Lady Magdalene’s head was tilted toward her husband, as if whispering something meant for his ears alone. His hand rested on the wall before them, fingers splayed wide, his posture tense and alert. As I stared up at them, she raised her hand in a gesture that appeared to be a greeting, but it felt false to me, as delayed as it was, as if she went through the expected motions now, so I’d not be suspicious.
How long had they been there? What had they heard? My conversation with James had not been conducted in whispers,and the garden’s stone walls created a natural echo that might have carried our words upward. Had they heard me speak of curses and witches? Of my plans for Munro? Of the dead woman’s voice?
I started to lift my hand in the proper acknowledgement, but a fierce pain cut through my side, doubling me over. It felt as if someone had pinched me hard to get my attention and refused to let go. I stood there, hands on knees, panting, until the pain dulled and my breathing evened. When I straightened, Gordon was turning away first, but Lady Magdalene still stood there, her gaze heavy upon me.
“Magdalene,” Gordon’s voice called. “Let us retire to the study.”
She turned away, finally, and as I watched her walk away, gooseflesh rose on my arms.
Tell him there are liars amongst him.
The whisper returned, softer now but no less urgent. I nearly gave in to my habitual response of pushing it away, silencing it with the force of my will. But James’s words echoed in my mind:
What if this were Isabella Ross trying to warn me? What if, in my determination to break my curse and return to the life I had planned, I was ignoring a truth that might protect not only Munro but myself as well?
I sank back onto the stone bench, my limbs suddenly heavy with the weight of doubt. The garden that had seemed so peaceful now felt exposed, vulnerable. The shadows cast by the walls grew longer as the sun began its descent, and with them, my certainty about my chosen path diminished.
Perhaps it was time to listen. The thought terrified me. But if there was truth to be found in the whispers of the dead, if that truth could help Munro and, by extension, myself…
The voice came again, clearer now that I had stopped fighting it, though no louder.
Tell him, Murieall. Tell him before it is too late.
I shivered, wrapping my arms around myself. Whatever I decided, I knew one thing with growing certainty: Munro’s aunt and uncle had been watching me far too closely for comfort. And if they had heard my conversation with James, I might have more immediate concerns than a voice from beyond the grave.
Chapter Eleven – Munro
I blocked James’s overhead strike with my shield, the impact jarring up my arm and into my shoulder. Sweat trickled down my back as I countered with a swing that would have opened his gut had we been using real steel instead of practice blades. The grueling sparring provided a momentary respite from the thoughts that had plagued me these past seven nights. I hadn’t slept properly since Murieall’s arrival at my gates, yet somehow I felt more alert, more alive than I had in months.
“Ye’re quicker today,” he commented, deflecting my thrust with a practiced twist of his wrist. “Ye must be getting proper rest now that ye’ve a warm body in yer bed.” His tone was deliberately casual, but the glint in his eye told me he was probing for something.
I faltered mid-strike, my rhythm broken by his words. “What are ye implying?” I demanded, narrowly avoiding his counterblow.
“Ye look better,” he said, circling me with the fluid grace of a man who’d been training with a sword since he could walk. “Ye look less haggard, and the shadows beneath yer eyes are fading, and I’ve noticed ye’re nae drinking as much wine.”
I lowered my practice sword, breath coming hard. “I clearly have nae given ye enough duties to attend to if ye have so much time to keep watch upon me.”
James chuckled at that. “Break to quench our thirst?”
“Aye,” I agreed, pulled out my water pouch, and drank greedily as I thought about what James had said. The truth was I’d deliberately stayed away from my chambers until I was certain Murieall would be asleep, and I rose before dawn to avoid her waking. And when I did sleep, dreams of her hauntedme. I dreamed of touching her, kissing her, pleasuring her, and each morning, I did wake feeling rested, though I was certain I was getting less rest now than before she’d come. I was drinking less, which was good, but I suspected James was partly right in that having her in my bed at night was comforting. I didn’t like that one bit.
“Let’s get back to practice,” I urged, wanting the sweet respite of moments ago.
James shrugged, adopting a defensive stance. “As ye wish.”
We resumed our sparring, but my concentration had shattered. Every thrust and parry was mechanical now, my mind racing with unbidden memories. Yesterday at dawn, I went to the mews to check on a new falcon only to find Murieall already there, explaining to my daughters how the bird’s wings caught the air. The day before, she’d been in the stables during the hour I always rode alone, helping Bess onto a gentle mare while Guinn watched with envy. And three days past, I’d sought solitude at my private swimming spot at the loch, only to discover the three of them skipping stones across the water’s glassy surface.
Each time, Murieall had greeted me with those dark, soulful eyes, as if she’d been expecting me. Each time, she’d gone out of her way to get me to interact with the lasses. And each time, I’d retreated, muttering excuses about forgotten duties elsewhere.
The pattern was suddenly, blindingly clear. These weren’t chance encounters. They were too perfectly timed, too neatly arranged to be coincidental. I’d been manipulated, herded like livestock into these ‘accidental’ meetings by none other than the man standing before me with a wooden sword and an increasingly smug expression, and Murieall had been his accomplice.
“Ye’ve been setting me up,” I said, lowering my weapon once more.
James blinked, the picture of innocence. “Whatever do ye mean?”
“Do nae play the fool with me,” I growled. “The mews. The stables. The loch. Ye’ve been telling Murieall where I’d be.”
A thin smile spread across his face, neither confirming nor denying my accusation. “Is it such a crime for a da to encounter his daughters? For a laird to cross paths with a guest in his own home?”
