“He is probably an honest mon and his name has now been smeared by what these fools made him a part of.”
Bethoc opened the door to see a pale-faced sheriff staring at Walter. It looked as if the man was finally seeing the full cost of the games he played. It reached far wider than the death of three women, something she doubted bothered the man at all. What he was beginning to see was how deeply it appalled others.
“Walter . . .” the sheriff began.
“Nay, dinnae call me that. ’Tis only my friends who have the right and ye are nay longer counted amongst that number. My God, ye have put blood on my hands! Innocent blood! Ye used me to help ye play this vicious game and I curse ye for that. Now, tell me who set ye on this ruinous path,” the magistrate said in a voice that held all of his authority.
“Angus Keddie,” said the sheriff in a sad whisper.
“Lock them up. I need to step outside. I need, I crave, fresh air.”
Walter MacKray walked out. Lorraine looked after him with sad eyes. Laurel and Bethoc moved to flank her as Sir Simon, Callum, Uven, and Robbie started to drag the prisoners out. They each elbowed Lorraine lightly.
“What?” Lorraine asked but she could not keep her eyes on them, instead she constantly looked in the direction the young magistrate had gone.
“He would welcome a friend right now,” Bethoc said. “A shoulder to cry on.”
“Someone to say ‘there, there,’” added Laurel.
“Someone to say it will be fine, or get better.”
“Aye, someone who can raise his spirits. Pat his back. Mayhap kiss his cheek.”
Lorraine laughed. “Ye do recall that I am but a day widowed?” When she got no response from either woman, she laughed and headed out after the magistrate.
“There. That wasnae so hard,” Bethoc said, and exchanged a grin with Laurel. “Are ye going to be all right?”
“In time. Aye, I will recover. I am thinking I might sell my lands and leave this place though.” Laurel sighed. “But there is time to think that over. Now, I fear, we must go and break the laird’s heart.”
Chapter Thirteen
The laird of Dunburn bowed his head and slowly shook it. They had laid out the whole nasty plan and who was involved. His eldest son and heir stood behind him, his hand gripping the man’s shoulder. He too looked stunned but even as Callum watched, the look turned to one of belief, then resignation, and finally anger. It was a blow to the heart they had delivered and nothing could be said to soften it but they were not being openly argued with and the son’s face told him it all came as little surprise.
Laurel finally moved to pour the man an ale and hand it to him. “Here, m’laird, drink.”
“Ye were one of them, aye?” he asked as he studied her.
“I was, aye. My husband was killed and I was accused of his murder.”
“I am so sorry, lass. So verra sorry.”
“Nay, if ye mean for the loss of my husband, dinnae trouble yourself. He was a brute and nay a great loss. He didnae deserve what he got, mayhap, but I willnae miss him. And none of this was your doing. ’Tis I who am sorry for what ye must do now.”
“Laurel,” Bethoc hissed softly, “ye shouldnae speak of your husband that way.”
“Why? ’Tis naught but the truth. I dinnae miss him.”
“’Tis disrespectful.”
“Weel, if he comes back and does something worthy of respect, I will give him some. For now? Huh.” When Bethoc looked up, Laurel asked, “What are ye looking for?”
“God to strike ye down for speaking ill of the dead.”
“Hah! It isnae God who is welcoming that mon.” She turned back to the laird who was watching them and smiling faintly. “Oh, ’tis good to see your spirits are better. The ale helped?”
“Aye, the ale helped.”
Callum leaned closer to Sir Simon. “They did that on purpose, aye?”
