Had the actress made it back to Aberdeen?
Lucian feared she hadn’t, the dreadful suspicion icing his innards.
“Budge…” Dear gods, was that ragged sound his voice? “If you cannae recall the actress’s name, what do you remember of her?”
“She was flame-haired and high tempered.” Budge lifted a hand to scratch his bristly cheek. “That I know. She almost knocked me down when I opened the door. She stormed into the hall yelling like a banshee.”
“Aye.” Lucian nodded, remembering.
“Sally. That’s what she called herself.” Budge took a few steps into the room. When he halted, he bobbed his head. “That be her name. I have it now. She sang at the Shipman’s Dove, down by the Aberdeen docks.”
“Aye.” Lucian agreed, her face coming back to him. No longer the youngest, she’d had a few lines at her eyes and her full, round breasts were beginning to sag. But she’d still been beautiful. She’d had an air about her, the cheery, laughing-eyed charm of women who entertained in taverns and two-bit theaters.
But she hadn’t smiled when she’d come to Lyongate.
Lucian wondered if he’d ever smile again.
“Budge…” Gods, but he didn’t want to ask this. “I haven’t thought of this Sally woman in years. But…” He had to know. “Has anyone ever mentioned her since? Perhaps gone to Aberdeen to ask after her, or to see her perform?”
Lucian knew some of the Lyongate men went into the great granite city now and again. He also understood their reasons.
A hunkering medieval castle perched on a cliff, and away from everywhere but the darkening sea and swirling mist, could wear on some souls.
Not his, of course.
He loved Lyongate’s cold and bleak remoteness with a ferocity that sometimes worried him. He’d always felt a deep and powerful bond with the land, a sense of oneness with the rocks and heather, the sheer cliffs that supported Lyongate and the restless sea that boiled at their base.
He’d inherited that love of the land from his father, he knew. And his father before him and so on, back through the ages all the way to their ancestor, Renton MacRae, the first Black Lyon of Lyongate. Now that connection – leastways with his father – left an uncomfortable taste in his mouth.
It smacked of silence and secrets. The kind he didn’t really want to know, but now believed for he was blessed, or cursed, with a thinking mind.
“Well?” He lifted a brow, his gut warning that the fate of Sally of the Shipman’s Dove was important.
Was, being the critical thought.
The steward blinked. “Begging your pardon, sir?”
Lucian leaned toward him, raising his voice a bit in deference to Budge’s aged ears. “Any of the men ever visit that tavern? Have you heard them speak of Sally?”
“Aye, well…” A red stain appeared on the older man’s cheeks. “I go there myself once in a great while. No’ for the lassies, mind.” He paused as a burst of freshening wind brought a hint of brine into the room.
Budge used the moment to glance at the windows, clearly embarrassed. “The Shipman’s Dove has good ale, they do,” he said, turning back to Lucian when the wind settled. “You’ll no’ be telling the missus?”
“Not a word,” Lucian promised. “Is Sally well?”
“She’s no’ there, sir.”
Lucian’s heart sank. “Is she singing somewhere else?”
“Probably is.” Budge crossed his plaid-draped chest. “In a choir of angels, most like. Word was she died some years back. Found cold as stone in her room at the tavern, the other lassies said.”
“The cause?” Lucian felt ill, resisted the urge to lean against the wall. “Did you hear?”
“No one knew.” Budge gave him the answer he’d expected. “Doctors dinnae take much care with dead tavern singers, them what entertains down by the Aberdeen harbor. I was told the doctor claimed her heart stopped.”
“So she’s gone.”
Budge tugged on his plaid, smoothing a fold. “She wouldn’t have been able to tell ye anything, sir.”
