethally sharp, and Keir’s swing was so powerful that the head teetered upon his shoulders before finally falling as his body slumped to the floor.
The platemaker’s wife, along with several maids in the hall, shrieked. Grace stared at Keir. He stood ready for another attack, the polished steel of his sword streaked red. He swung around, but the room was frozen in shock. Normond’s blood seeped out to pool in the rushes, wetting the fragrant clumps of rosemary. Keir’s face was filled with the promise of death, making Grace’s head feel numb and stars blink around the edges of her sight. At that moment, Keir Mackinnon was the most frightening being she had ever seen, in life or in her nightmares.
Feeling the prickles of a swoon start, Grace forced her eyes down to Fiona, who seemed to be rousing. A bruise had begun to darken the left side of her face. A sharp crack behind Grace made her jump, her head snapping up. Rab sat in his seat, his large hands smacking together in a slow applause. The smile on his face was more frightening than the sight of Normond’s ragged, bleeding neck. “Slainte, MacInnes.” He laughed. “Good health to ye.” He looked to Keir. “Seems we’ve paid appropriate tribute to St. Valentine, since he too lost his head on this day for being a traitor to Rome as this man was a traitor to clan Mackinnon.”
“Brother,” Dara said, standing up to face Rab.
He held up a hand to stop her speech as his face slowly came around to her. Grace swallowed hard at the hatred she saw there. “Don’t call me brother,” he said low.
“I didn’t know,” she said and looked toward Keir. Brodie stood beside him as if ready to battle a horde, even though there were only half a dozen people in the hall, all of whom had abject fear etched into the lines of their faces.
Dara turned back to Rab as Grace helped Fiona off the floor, sitting her gently into a chair. The woman was dazed but seemed to be recovering. “Go to your room, Odara MacInnes,” Rab said. “Remain there until I decide your fate.”
Without a word, Dara squared her shoulders and marched toward the stairs leading above. Decide her fate? The words sent chill bumps along Grace’s arms, because the madman, who watched his sister walk away, had only death in his gaze.
…
Keir stood outside his room. Grace was inside, and she would have questions.
He ran a hand over his forehead, digging his fingers into his scalp through his hair. Cold. For the first time since he’d seen his mother, bruised and bloody on the floor of her bedroom, he felt the cold of death. It was different from battle. Battle and war, protecting his clan, it heated his blood to create a focused rage. This was different, and he shivered there, alone in the darkness of the corridor.
He always knew he would die with a sword in his hand, but he’d hoped that it would be his body’s death before his soul’s. He inhaled, pushing the chill down where his heart still beat, past the pain that had filled him inside Rab’s bedroom as he ranted and made his proclamations. The same room where Aonghus Mackinnon had brought down judgment on his wife, Keir’s mother. And once again, the Devil of Dunakin had been called into service, the service of slaughter.
He raised his knuckle and rapped on the door. “Grace?”
Without a word, the bar scraped along the inside, and she opened the door, standing in her smock. The light of the fire glowed behind her, and her hair was down, free to flow like water over tumbled rocks in the stream outside the castle. She moved aside, and he walked in, shutting the door behind him. If she didn’t want him, he would leave, even though this was his bedroom. In truth, nothing at Dunakin was his. It all belonged to the Devil who served the clan.
She gazed up into his face. Was she frightened by what she’d seen him do to Normond MacInnes? Her hand lifted, and warm fingers touched his cheek. “You are cold,” she said, concern tugging at her lovely arched brows. “You are never cold.”
She brought both hands up, placing them on his forehead and cheeks. The feel of her touch, the sound of her concern, for him…it was as if he were a normal man, not the evil he was becoming. “Keir,” she said. “What happened?”
“He’s condemned Dara to death,” he said, his words a whisper.
“But she’s innocent,” Grace said. “I feel it.”
“Rab doesn’t see it that way.” Keir walked to the bed and sat on the edge. He stared down at his boots, unsure yet if he should take them off.
Grace slid up onto the bed. “We will sway him.” Her hands flew up and down his arms, rubbing them, and she leaned in to hug him. The contact was almost his undoing. No one hugged him, not like Grace, giving him her warmth instead of trying to take something from him. He’d been raised to be the ultimate pillar of strength, a boulder to crush all those The Mackinnon found guilty as a threat to the clan. And yet now…Keir felt weak with regret for an atrocity he hadn’t even committed. Yet.
Keir caught Grace’s hand and met her worried gaze. “If…things turn badly, Brodie will get ye home to Aros or to Kisimul.”
Her face pinched in stubborn denial. “We will sway him, Lachlan will heal, and you will escort me as you promised.”
“Ye have a very simple way of looking at things,” he said, his frown relaxing.
“Right and wrong are usually simple if one looks at the problem for what it is,” she said. “It is the fallacy of human perception that makes everything complicated.”
He touched the soft waves sitting along her shoulder. “Beautiful and filled with brilliant wit. Someone should put ye on a throne, Grace Ellington.” He leaned forward and kissed her forehead, pulling back.
She leaned, following him, and her hands slid from his shoulders down his back. “You can’t say something utterly wonderful and pull away,” she whispered. “Not when I can warm you.”
He shouldn’t love her. Could a cursed devil even love? Yet the sincerity in her touch, in her smile, kept him still. Not with hope, because he had none, but with a desperate effort to grasp onto the last shreds of humanity he still possessed. He drew her in to him, and she naturally bent her face up to his. “What are ye saying, lass?”
Her worry thinned until a smile broke through. “I can say a lot,” she said and hoisted herself up onto her knees to be level with his face. “Like what I want to do to you and then exactly what I want you to do to me.”
The teasing lilt in her voice was like a balm to his brittle mind, his body responding to the promise in the stroke of her fingers down his chest. “What exactly do ye want to do to me?”
“Let me warm you, Keir,” she whispered, and a wicked smile spread slowly along her lips. She pressed him back among the pillows on his large bed, stroking his legs until her hands slid under his kilt. “I seem to remember quite a few things the maid in the barn did with her mouth that drove the groom absolutely mad.” Keir jerked in sweet agony as she wrapped around him, boldly gliding up and down.
“For such an angelic-looking lass, ye do have a deliciously wicked tongue,” he said between his teeth as he fought to control his impulse to throw her over and drive into her.
Shrugging her shoulders, the smock fell off, sliding all the way down past her hips to the floor. He inhaled as his blood rushed through his body. “Let us forget about the human world tonight,” she whispered as she straddled his legs, rubbing herself against him in a rhythm that drove him mad. “No angels. No devils. Just Grace and Keir.”
“Aye,” he said, unhooking the belt that held his kilt in place. “And nothing between us.” For one last night.