His brow furrowed. “Admitted what, exactly?”
I paced now, my boots wearing a path across the stone floor as I struggled to articulate the madness of it all. “She claims a witch sent her here,” I said, the words sounding even more absurd spoken aloud. “A witch named Morgana, who cursed her to hear the voices of the dead.”
“The dead?” His voice held a note of skepticism that matched my own feelings on the matter.
“Aye, the dead. And this witch supposedly promised to lift the curse if Murieall came here and—” I faltered, the humiliation of it burning in my gut. “If she made me feel again.”
“Feel again,” he repeated slowly. “And ye believe this tale?”
I shook my head. “Nay, but she seemed so genuine, so—” I broke off, unwilling to reveal how deeply I’d been taken in byher. How completely I’d lowered my guard. I turned to face my uncle.
“The lass has taken ye in,” he said, his surprise apparent in his voice.
“I told ye I do nae believe her tale. Nae really. Though she was so earnest when she spoke of her curse.” I growled. “Bah! I’ve been made a fool. She claimed to hear Isabella.”
Uncle Gordon’s eyes turned to slits of anger. “Perhaps the lass truly is mad,” he said, “but more likely, she’s scheming for some purpose we simply do nae see yet.”
I snorted, a harsh sound devoid of humor. “What purpose could there be to tell me she’s heard Isabella speak to her from the grave?”
“Let me think,” he said, rising. He crossed to a side table where a decanter of wine sat, dark and gleaming in the morning light streaming through the narrow window. “We’ve a lass who apparently lied and manipulated her way into yer castle, yer bed, and I daresay yer trust,” he said, his back to me as he poured the ruby liquid into two goblets with deliberate slowness. I watched his hands, noting how steady they remained despite the tension that had filled the solar. “What we must do is figure out why.”
He turned, extending one goblet toward me. “Drink,” he encouraged, lifting his own goblet in a small toast. “Ye look like ye need it.”
I hesitated, keenly aware that I’d only just started to emerge from the fog I’d lived in for two years, and the wine had been part of my problem. I took the goblet from him, but set it down, instead of imbibing.
Uncle Gordon said nothing, though his gaze fell to the goblet before returning to my face. “Curious timing, her arrival,” he remarked, swirling the wine in his goblet as he leaned against the table’s edge. “Just as ye were beginning to find yer wayback from grief, this lass appears with her tales of curses and witches.”
“I do nae think I can say I was on the brink of finding my way back,” I replied. Murieall’s presence had been the thing to reach me finally.
Uncle Gordon clapped me on the shoulder. “Ye do nae give yerself enough credit. I saw signs that ye were returning to us.”
“Did ye?” I asked, frowning. “Such as what?”
“Ye were nae any longer drinking all day every day.”
“Oh, aye. I took a break to swim in the loch from time to time,” I grumbled.
“Let us examine another angle,” he said, avoiding the truth of how I’d been.
“What angle?”
“Mayhap James brought her here?” he replied.
“What nonsense is this?” I demanded, aware of the constant discord between my uncle and James. Both wanted what was best for me, but each had their own idea of what that meant.
“Hear me out,” Uncle Gordon said, to which I nodded. “I saw James and the lass whispering together in the garden. They had their heads bent close as if conspiring.”
I frowned, recalling how James had advocated for Murieall from the beginning, how he’d seemed to know more about her than he should have. Small moments I’d dismissed returned to me now—James smiling at her across the great hall, escorting her to the solar where my daughters played, arranging those ‘accidental’ encounters between us.
“Ye do nae think James is bedding the lass?” Uncle Gordon asked, the question landing like a blow to my gut.
“Nay,” I said, rejecting the suggestion immediately. James was my oldest friend, my most trusted advisor. He wouldn’t betray me like that.
Yet doubt crept in, cold and insidious. I remembered James leading Murieall in the dance last night, her face alight with laughter as they moved together, as if their conversation had seemed intimate, private.
“Ye’d notice such a thing, of course,” Uncle Gordon said, though his tone suggested otherwise. “Ye’ve always been observant when ye’re nae in yer cups.” He paused, watching me over the rim of his goblet. “Though perhaps that’s the verra reason for all this.”
“What are ye suggesting?” I asked, though a creeping dread told me I already knew.
