Chapter Twenty-Six

"Chess, as we know it today, was born out of the Indian game chaturanga before the 600s AD. The game spread throughout Asia and Europe over the coming centuries, and eventually evolved into what we know as chess around the 16th century. One of the first masters of the game was a Spanish priest named Ruy Lopez. [He] advocated the strategy of playing with the sun in your opponent's eyes!"

Chess.com

Clutching the scrap of parchment sent to her, Sara walked lightly through the shadowed corridors of Dunvegan. Come alone to the library. The library was on the second level past the chief's room where Jamie held on to his quickly slipping life.

Had her father sent poison to the untried chief through a traitorous servant? Why then would he send a note ordering her to do so? Whoever placed it in her room was probably the assassin who was trying to make her look guilty. She'd felt Rory's weighing glances during supper several hours ago.

They'd had a freshly cooked venison stew that Brodrick had supervised. All other bread and stews had been thrown into the sea, and Cook Fiona was being watched by a longtime guard while she and one other maid, who'd been retained, kneaded and baked everything new. Still, everyone ate in silence, absorbed in inspecting every bite they took.

Sara continued down the corridor, hoping the note was from Rory. She wanted to talk to him and hear him say that he knew her to be innocent, because his looks had been hard, grim, and questioning.

Jamie's door opened as she neared, and Father Lockerby walked out with Hamish. They were both shaking their heads. "He's received last rites," the priest said, his lips pinched thinly.

Hamish nodded. "There's not much else we can do except clean up the mess." He nodded to Sara as she walked by.

Should she stop and inquire after her once bridegroom? Did it make her look guilty and unconcerned if she didn't? She paused, turning to the men. "Father Lockerby." She nodded to him. "Master Hamish." Another nod. "Thank you for the great care you are giving to Chief MacLeod, his body and his soul."

"'Tis our duty, Lady Sara," Hamish said but gave her a small smile.

Father Lockerby stared at her with piercing, judgmental eyes. "I will be staying at Dunvegan for the next few nights, Lady Seraphina, if ye seek a confession."

Her heart, which was already pounding from the note she clutched in her hand, stuttered. "My confession?"

"I don't believe ye've cleansed your heart and mind since before yer wedding," the priest said. She remembered the awkward meeting inside the small confessional that sat at the back of Dunscaith's small chapel. How she'd told him her nervousness over marrying the son of an enemy, and Father Lockerby had reminded her she must do her duty as a daughter of Eve and suffer through any torment Jamie might bring down on her. She'd been so furious, she hadn't confessed anything else, including her wish for the priest to be sent to an abbey far away where he'd have to remain silent for the rest of his days.

She loosened her jaw enough to speak. "When I sin again, Father, I will seek out a priest to confess."

His wiry brows shot up. "Do ye have the conceit to think ye have not sinned in the eyes of God since we last spoke?"

Being unmarried and sliding naked into Rory's arms was surely considered a sin, but there was no way she was going to tell this grumpy old priest about how he brought her to an ecstasy she hadn't known existed. She forced a small smile. "I'll pray on it, Father." She turned away before he could ask her anything else. The man slammed judgment on his flock like an ax cleaving logs, and most came away bloody.

Her fingers curled around the short note. It'd been waiting on her bed when she'd returned there after checking to make certain the twins were safe and tucked into the large bed they insisted on sharing in a room on the second level. It was as if they'd been missing a part of themselves their whole lives and longed to stay together now.

A gentle smile touched Sara's lips as she thought over how Eleri said she'd teach Eliza how to paint, and Eliza said she'd assist Eleri with the stretching exercises to help her back.

"Ye look content." The voice came from the shadow-filled room as she walked into the library.

Sara's hand went to her chest in surprise. "Holy Mother Mary, Rory."

Rory stood to the side of the doorway. He stepped out of the shadow and shut the door behind her. A fire snapped on a low grate in the hearth, splashing an orange glow over a chess board set upon a table between two chairs.

"Apologies." His voice still felt like a caress over her skin. It was the way he lowered the force of it, as if he were a lion relaxing in the heat of the sun. "I was choosing a book," he said, holding up a copy of The Odyssey . "In case ye didn't come."

She tipped her head. "I had a choice?"

His brows pinched the smallest amount as if he wondered if she were jesting. "Aye."

She held up the note. "It wasn't obvious." They hadn't been alone since Jamie's poisoning two days ago. Sara had waited rather impatiently in her tower room for him to come to her, but she'd been left alone. "Am I here for an inquisition?"

He let out a heavy exhale. "I want to talk with ye, Sara, without everyone listening in." He went to a narrow table against the wall, set the tome down, and poured some wine into a glass goblet. He set the glass on a small table next to the other chair where he'd already set a silver cup for himself. "I thought we could play a game."

She narrowed her eyes but walked over, lowering to perch on the edge of the chair. "Chess?" She didn't love the game but would play if he asked. "I prefer Merrills."

"I know a game that ye haven't played before."

