Highland Sinner (14 page)

“Of course he wouldnae want to be too close to the lass too often. He has wit enough to ken, or suspect, what she means to his future—an end to rutting his merry way through life. He shows signs of jealousy, nearly flew over this table to catch her when that last vision brought her to her knees, kept hold of her e’

en as she recovered, and he looked near to fainting when he saw that blood out there. Och, aye, that laddie is in deep waters and sinking fast.”

Simon sighed. “Then I will stand back for now. If he should abuse her trust or her need for his protection, however, dinnae expect me to keep standing back. I will speak out.”

“Fair enough, but only after we beat some sense into his wee head.”

Looking at the grinning Murrays, Simon laughed and shook his head. He was not sure he really believed in such things as a perfect match or mate or the other half of oneself, but it was a nice thought. It explained why the Murrays never arranged marriages for their children, something considered very strange by most people. When asked why they did not do so, they said they preferred that their children be happy. Since many Murrays had made some very good and advantageous marriages, others believed the clan did make arrangements and treaties with marriages as the binding for them, for how else could they gain so many good alliances. Then again, Simon mused, the clan was also known for its faithful wives and equally faithful husbands.

He had to admit that Tormand had been acting a little odd ever since he had first laid eyes on Morainn Ross. There had been none of the seductive smiles or soft practiced flatteries that pulled the women to Tormand’s side and into his bed. There had been, however, a lot of concern for Morainn’s health and welfare. Tormand was never unkind to a woman, but Simon suddenly realized that his friend only concerned himself about the woman’s health or life when there was some clear sign that she was suffering under the hand of a cruel, brutish man. Thinking back to the moment they had raced to Morainn’s door and Tormand had halted his rush into the house so abruptly at the threshold, Simon could clearly recall how terrified Tormand had looked as he had stared at the blood on the threshold stone. Yet, Tormand had never once hesitated to enter the homes of the other murdered women, including that of his friend Marie, not even after he had a full knowledge of what he would find inside.

There was definitely something brewing between Tormand and Morainn Ross. For now, Simon would simply allow it to brew. It could even be amusing to watch his friend, the great lover of far too many women, stumble his way into love and marriage. Simon would just make sure that Morainn did not suffer
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from Tormand’s stumblings or his apparent inability to be faithful to any woman. The woman already had killers stalking her. She did not need any added troubles.

Tormand finished tending to the horses and stepped outside of the very clean stable. It was a surprisingly large and well-kept building for a woman of low birth and no family. As was the cottage, he realized.

Laird Sir Adam Kerr had been very generous to an orphaned girl thrust out onto her own by superstitious townspeople. Tormand actually felt grateful for that, but he could not stop himself from wondering why the laird had done it. Very few people had met Sir Kerr and those who had did not talk about him. The gossips said that the man was steeped in sin. It was even whispered that he had a harem like the heathens in the eastern lands. The mere thought that Morainn was one of Sir Kerr’s harem had Tormand grinding his teeth in fury.

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, trying to push out all the chaotic emotion he suffered from with it before starting back to the cottage. Now was not the time to delve into the how and why of Morainn Ross’s arrangement with the laird of Dubhstane. Tormand had no doubt that the killers had found Morainn, had tried to butcher her as they had done the other women. For many reasons, some of which he really did not want to examine too closely, it was his responsibility to insure that she was kept safe and out of the killers’ hands. If nothing else, Morainn’s gift could prove to be a great help to them in their search for the killers.

Pausing at the threshold of the cottage he studied the blood on the stone and recalled the icy fear that had held him frozen in place. He had been unable to face what might lie within the cottage despite having already stood over the butchered bodies of three women without emptying his belly. Just the thought that Morainn might be lying on her bed, her beauty defaced by the killers, her lovely eyes cold and empty of life, had terrified him. Tormand had to face the fact that he was in danger of finding himself enraptured by Morainn, by a witch with eyes the color of the sea on a summer’s day. He pushed aside the childish urge to flee what could well be his fate and went inside.

