‘She thought it was amusing. Robert and Elene hated their father and looked down on everyone in Clan Strachan. They were as close as siblings can be, some say too close.’ Peyton coughed and stared out over the loch. ‘Elene was so lovely to look upon, and she knew it. She used her beauty and clever tongue to cut men, even from a young age.’
‘I can’t imagine any woman ever being able to cut you, Peyton.’
He gave Cecily a probing look. ‘Can you not, lass?’ His shoulders heaved, and he took her hand and kissed it. ‘Once, when I was a lad, just on the brink of manhood, she set her sights on me – flattering, seeking me out, laying her hands on me until I was drunk with infatuation. I even fancied that I was in love. She let me kiss her before she told me that I was her father’s bastard, that she was my half-sister and that if she lay with me, I would be committing incest. That is how I found out I was illegitimate, old Hew’s by blow.’
‘Oh, Peyton,’ said Cecily, putting her palm to her heart.
‘It was a game, you see, a jest cooked up by her and her brother, Robert.’
‘And what was he like.’
‘The same - handsome, cruel and arrogant, though less cunning. Robert Strachan thought he could rule all the clans hereabouts just because he had been sent to London to be educated like an Englishman. He and Elene poisoned Laird Hew. I am sure of it. He died suddenly from the bloody flux, writhing in agony.’
‘Are you saying that they killed their own father?’ she gasped.
‘Aye. Then they poisoned his cousin, Gilmour McColl, Laird of the McColls, thinking they could take over that clan. But the old bastard outfoxed them because he had a bastard of his own to bring into play – Caolan Bannerman, the illegitimate son of Gilmour’s daughter. He had been forgotten for years but rose quickly once Gilmour desperately needed an heir. Caolan was seen as a usurper. Like me, he had to fight to hang onto his clan. He succeeded, and Robert was slain in the fight for Clan McColl. I might not succeed, Cecily. I might end up like Robert Strachan, a bloated corpse at the bottom of a river.’
Cecily was beginning to understand just how little peace Peyton had felt in his life and to pity him for it. She took his hand and kissed the palm. ‘You have many burdens, and I fear I am one.’
‘Only so far as you unman me, Cecily.’
‘You didn’t seem unmanned back in your chamber, far from it.’
‘I must beg forgiveness for my…erm…’
‘Ardour?’
‘Forcefulness. I would not be a brute around you, Cecily, but you get my blood up so easily.’
‘In good ways.’
‘Some good, some bad.’ He sighed heavily. ‘I need you with me, Cecily.’
She went on tip-toe and took his face in her hands. ‘I am yours, so there it is. I cannot help it.’ She kissed him gently. His stubble was just coming through, his skin as rough as a gorse bush. But the kiss he returned was tender and yearning, making her heart ache and her breath quicken.
He gave her a scorching look. ‘Come inside and lie abed with me until we forget all our quarrels, lass.’
Cecily didn’t have time to answer as a shout rang out over the water. Selby was rushing along the estuary, and his face was as grim as death.
***
Peyton’s horse was streaked white with sweat when he reached the woods just outside the village of Gravelock. His heart was pounding in his throat. He knew what he would find, but it still hit him like a punch in the guts.
The branch of the oak bent and squealed in the wind under its burden. The two men twisted on the ropes, like ghastly spinning tops – faces bloated and black, eyes bulging, tongues protruding. Peyton swallowed down bile.
‘Who were they?’ he snarled.
‘Farmers, simple folk working the land,’ said Selby with his hand to his mouth.
‘Who did this?’
‘No one knows.’
Peyton already knew. The Warden was stamping his authority through murder. This was a message written in blood, aimed at his heart.
‘They were found this morning,’ continued Selby. ‘Must have been taken in the night and strung up. The women are weeping and wailing, and the men of the village are demanding vengeance.’
‘Heads must roll for this, or there will be a mob at your door,’ said MacDougall.
