“It was not thievery,” Marguerite said, stepping between them. “The pearls were a gift to them and to the men you punished. As compensation for what they’ve had to endure.” She drew herself up to face her aunt, adding, “Surely you cannot punish these men for what was freely given.”
“Take them below,” her aunt ordered Xavier. “My niece and I will discuss this.”
The false look of benevolence on Beatrice’s face repulsed Marguerite. She darted forward and seized the blade from Xavier’s waist. With a few slices through the rope, she freed the men and ordered them to go. Turning to Beatrice, she commanded, “You will not take them prisoner.”
“You overstep yourself.”
“No.” With the knife still in her palm, she advanced upon her aunt, feeling the sudden rush of danger in her veins. “I have had my fill of you attempting to take my mother’s place. This is my home, and you are nothing more than my father’s putain.”
Beatrice’s eyes gleamed with rage. “I will not tolerate such insults from you, Marguerite.” With a hand, she dismissed Xavier. Only when she was certain the men were safe, did Marguerite lower her knife.
“I told you not to make an enemy of me, Marguerite,” her aunt said calmly. “You lied to the Duc about our . . . conflict.”
“I spoke the truth. You tried to starve me in my own home. And you punished innocent men.” The anger rose up, nearly blinding her with its intensity. “And now you think to punish more of them?”
A thin smile spread over Beatrice’s face. “I am not without mercy. If you say that you gave jewels to these men, so be it. But your father will not be pleased to learn that you granted favors to his men.”
She didn’t miss the implication in the matron’s words. “I granted no favors. Only compensation for their trouble.”
“You mean bribes, so they would let you meet your lover in the forest,” Beatrice corrected. “Xavier told me about him. One of the MacKinlochs, isn’t he?” She took a step forward, grasping her skirts as she climbed the stairs leading into the Hall. “I saw him near the stables just now.”
The rush of fear swept through her at first, leaving Marguerite speechless. She masked her emotions, keeping her tone firm. “You will not threaten him.”
“I don’t have to,” Beatrice said. “Xavier is taking him to your father now, for questioning. I would suggest that you be careful about what you say. He was carrying a quiver filled with black-feathered arrows, just like the one they found at the garrison.”
As her aunt slipped inside the Hall, Marguerite turned back and saw Callum surrounded by soldiers. He made no move to fight them off but went into their custody without argument.
God above, she didn’t know how to save him without implicating them both.
Guy de Montpierre stared at the Scot standing before him. It was the mute who had taken shelter in the stables. One of the soldiers had taken a quiver from him, and held up a black-feathered arrow.
“Is that yours?” the Duc asked.
The Scot gave a single nod, his face shielded without emotion or fear. Eyeing his guards, Guy motioned for them to draw in closer, to prevent the archer from making an escape. He suspected this man had something to do with the attack on the garrison, but why would he have returned to the stables? Already he’d heard of several other Scots who had disappeared, and he’d sent men after them. But this man’s behavior spoke of a man who possessed great courage or else a man who was the greatest fool. Curious, he gestured for the man to sit. “Can you speak at all?”
The man gave no answer but opened a pouch at his waist and held out a piece of parchment. Intrigued, the Duc allowed him to sit. Few men could write, and he wondered if a priest had taught him.
The Scot struggled to grip the pen, but he wrote only two words. The first was MacKinloch. The second was Marguerite.
At the sight of his daughter’s name, a cold fury took command of his temper. If this man was a MacKinloch, then he had lived with Marguerite during the time she’d taken sanctuary with them. His suspicions darkened, and he was beginning to see a pattern in his daughter’s behavior. The thought of her having anything to do with this Scot enraged him. If he’d harmed her in any way, Guy wouldn’t hesitate to give him a traitor’s death.
Beatrice’s suggestion, that she had been meeting a man in secret, suddenly held a grain of truth. Mon Dieu, the Scot must be the reason for Marguerite’s reluctance to wed.
“What does my daughter have to do with this?” Guy demanded. It was an effort to keep from killing the man right now.
MacKinloch set down the quill, giving no answer at all.
“Send for Marguerite,” the Duc ordered. In the minutes before her arrival, he glared at the Scot. If you’ve hurt her in any way, you answer to me.
But there was only the quiet stare of defiance in the man’s eyes.
When at last Marguerite appeared in the Hall, she touched her hand to her heart in fear. So. She did know the MacKinloch clansman.
“You lied to me,” the Duc said coolly. “You said you didn’t know this man. But he claims he’s a MacKinloch.”
Marguerite’s face blanched, but she nodded. Embarrassment flooded her face, but she admitted, “Callum MacKinloch is his name. His brother Alex is the clan chief.”
“Why did he come here?” the Duc demanded. "And why did you lie?" It wasn’t at all in Marguerite’s nature to tell an untruth, and from the way she avoided looking at the man, his suspicions magnified.
