Chapter Twenty-Three

They rode hard and fast over the unforgiving terrain through most of the day and into the night, and all the while, Graeme replayed the joining with Maisie, her words to him after, and her final words before he left. As night fell and they made camp, Graeme sat by the fire with Ross and Bran Stewart—the man Ross thought of as a father.

“Ye’ve been verra quiet,” Ross said.

“Aye,” Graeme agreed, not sure he wanted to speak of torment.

“’Tis understandable,” Ross said, taking a swig from the wine skin, then handing it to Graeme.

Graeme took a drink, enjoying the slow burn the wine caused from his throat to his belly, then handed it back and held his hands in front of the crackling fire. The night had turned cold.

“I suppose yer every thought is on Bernard, capturing him, and hearing the secrets he holds.”

Graeme frowned as he considered his brother’s words, and the truth struck him between the eyes and left him reeling. His every thought had not been for Bernard, as it had for years until recently. His every thought since setting out on the trip had been of Maisie.

“God’s blood,” he uttered.

“What is it?” Ross asked.

“I dunnae want revenge above all else any longer,” Graeme confessed. “And I did nae even realize it until this moment.”

A sly smile appeared on Ross’s face. “I’d wager what ye want most has dark hair and green eyes and fled from ye in the courtyard.”

“Aye,” Graeme replied bitterly, wondering how he could have been so blind to his own feelings. “I still want revenge,” he added quickly. “But if I had to choose, I would pick her.”

“Has she proven loyal?”

Graeme nodded. “Completely.”

“I dunnae need to ask if there’s passion. I saw the way ye looked at her, and she at ye.”

“Aye, the fire between us burns bright.”

“And ye think she will accept her brother’s fate?”

“I do,” he said confidently. “I think it will shatter her, but I will be there to put her back together.”

Ross nodded. “If ye’re certain, then I’m happy for ye, Brother. There is nae a greater gift in this world than when the right woman gives ye her heart. Ye must protect it and her with all that ye are.”

“I plan to,” Graeme said. And he would start the moment they returned—by telling her he loved her.

They awoke at dawn and set out again at a grueling pace, but it was worth it because by the time the sun was directly above them, they had reached the remote village of Knowdart, where Ross’s informant had told him Bernard had been living. They rode through the woods to the exact cottage where Bernard was said to be hiding. He might never have been found, except he had a habit of imbibing too much when he went into town for supplies, and one night he’d gotten irritated with the innkeeper who had refused to serve Bernard more wine. He had told the man he should be groveling at Bernard’s feet to be serving a warrior like him, who had been trusted for years by the Laird Campbell as the only person to know the laird’s secret. Which Laird Campbell, Bernard had not said, so the mystery remained unsolved.

Graeme felt the tension in him building as they tied off their horses, withdrew their weapons, and made their way to the cabin, but as they got close, and he could see the cabin door was open, unease rose in him. “Something is nae right,” he whispered, to which the other men nodded.

They approached the cabin with care, but Bernard did not charge out attempting to escape, and the unnatural quiet intensified Graeme’s unease. He was the first up the steps, and with his sword at the ready, he kicked the cabin door, and stared in fury at Bernard, lying on the floor in a puddle of his own blood. His weapon lay beside him just out of his reach.

“God’s blood!” Graeme swore as a flash of wild grief tore through him. He rolled Bernard over and, kneeling, examined him for a moment. Someone had stabbed him in the heart, robbing Graeme of the truth from this man’s mouth and setting this all to rest.

A sourness filled the pit of Graeme’s stomach as he reached out and shut the man’s open eyes. “He most definitely got what he deserved. I only wish he’d gotten it by my hand after I’d extracted the truth.”

Ross’s hand came to Graeme’s shoulder. “I’m sorry, Brother. Given what the innkeeper told us about Bernard’s ways, I suspect he did not make friends here.”

“I suspect nae,” Graeme said, rising and thinking. What to do now? They did not, yet, have any leads on Atholl or the other monks.

“Do ye want to head to the abbey again to see if there is anything remaining in the rubble?” Ross asked, reading Graeme’s thought.

Graeme considered it a moment, feeling as if he stood on a precipice with Maisie on one side and revenge on the other. There was only one choice. He had to go back to this honorable, brave woman and set things right with her first. “Revenge will wait,” he finally said, decision made.

“If this lass is everything ye believe, ye’ve made the right choice.”

“She is,” Graeme assured his brother, and a moment later, they were walking outside toward the horses. Graeme mounted his horse and unpacked the wine skin, took a long swig, and asked, “Does anyone else need to quench their thirst?”

“Aye, toss it over,” Ross replied. Graeme threw it over, and Ross missed it.

“Ye’re getting soft in yer old age,” Graeme teased as Ross bent down to grab the pouch that had landed in a pile of leaves and twigs, but when he came up holding the wine skin in one hand and what looked to be a piece of cloth in the other, Graeme frowned. “What do ye have there?”