Just as he was about to go and ask what the men in the kitchen were laughing about, Walin came running down the narrow stairs so fast he stumbled on the last step. Tormand moved quickly to catch the boy before he ended up flat on his face on the stone floor. Walin grinned up at him and Tormand felt the oddest pinch in his heart. He could not shake the feeling that there was something very familiar about the boy.

“Thank ye, Sir Tormand,” Walin said as Tormand released him.

“Ye should be more careful upon the stairs.” Tormand almost cursed at how much he had just sounded like his father.

“I ken it, but I need to give William some cream. He was a verra brave cat.”

After a quick glance up the stairs to see if Morainn was coming down, and ignoring the sharp pang of disappointment he felt when he did not see her, Tormand followed Walin into the kitchen. Looking around, Tormand realized that the kitchen was even more proof that the laird of Dubhstane had gifted Morainn with a very fine home. Most people of her birth, the child of a midwife killed by a mob decrying her as a witch, would have one big room with a cook-fire in it and, at best, a small loft for sleeping in.

He watched Walin pour some thick cream into a wooden bowl. There was a thud as the big cat jumped off the bench and went over to enjoy his reward. Like magic the other three cats appeared in the kitchen, but a low, throaty growl from the big tom kept them at a distance. A giggling Walin put some cream in another bowl and set it down for the other three cats to share.

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“William is going to become a verra fat cat.”

The sound of that sweet, faintly husky voice immediately drew Tormand’s gaze to the speaker. Morainn gave him a shy smile that made his whole body go on point like some well-trained hunting dog. Despite the fact that he had not bedded a woman for months, Tormand knew the reaction he had to Morainn was alarmingly strong.

“Thank ye for setting the table,” Morainn said, feeling a little uncomfortable beneath the steady gazes of six handsome men. “Walin,” she said, turning to smile at the boy, “come sit up at the table, please.” She let go a startled squeak when Tormand suddenly grabbed her by the arm. “What is it?”

Tormand moved her thick braid aside to look more closely at the bruise he had caught a glimpse of when she had turned her head to look at Walin. “Where did ye get this? It looks like the print of a hand.”

“Ah, that. The mon grabbed me from behind as I fled down the stairs, but I cut him with my knife and he released me.” She felt someone move up close behind her and glanced back over her shoulder to find Simon studying the bruising fanning across the back of her neck. “It doesnae feel as bad as it looks.” It ached badly, but Morainn knew she could have suffered far worse if she had not gotten away.

“The mon has a verra big hand,” murmured Simon.

“Och, aye, he did,” said Walin, as he took a seat at the table. “He was as big as a horse. A giant!”

“Sit, Mistress Ross,” said Simon, his voice polite yet carrying the hint of command, “and ye can tell us what happened as ye eat. I am certain ye must be hungry.”

Morainn took a seat at the table, a little disconcerted when Tormand sat next to her. She was distracted from the way his nearness made her body tingle, as if she had allowed the sun to shine on it for too long, when Harcourt sat down on the other side of her and began to heap food upon her plate. Placed between too men so much bigger than she was, Morainn felt a little overwhelmed, especially when one of those men was the one who could make her body heat and ache. A glance across the table showed her that Walin was seated between Simon and Rory and both men were quietly filling the child’s plate. It made her uneasy, for the way the men were taking care of her and Walin felt much too good. Morainn feared it could become something she could grow to crave and she would suffer when she lost it.

“Before ye start your tale,” said Rory, his amber eyes glinting with humor, “I really must ken one thing.

How do ye hide
under
a tree?”

“Ah, weel, when I first came to live here the memory of how my mother died was still verra sharp,”

replied Morainn. “Fearing a mob might yet come after me, I sought out hiding places in the woods surrounding me. One big old tree has thick roots that break up through the ground. It required only a little digging to make a hollow in the midst of the roots, giving me a weel-shadowed place to conceal myself in.”

“Clever, especially considering ye were little more than a child,” said Simon.

“Even the smallest child understands the need to stay alive.”

