I stepped away, my mind reeling with the implication that James had betrayed me as well. “Ye can nae explain away treachery,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. My lungs seemed to have forgotten their purpose. I couldn’t catch a breath, and spots danced before my eyes. I blinked, and when she came into focus again, desperation filled her eyes.
“Isabella did nae jump from Pike’s Point,” she said.
I froze, every muscle in my body going rigid as if suddenly turned to stone. What new ploy was this? “What did ye say?”
“Isabella did nae jump,” Murieall repeated, each word with deliberate care. “She did nae take her own life.”
My hands curled reflexively into fists. “Was this yers or James’s idea? Did the two of ye think I’d start the search anew for her murderer? That ye could make me look mad to the clan by convincing me ye conversed with my dead wife?” I roared.
“What?” she cried out. “Munro, nay,” she said, shaking her head. “Isabella told me herself. James does nae have anything to do with any of this.”
She was so very believable, until she averted her gaze and crossed her arms over her chest. “Ye’re lying,” I said, and all the betrayal I felt made my words tremble. “James kens what yer doing.” Her gaze flew to me, plunging the dagger of betrayal deeper into my gut. “How long have ye planned this?”
She pressed her fingertips to her temples and shook her head. “Munro, nay, ye must listen.”
There were a thousand questions I wanted to ask. How had they met? Were they sleeping together? Did she feel no guilt for what she’d done to the lasses? The questions flooded my mind, battering it.
“Isabella told me to tell ye—”
I grabbed her then by the shoulder and jerked her to me. When she winced, I loosened my hold. “Nae another word,” I said, forcing each word through clenched teeth. “If ye say one more word, I’ll send ye away this night, into the dark, without escort, and yer lover will nae get a merciful end.”
Her brows dipped together, then her eyes widened, and for what seemed a thousand heartbeats, we stood face to face, before she finally nodded. I released her and stalked toward the door. I paused on the threshold. “There will be a guard at yer door, so ye can forget any ideas of stepping out of this bedchamber and going to James.”
A sharp intake of breath was the last sound I heard before I slammed her bedchamber door shut. My hands shook violently at my sides, fists clenching and unclenching as I fought for control, and then voices erupted from around the corner a moment before one of my young guards appeared.
“Dalton,” I called, motioning him to me as a desperate need to confront James coursed through me. “Stand by this door until morning. Do nae let the lass out until I send someone to retrieve her.”
“Aye, laird.”
Dalton’s reply came at my back. I was already stalking away on the hunt for my prey. I searched the great hall, his bedchamber, the solar, and the kitchens, and finally made my way to the stables. The stablemaster greeted me with a wave.
“Laird, what can I do for ye this fine night?”
“Have ye seen James?” I asked, finding pleasantries beyond me at the moment.
“Aye, he rode out on border patrol tonight. He’ll be back at first light.”
I frowned. “Border patrol?”
“Aye, Laird,” Fitzroy said. “Ye’re uncle started it two days ago.”
I recalled then that I’d seen something about that in the plans I’d told Uncle Gordon I would think about and let him know what I wanted to do. Irritation flared that he’d proceeded anyway, that he’d gone against my command, but that would have to wait until I dealt with James. “When he returns, send a stable boy to tell me immediately.”
“Aye, Laird,” Fitzroy said.
I made my way to my bedchamber, almost desperate to be alone, to think.
I slammed the door to my private chamber with enough force to make the iron hinges groan. My breath came in ragged gasps as if I’d run for ages rather than merely walked the short distance from the stables to my chamber. Each heartbeat pounded in my ears like a war drum, mercilessly drowning out thought. But by the time I kicked off my boots and lay on my bed, staring up at the ceiling, I could no longer keep all that had happened, been said, and discovered at bay. It washed over me, scalding my mind.
Murieall had said Isabella had not jumped and had not taken her own life. I knew she was lying. I knew she was conspiring with James. I’d seen her avert her gaze. I’d seen her crossher arms, but what if I was wrong? Now that I was calmer, I methodically recalled the exchange with Murieall. She had not once admitted that she and James were scheming. She had denied it, in fact, but she had seemed guilty. I knew, when I was more level-headed, that seeming guilty did not always equate to guilt.
What was I even considering? I didn’t believe in ghosts, witches, or curses, but I had believed at one time that Isabella had been murdered; I had raged against the very notion that she would take her own life. I had pointed to the bruises on her wrists and the torn cloak. I had demanded investigations, interrogations. I had been certain that someone had murdered my wife.
My uncle’s warnings rang in my ears that this was all part of some elaborate scheme to make me appear unfit to lead. Tales of ghosts and murders would certainly accomplish that if I were fool enough to believe them, to repeat them to others.
Yet what would Murieall gain from such a scheme? She had no claim to Ross lands, no stake in our clan politics, unless what she would gain was being the lady of the stronghold if James were laird. Even now, the very thought of James betraying me after all we’d shared since boyhood made my stomach clench. We had trained together, fought together, and grieved together. I had always trusted him with my life.
My head pounded with lack of answers and doubt, and a voice in the back of my mind whispered, soft yet persistent: if James had not betrayed me, if by some strangeness of the world Murieall was not lying, then I had allowed my wife’s killer to roam free as I dulled her memory with drink. The thought sent me doubling over. I staggered to the nearest chair and sank into it, the wood creaking beneath my weight. I gripped my head as the questions collided. Was that the truth of it? Was my willingness to suspect James and Murieall of conspiracy merelya shield against facing my own failure of facing something not of my world that I didn’t understand?