"Its name?" she asked, watching him pluck the carved pieces from the chess set, placing them in a basket that sat under its table.

"Tha no chan eil."

Sara tilted her head, holding his gaze. "Yes or No? That's the name of your game?"

He nodded.

She huffed slightly through her nose. "Sounds like an interrogation, not a game." At least he didn't seem quite as rigid as he had at supper.

Rory picked a lion off the chess board, and she realized the pieces weren't the normal pawns and rooks. He held it up to her. "There are playing pieces so 'tis a game."

The shadow of his usual handsome grin touched his mouth, and she remembered how those lips had felt against her skin. A throb pulsed suddenly between her legs, and she snapped her gaze to the pieces instead.

Half were stained a dark red and polished to a shine. The other half were a pale natural wood that had also been polished. She picked up a bird, studying it. "They're all animals." The pawns were carved fish standing up on their tails. The artist had even spent time cutting little notches to look like fish scales on each of them. The rooks were stocky elephants, their trunks turned back along their bodies as if shooting water. The bishops were tall animals with long necks, painted with spots. She held one up. "What is this?"

"An animal with long limbs found on the continent of Afrika. 'Tis called a camelopard."

"And the knights' horses are striped," she said, picking one up.

"Also found on the plains of Afrika. They are stockier than horses, and all of them are striped black and white."

"Have you visited Afrika?" she asked, leaning closer to study the magnificent carvings.

"Nay, but my father's brother sent this to us when he sailed back from there on a trading ship. He had fantastical tales of the people and animals, like nothing here."

"Of course, the king is the lion," she said, holding up her red piece. The lion sat upright with majestic dignity. His large paws propped his powerful chest before him, and a full mane billowed out around his face. He was carved so intricately that the mane almost looked soft.

"Of course." Rory grinned as he watched her Was he trying to read her mind? Pick out indications she could be a liar, a Macdonald spy like Jamie accused? Rory's gaze was like a sun shining on her with intensity, making her heart pulse faster as if to cool her.

She picked up the queen. "A phoenix?" Even though the bird had been carved with its wings closed and a long beak, the red coloring indicated the mythical creature.

"A stork," he said. "There are several varieties in Afrika."

"Are they red?"

"Uncle said there are birds of wondrous colors there, but the piece was colored red for the game."

She set it down softly in its painted square on the board. "I shall call it Phoenix then."

She sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. "And you use a chess board and pieces to play your Yes and No game ?" She stressed the last word so he knew that she wouldn't be tricked into an interrogation. She should probably be angry that he wanted to question her, but she'd been waiting for it. Rory was soon to be the next MacLeod chief, and he had a duty to discover the traitor at Dunvegan, a dangerous traitor who could strike again.

"Aye," Rory answered. "But not all the pieces. Only two, one for me"—he held up the pale lion—"and one for ye. Ye can choose."

Sara held up the red phoenix. "It seems fitting."

"I thought ye might choose her," he said, setting the other pieces gingerly into the basket.

"Like the one in the tower." Did he think about that night as much as she?

He set his lion at the top of the board. "Yer phoenix can sit anywhere along yer side."

She set her bird opposite his across the board as if they were preparing to battle. Appropriate. Sara's hand squeezed in her lap. "Now what?"

Rory took a sip from his cup. Good Lord, the man was handsome in a kingly way. It was more than his thick hair and amber eyes that gave him the look of a lion. It was the way he carried himself, all restrained power and easily released might, like a taut bowstring. The scar along his hairline showed that he, like the king of the Afrikan plains, had fought for his life and won.

"We ask each other questions or give a statement that can be answered in the affirmative or negative."

"Interrogate each other."

"Once again, 'tis a game," he said, lifting his lion and wiggling it back and forth in the air.

"Then how do I win?"

She'd win if she convinced him she was innocent of all the conjecture swirling around Dunvegan.

He smiled. "The one who reaches the other side of the board first loses. If the response to what I say is aye, ye move yer phoenix forward one space. If the answer is nay, ye move yer piece to the side one space."

"Can we occupy the same space?"

"Aye," he said, "but there's a penalty."

She narrowed her eyes. "What type of penalty?"

"Chosen by the player who is already in the space, but examples are…" He looked up to the wood plank ceiling. "Ye must place the next move standing or ye must take a sip of whisky or remove the pins from yer hair." He nodded to the bun Eliza had fashioned on top of Sara's head.

"You've constructed this game from flimflam," she said, crossing her arms under her breasts. "Why don't you ask me questions, and I'll answer once again that I don't know where the Fairy Flag is, and I didn't poison Jamie."

Rory nodded, his grin gone. "Aye, I could." He looked up to meet her eyes and she saw something there that curbed the cutting words on her tongue. Something sad. "I could," he repeated, "but I don't want to…interrogate ye, Sara."

They stared at one another over the board, the fire crackling beside them. She sighed and passed her hand across the board. "So, a game instead."

His grin came back. "This way, ye can ask me questions, too. And since ye're a guest here and a lady, ye may ask first."

"And you'll move forward one space for yes and one space to either side for no?"

