Chapter Twenty-Eight

"It is your concern when your neighbor's wall is on fire."

Horace, 65–8 BC, Roman poet

Rory whistled lightly as he climbed the steps from the dock. He'd been called away that morn right after he'd asked Margaret to send up a warm bath to the tower room. He should ask Sara to move down to a room on the same floor as his. He'd rather have her in his own room, but he knew she would never agree to be his mistress.

Once his position as the new chief of the MacLeod Clan of Skye was firm, he'd ask her to wed. He'd already sent a message to Father Lockerby requesting a dispensation for marrying his brother's wife since their union was annulled within minutes of being blessed. Without consummation, the marriage wasn't valid.

Gus barked at the top of the steps in greeting, and Rory scratched his head and smiled. "I agree, old fellow, 'tis a glorious morn." He'd thought that the moment he'd opened his eyes to find himself curled around Sara in her small bed in the Tower Room. They'd ended up there after the library so she could gather a fresh smock and clean her teeth. They never made it out.

He chuckled as he walked into the great hall. "Good morn," he called to Jok and Brodrick. "And to ye two." He nodded to John and Simon, who seemed to live in Dunvegan now. Did they ever ferry across to their own cottages in the village? Maybe they were sleeping in one of the spare bedchambers. 'Twas fine with him.

Jok's brows rose. "Was that ye whistling coming up the stairs?"

"Perhaps," he said and muted his smile. After all, his brother was still deathly ill, and the Fairy Flag was missing.

"Did ye find the damn flag then?" Simon called from his spot at the hearth.

"Nay," Rory said, his smile disappearing on his exhale as if a cloud had covered the sun.

John knocked Simon with his one arm. "I tell ye, Walter Macdonald is right now rigging it up on a staff to fly over himself when they march to Dunvegan. Its magic will multiply his forces by ten."

"My scouts haven't reported them riding off their territory," Rory said and sat at the table.

Brodrick crossed his arms, his usual frown in place. "I didn't expect ye back so fast. Was there nothing amiss at the mill?"

The millhouse on the Allt Beag River ground all their grains into flour. 'Twas powerful, and farmers from across Skye came to use it.

Rory uncorked the bladder of ale he'd been drinking off, which had come from Fiona's guarded stock. "Nay," he said and took a long swallow before looking back at the man. "The millstone wasn't cracked that I could see. I spent time inspecting the wheel buckets while I was there, and the gears and the hopper, but the whole process was running smoothly, churning out finely ground oat flour. Randal Grant was red-faced furious that someone reported a problem to me without informing him first."

The informant had sent an anonymous note that morn. Rory thought they hadn't signed it because the person worried over being blamed. That was probably why they hadn't informed Grant.

Rory studied Brodrick's tired features. He'd been spending the nights with Jamie, guarding him as if the assassin could do more damage. "How fares my brother this morn?" Rory's tone had lowered. He still wondered if he should end Jamie's suffering with a well-placed slice to his throat. "Is Hamish with him now?"

Brodrick shook his head. "He saw him right before dawn and was called away to help with a difficult birth the midwife worried over."

"Henrietta Blounce worried?" Rory asked. The older woman never called in the barber-surgeon to help her. Only women, trained by herself, were permitted in the birthing rooms in the village.

Jok shrugged. "I know Reagan and Aiden are expecting a bairn soon. Perhaps Aiden is worried and called for him."

"Unless she's lost her mind," Rory said. "Henrietta will be sending Hamish right on his way when he gets out to their cottage. Poor man will probably need a shot of whisky after her tongue lashing."

"Jamie seemed a bit improved this morn," Brodrick said.

"Improved?" Rory asked. Hamish had told him that Jamie's skin, urine, and eyes were turning a darker yellow.

"He said he wanted to talk to someone and sent me away," Brodrick said.

"When was that?" Who did Jamie wish to speak with? Winnie? The woman hadn't been around much since the first day, as if she couldn't handle the noxious smells in the room despite the windows being thrown open. Could he want to talk again with Sara? Or see Eleri? Had he learned about Eleri's twin and wanted to meet Eliza?

Brodrick glanced toward the steps. "I left him nearly an hour ago." He nodded at Rory. "Someone should check on him now."

Rory stood. "Ye look exhausted, man. I'll check on him."

Brodrick stood, too. "I need to get my pallet from his room." So he'd been sleeping there.

"Do ye need help cleaning him up?" Jok asked and nodded to Margaret, who'd come from the kitchens.

"Probably," Rory said.

"Maybe we should say our farewell now," Simon said, following them. "The priest gave him last rites, so he could go anytime now."

Rory exhaled as he led the small procession. A person certainly didn't need last rites to die.

"Hamish said he was improved," Brodrick insisted.

John hurried to keep up, his gait wobbling side to side, almost like a duck. He shook his leg. "'Tis fallen asleep."

Rory stopped before his brother's door and inhaled the cool, relatively clean air of the corridor before depressing the handle, the weight of onlookers at his back. "Let me first see—"

The door swung inward, and the sight before him stole the rest of his words.

Sara stood beside Jamie's bed, holding a plump white pillow in her hands. With a gasp, she whirled toward him at the door, and Rory saw bright red across the linen of the pillow. "Rory. I found him—"

"What is this?" Brodrick yelled as he rushed past Rory into the room.

Heavy goose down pillows were scattered across Jamie's bed, and Brodrick ripped the pillow from Sara's grasp. Rory crossed to them in two strides, steadying her. Distress tightened her shoulders, and her face was pale as the bleached sheets encasing the pillows. He pulled her into his chest as he looked down at his brother.