“Verra true. So, mistress, if ye can eat and talk at the same time, I would verra much like to hear what happened to ye.”

“I fear your killer is nay one mon, but is most definitely a mon and a woman.”

Between bites of food, Morainn told them everything that had happened, carefully leaving out only what
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the murderous pair had said to each other. She felt sure that the words they had spoken held some hint as to who these people were. They needed to be discussed carefully and not simply stated like some tale told before the fire. There was no doubt in her mind that Simon would want to pick over every word those monsters had said to each other meticulously.

“The mon had verra big feet,” said Walin when Morainn came to the end of her story, “and his horse was a huge beastie, too, with one white leg.”

Morainn stared at the boy. “Ye were peeking.” She fought down a sudden anger she knew was born of fear for Walin. He could easily have been seen and she knew she would not have been able to save him.

Walin blushed with guilt. “Only with one eye, Morainn. I didnae move at all or lift my head e’en a wee bit.”

“Which leg on the horse had the white markings?” asked Simon.

“Right foreleg,” replied Walin and then looked a little uncertain. “That is what ye call the front ones, aye?”

“Aye, lad. Did ye see anything else with your one eye?”

“Nay. The mon was verra, verra big and sat on a verra big horse and I would have had to move to see him better.”

“So they were verra close to where ye were hiding then.” Simon looked at Morainn. “Ye said ye could hear them yet ye didnae repeat anything that they said. Did ye nay hear them clearly then?”

“Aye, I heard them clearly.” Morainn fiercely controlled the urge to shiver in remembrance of that icy voice, of the insanity threaded through each and every word. “The first thing of importance, I think, is that they were both bleeding. William had to have inflicted a lot of damage to the woman’s face. Divine justice in a way,” she murmured and then shook herself free of the thoughts of what the killers had done to the other women. “The cat landed on her head and the fleeting glimpse I got showed it slashing and biting her head and face. William has verra long claws so the wounds may be verra deep. The mon also has two cuts although I cannae say how deep they may be. One is on his hand or his arm. The other may be on his body. I have nay doubt at all that I cut him, twice, but I didnae look to see exactly where or how badly. Since he was soon out hunting me they couldnae have been serious. He worried only about her injuries and about the trail of blood they were leaving on the ground. Mayhap a dog could find and follow that trail.”

Simon nodded. “Anything else?”

“They are watching Sir Tormand.” She glanced at Tormand and then quickly returned her gaze to her nearly empty plate. The steady gaze of his beautiful mismatched eyes made something very womanly and hungry stir inside of her and she wanted her voice to remain calm and steady as she finished telling them what she knew. “They kenned that ye had come to see me and were certain ye were using my
powers
to hunt them down. She badly wishes me dead ere I can help ye find them. She said ye,” she fixed her gaze on Simon, “would use my gift to find them and she isnae done yet.”

“But why?” asked Tormand, dragging his hand through his hair. “Why are they doing this?”

Morainn took a long drink of her cider, but it did little to ease her fear or wash away the taint of violent insanity that had hung in the air last night. “She wants ye to pay for all she has suffered, Sir Tormand, and for what she claimed was her humiliation and shame. She said she would never have been forced to marry if not for ye and that ye must suffer for it all. She also wants ye to suffer for choosing so many
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other women over her. Called them all whores.” She felt a sudden urge to hug him, to try to comfort him, when she saw how pale and shaken he was, but fiercely beat down that urge.

“So it
is
about me,” he finally said, his voice hoarse and unsteady with the lingering effects of his shock.

“It is my fault that these women are being murdered.”

“Nay,” snapped Harcourt. “They are being killed because this bitch has lost her mind and seeks to blame someone for what she thinks are crimes against her. Many a lass has had her heart broken or bruised, or was made to marry some mon she didnae want, but nary a one of them took to slaughtering every woman she saw as her rival. If this woman seeks to blame someone for the misery of her life, why isnae she hunting down her husband or the kinsmen who forced her into the marriage?”