His brother’s grim gaze pierced the distance between them. “A torn piece of the Buchannan plaid soaked with fresh blood and a bit of ribbon with long dark hairs stuck in it.”

A hot bolt of choking fury consumed Graeme. The Buchannan plaid. He walked to his brother, shock and rage warring in him. He took the damp piece of plaid from Ross and the ribbon, recalling the ribbon in Eliza’s dark hair that she twisted this way and that and the confused expression on her face when he’d asked her if she’d not been able to find the Great Hall. He’d saw the look but dismissed the possibility that Maisie had lied, choosing to trust her. But he clearly shouldn’t have. The only way Buchannan could’ve gotten there before them was if someone had told him where to go. Like an eavesdropping lass who gave the information to her sister and the Buchannan. Graeme crumbled the plaid and the ribbon in his fist and threw back his head with a roar of betrayal.

Graeme stared down at Maisie in sleep, clenching his teeth against the fury that had built and built on the two-day journey home. She was the most beautiful, treacherous lass he’d ever known. He pulled back the coverlet, half expecting her to awaken, but she slept deeply, soundly, as if she had not a regret in the world. He had enough for them both. He regretted ever trusting her. He regretting letting down his guard enough that she stormed her way inside his head and heart.

He leaned down to her, inhaling her feminine scent, and he hardened himself against the longing for her. He still loved her. He did, and it angered him, knowing he could never trust her. She had chosen her brother over him.

He straightened up, his jaw clenched as he surveyed the room. The fire crackled in the hearth, casting flickering shadows that danced across Maisie’s serene face. How could she look so peaceful, so innocent, when she had torn his world apart with her betrayal? He shook his head, pushing aside the memories of her laughter, her touch, and focused on the task at hand. He wanted to hear her admit her guilt before he severed all ties forever.

Reaching out, he poked her on the shoulder until she began to stir. When she awoke, she gasped in delight and scrambled to her feet. She threw herself into his arms, pressing her soft, warm body to his. Never had he hated and loved someone at once. He could feel it ripping him apart.

He untangled her arms from around him and set her away from him, trying not to care about the confusion that crossed across her face. Damn it all! He wanted to destroy any and all emotions associated with her.

“Why did ye do it?” he asked, his voice cold and hard.

Her frown deepened, causing a pucker between her brows. “Why did I do what?”

He let out a bitter laugh. “Ye are such a competent liar, Maisie. Do ye and yer family practice together?”

She sucked in a sharp breath and crossed her arms over her chest, but not before he noticed the outline of her breasts underneath her thin night clothing. The need to touch her was a physical ache. He gritted his teeth, until pain shot along his jaw, making it throb.

“Graeme,” she said, reaching out for him, but he jerked back.

“Dunnae touch me. I dunnae want yer touch ever again.”

“What’s happened?” she asked, her voice trembling with feigned pain.

“I imagine exactly what ye three planned when ye overheard we’d found Bernard, and then, what? Eavesdropped to discover how to get to him first to kill him and bury the truth with him forever?”

An unmistakable look of guilt crossed her face, and it nearly sent him to his knees. In that moment, he understood he’d held on to some foolish sliver of hope that maybe things were somehow not as they appeared, but staring at her now, he could see plainly she knew what he was talking about.

“Oh, God. God, nay,” she whispered, wringing her hands. “Bernard is dead?”

“Dunnae play the fool with me, Maisie. Aye, he’s dead. Certainly, I’d think, by Buchannan’s sword, though we did find yer sister’s hair ribbon with strands of her hair still in it at Bernard’s cottage. Tell me, who do ye wager killed him? Yer sister or yer lover?”

“Graeme, nay! ’Tis nae as ye think!”

Tears spilled out of her eyes and coursed down her cheeks, but he shook his head to keep from reaching for her. She’d never give him the truth, and he could not be in the same room with her a minute longer. He still wanted her, loved her too much. He turned from her, and she clutched at him, but he shoved her hand away and made for the bedchamber door. He threw it open to his brother and Bran, who waited there to send her back to her treacherous family. “Take her,” he said, shoving past them.

“Graeme!” she screamed. “Graeme, I swear I did nae betray ye!”

He turned back to her, saw her standing at the door, blocked from exiting by her brother and Bran, and he said, “I imagine in yer mind ye did what ye had to. But dunnae mistake it, Maisie. Ye betrayed me. There is nae any reason Buchannan would have killed Bernard other than to keep the truth of what yer brother did from ever coming out. Ye ken it, and so do I. I will find the truth and I will destroy ye all, if it’s the last thing I do. But for now, ye will go to yer family and ken I will end this handfast the verra day I can, and when I turn away from ye now, I will nae ever allow a thought of ye again.”