"Bloody hell," he said when he saw Jamie. His eyes were open but there was no life in them. Blood dried under his nose, which looked crooked, broken.

Beside them, Brodrick jabbed the pillow in the air. "She smothered him! Broke his nose even when he was already in pain."

"No," Sara said, pushing out of Rory's arms. "I found him with the pillow over his face."

Simon and John crept closer to the bed. Simon leaned in, centering his good eye on Jamie's face. "Aye, he's dead now."

John poked Jamie, but he didn't move. The elderly man pointed at the pillow that Brodrick clasped. "And he was alive when that pillow broke his nose, or it wouldn't have bled so bright."

Jok moved around the room, looking under the bed as if the culprit could be hiding there.

Rory rubbed his forehead. "Why would someone kill him now?" If someone meant to relieve his suffering, they would have sliced his throat or given him a quick-acting poison. Jamie had suffered.

Brodrick dropped the pillow. "He must have known something that the murderer"—he scowled at Sara—"didn't want anyone to know. Maybe he guessed who the poisoner was and was questioning her about it."

Sara kept her gaze on Rory. "This note was left outside my bedchamber door this morn." She handed the folded paper to him. "Margaret can attest to it."

Jok looked over his shoulder as he read. "What did he want to see ye about?"

"I don't know," she said, her lips tight. "He was like this when I got here."

"Ye killed him because he knew ye poisoned him and was going to tell Rory," Brodrick said, his voice sharp with conviction. His face snapped to Rory. "She's poisoned the chief. She's stolen the Fairy Flag." He pointed a finger at her while staring hard into Rory's eyes. "She's turning ye against yer own clan just like Madeline."

"Madeline?" Sara asked. "Who is Madeline?"

Rory looked to Jamie lying there in the rumpled, stained bed, so gray and diminished in death. Hot prickles moved under his skin up his neck into his jaw. Jamie didn't even look like the warrior Rory had known, the hotheaded, disloyal brother he'd grown up with. The one who'd made him give the foking vow never to trust a Macdonald woman again. The one who'd left him to rot down in England, even after their indifferent father had died, giving Jamie the power to act.

Who would smother him, killing him quicker than the poison? Who besides Rory? Who besides Sara?

Hamish Gower bustled in. "Henrietta Blounce is a cold, frustrating—" His words choked off as he viewed Jamie. "Well, Hell," he said and began to perform a basic examination.

Rory saw Reid standing wide-eyed in the entryway. He bit his bottom lip until Rory thought he saw the red of blood there. "Master Reid," Rory said, "please escort Lady Sara up to her room while I deal with this…assault."

He met Sara's gaze for a moment. There were questions in her eyes, but at the moment, Rory was devoid of any answers. She walked out the door in front of Reid, and a chill fell over Rory. As soon as Reid pulled the door closed behind him, everyone started to talk.

"She smothered him, broke his nose," Brodrick said.

"Could she do something like that with those thin arms?" Simon asked.

John grabbed a pillow with his one intact arm and pressed it against himself. "The feather pillows are heavy. I could do it if Jamie didn't fight."

Jok grabbed Rory's arm with a tight grip. "Ye're the new chief, Rory. Ye have to set an example."

Rory rounded on him. "An example? What do ye mean? Do ye want me to haul Sara out front and slice her throat? Let it bleed out before everyone and make every last MacLeod swear to never talk to a Macdonald again? Is that the example ye speak of?"

Silence fell within the room.

Simon and John looked at each other, shaking their gray heads as if this was all a pity.

"Ye questioned her last night?" Jok asked.

"Aye," Rory answered, leaving his game method and subsequent night of hedonistic pleasure out of his explanation. "And I'm convinced she has nothing to do with this." He threw his arm out toward Jamie's body, Hamish moving silently around him.

"She's wily," Brodrick said, "and has fooled ye." Disappointment weighted his words.

Rory's heart thumped hard, anger licking up inside him. "I have not been fooled." His words were a low warning, hiding any doubt that might be snaking up within him. His glare centered on Brodrick and then slid to Jok, the man he trusted the most, his closest friend.

Jok held up his hands as if trying to stop Rory from charging. "We are merely saying… Ye've only known Sara for a couple weeks if that, and she seems to have…changed ye."

She had. She'd brought hope to him that their clans might one day be united against the real enemy, England. She'd freed him from the guilt of Eleri being tucked away and feeling like she wasn't worthy. She'd finally trusted him enough to show him her back even though it was obvious she felt lacking because of the marks. Her vulnerability had lowered his resistance to trusting her. She'd done all these things, and she'd made him happy. How long had it been since he'd felt a lightness inside? He closed his eyes. Ten years.

He opened his eyes to take in the stares of the four men around him. "I will not kill her, even if she took the flag and smothered all of ye."

"Well, fok," Brodrick said, crossing his arms and jamming his hands in his armpits. "She's foking fooled ye."

"Hold yer tongue," Rory shouted over him. "Or I'll slice it out of yer screaming mouth."

That shut them all up. Even Hamish cast an uneasy glance his way.

"I am the chief of Clan MacLeod," Rory said, his voice hard. "If ye want to challenge me, do it, Brodrick. Otherwise, keep that bloody tongue still."

"No one said kill," Jok said, his words even.

"I did," Brodrick said.

Rory yanked his sgian dubh out of its sleek holder at his belt and took a step toward him. Jok stepped between them, two hands bracing Rory's chest to stop him from cutting Brodrick's tongue out.

"I didn't say kill," Jok said, "but she has to leave Dunvegan."