His smile widened and he went to move his piece in answer.

"That was not my question," she said, her voice rising. "Merely a clarification before we start."

"Then ask yer question, milady," he said, his voice teasing. It made her want to smile, too, but she didn't because this was really an interrogation, which meant he didn't trust her. He'd told her early on he didn't trust anyone, so this shouldn't feel as heartbreaking as it did.

She sipped her wine and set it down. "Did you create this game yourself?" she asked, and Rory moved his lion forward one space, meaning that the answer to her question was yes.

"Ho now!" she said in triumph. "I knew it."

He grinned at her outburst. "My turn. Yer favorite tart is blaeberry with crumbs on top."

Her lips fell open, and she blinked at him. "How…? You asked Eliza, didn't you?"

"Is that another question?"

She moved her red phoenix one space forward, the bottom tapping down with her annoyance. "No, because 'tis obvious you asked her."

From the number of squares across, Sara had six other answers before she made it across the board and lost. Not that she really cared about winning this game that wasn't a game. But perhaps it was time to confirm some things she thought were true about the man across from her.

It was her turn. "Did you know who I was on the shore when we met? The day before the wedding?"

Rory moved his lion one space to the side, so they were no longer lined up. No . "Did ye know who I was?"

She moved her phoenix over one space in the opposite direction, and he took a drink. The way he didn't take his eyes off her while he sipped was heated, as if by tasting the amber liquid he was tasting her. The throb turned into a sizzle that zigzagged through her like lightning hitting the ground.

She shifted in her seat. "Is your favorite drink whisky?"

"Hmmm…" He picked up the cup again and stared down into it. "That depends on a lot of things. If I've recently woken, 'tis warm mulled wine. After training or battling, 'tis ale. When I find a free-flowing spring, fresh water."

She waved a hand at him. "Right now, is your favorite drink whisky?"

He moved his lion forward, and she smiled. She could ask him obvious questions and his lion would have no choice but to move quickly across the board. But then she wouldn't learn anything about him, and she wanted to know more about this man who heated her dreams at night and thoughts during the day.

"Yer soap has the essence of flowers in it," he said.

Sara tipped her head. "That isn't a question." She took a sip of the red wine. It was sweet and slid down easily.

"It doesn't have to be, but I'll be more specific. Is the flower in yer soap…bog myrtle?"

She moved her piece to the side. "'Tis twin flower. Morag collects it and puts the scent into soap. She prefers lavender in everything, but I like the lightness of twin flower."

His mouth curved. "I think 'tis my favorite scent."

His words brought a warm flush up her chest into her neck. She glanced down. As much as her body responded to Rory's every glance and sweet comment, there were questions nagging at her. She met his eyes as she asked her next question. "Am I innocent of my father's plan to burn you all alive in the chapel?"

Sara held her breath. It seemed Rory took a long time to move his lion forward, indicating "yes," but she released her breath when he did. He thought her innocent of at least that.

He took another sip and set his pewter cup down. "Ye hide a mark on yer back, something ye didn't want me to see that morning in the tower."

Looking down, she slid her piece forward one, but she didn't plan to elaborate. She thought of the scars on his back on the shore. "Were you flogged at the prison in England, on your back?"

He slid the lion forward. Despite the grin curving his lips, his face had hardened, and she wished she could take the question back. Her brother didn't like to speak of his time under King Henry's thumb, either.

"Ye suffered while living at Dunscaith," Rory said. The man preferred statements to questions.

She wished she could refute it, but she wouldn't lie. She slid the animal forward one square.

Rory's nostrils flared slightly, and all remnants of his grin were gone. "I'm sorry for that."

"It helps one realize where they stand within one's clan."

He frowned. "Something I learned while imprisoned in England is that family loyalty can be broken. That overcoming obstacles together can form a stronger bond."

Kenan had said something similar when he'd returned, thin, weak, and with a hardness about him, especially when he interacted with their father. Walter Macdonald had seen it immediately and cut Kenan out of all his plans, involving Gilbert as if he were the oldest instead of the youngest son.

It was her turn to ask. She touched her forehead close to her hairline as she stared across at his scar, the one she'd actually run the tip of her tongue along that morning in the tower. "Is that a scar from a battle?"

He slid his lion sideways toward her phoenix. "Was a skirmish with my brother, not a battle."

The fire popped, making her look at the flames. When she looked back, he was studying the board as if they played a real chess game.

"Ye stole the Fairy Flag," he said.

She frowned and slid her phoenix to the side toward him as if challenging the ridiculous notion. "No."

She could be lying, but his broad shoulders relaxed. He believed her? At least he wanted to. He lifted his gaze to her. The flaring fire in the grate made his amber eyes look more golden like the beast on the Afrikan plains.

Morag used to say not to ask questions you did not want the answer to, but Sara must know. She swallowed. "Do you believe I poisoned your brother?"

Without breaking his stare, he moved his piece. She didn't want to cut the tether between them, but to breathe again, she must know the answer. She looked down.