Duncan looked around the room and saw a vase of wild bluebells which had come from the edge of the garden. He always chose them when they were in season because blue was his favourite colour, and he loved the way their heads dipped as if in deference to him—they always made him laugh.
However, he was not laughing now; he felt sad and regretful as he poured the broth into the water in which the flowers were standing.
Duncan counted five seconds before their stems began to bend, their petals shrivelled and turned black, and in less than a few minutes the whole bunch of blooms had sagged over the side of the vase. Their flower heads rested on the desktop, sad, bedraggled—dead.
Duncan’s suspicions had been confirmed; someone had just tried to poison him in his own chamber. He stared at the bluebells, not in disbelief because he was not surprised at all, but in horror that he had come so close to death.
He had always had a sensitive palate, which was why he had been so disgusted by Lord Tewsbury’s wine, and he was renowned for his excellent wine cellar for that very reason. Now that gift and all his mother, bless her soul, had taught him once, had saved his life, but it had not told him who his potential murderer was.
A wave of anger swept over Duncan as he looked down at the poor dead flowers.That could have been me,he thought.I could be a cold corpse by now and everything I own, everything I have ever worked for, would be stolen or destroyed.
Then he straightened up and walked across the room to look out of the window again. Ironically, the weather had changed to suit his mood once more. Instead of the bruise-coloured clouds that had been flinging torrential rain down half an hour before, the sun was now sinking beneath the horizon in a bright red, angry blaze that was terrifyingly beautiful.
At that moment, he made a vow to himself.
I will catch them and they will wish they had never been born,he promised.No one will ever take away what is mine.
With that thought, he wrenched open the door and strode out, determination in every step he took.
8
Eliza’s pillow was wet with the tears she had been crying for the last two hours, and her eyes were red and bloodshot. She was furious at the way Duncan had belittled her, but she knew within herself that something else, something deeper, was bothering her and making her weep so sorely.
There was a quality about Duncan that made her admire him, despite the fact that she wanted to do the contrary. She wanted to hate him, and to tell him so to his face, but she knew she could never do such a thing.
Why not?she asked herself.Why can I not say to him face to face that I despise him?
But she knew the reason why—it was because she did not. He was strong, not just physically, but there was an air of authority about him that made his subordinates respect and obey him, yet Eliza knew that he had a core of gentleness. To be gentle was to be weak in the opinion of his men, however, so he could never show that side of himself to them.
He had been obliged to make her look small and insignificant in front of them because he needed to maintain the status of power and strength, and a woman could never be seen to belittle him. Eliza often thought that being a man, particularly a Laird,must be torture. Balancing responsibility with popularity must be a heavy burden to bear, but that was not her present concern.
She reminded herself again that although he no doubt had many good qualities, some of which she had already seen, he had bought her like a prize heifer at a livestock market. As well as that, he had treated her like one by making her look utterly foolish in front of a crowd of assembled men who despised her for the sin of being English.
Paid a high price for me?she thought bitterly.Well, I will have to make sure he gets his money’s worth, but not in the way he hopes.
Eliza thought that the best thing to do from now on was to stay out of Duncan’s way as much as possible and to interact with him as little as she could. Whenever she had to be with him, she would keep her head down and say as little as possible. It was not in her nature to be quiet and submissive, but if it was necessary, she knew she could do it.
Eliza closed her eyes and once more tried to go to sleep, but she found it impossible, since thoughts of Duncan intruded unbidden, no matter how hard she tried to stop them.
She had just managed to drift into a doze when she heard the faint creak of her chamber door opening. Eliza grabbed a candle from her bedside table and jerked upright as a dark, cloaked figure glided towards her across the room. She raised it higher to strike whoever it was, but she was too slow, since a pair of strong hands reached out to grasp her wrists in an irresistible grip.
“Eliza, it’s me.”
His voice was no more than a murmur, and as she recognised its deep timbre, she let out a huge, shuddering sigh of relief.
Duncan let go of her hands and studied her for a moment. He could see by her red, swollen eyes that she had been weeping, but she looked fine otherwise. However, now was not the time to discuss her welfare; they had more pressing concerns.
“Please get dressed and come with me,” he whispered. “I have an important matter to discuss with you.”
Eliza frowned at him. “It’s the middle of the night. Can we not discuss it at a civilised hour?” she protested.
“It’s too urgent,” he replied grimly. “It cannot wait a moment longer.”
The expression on his face was so grave, and his posture so tense, that Eliza was finally persuaded to accompany him; she looked at him for one more moment, then nodded and stood up. Duncan immediately turned his back on her to allow her privacy to dress, but it was with great reluctance. He was a normal man with the usual reaction to a beautiful woman, after all.
“I’m ready,” Eliza said.
She too had donned a dark cloak, and Duncan hoped that they would both be adequately camouflaged in the darkness, since he wanted no one, not even the guards, to see them. However, he knew every secret passage and tunnel, and could have found his way through the castle blindfolded if it was necessary.
