It was good that she had gone. It would not be easy to remain chaste with her form flaunted before him in such a way. He was a man, after all.
There was a reason why women dressed modestly, as the priest was so fond of saying at his services. Showing off her curves was designed to tempt him, but for what purpose?
She was an enigma.
He stood up, crossing the room to the altar, kneeling before it. “Forgive me, my thoughts, my Lord,” he said, praying quietly for a moment.
When he stood up again he felt more at peace. He had committed no sin. She had gone. If she came again, he would keep her but not for the reasons that would condemn him to hell. Instead, he would save her.
He would cast out the demon he suspected was inside her and thus save her soul for God.
Was she possessed?
Was he?
That could be the only explanation for making him obsess over a woman he had seen only twice?
He remembered why she had come to him when he saw the fireplace and the strange object she had brought.
He picked up the box she had delivered and then pulled open the lid. Inside was a red velvet cushion and upon it was laid a small key, not more than three inches long.
The key was made of silver and carved into the handle was the letter M. This thing was becoming more intriguing by the minute.
He needed answers and he knew just who to turn to in order to get them.
He found Lachlan in the tavern just outside the castle walls. The sword master was in the middle of a battle of wits with a carter’s lad when Jock walked in. The laird stood in the doorway a moment, watching the drama unfold.
Lachlan was looking grayer by the day. Old war injuries had given him a slight stoop but he still towered over most of the clan. His chair creaked under him, bearing up at the challenge of holding such bulk.
His beard hid his mouth well but Jock could tell the old man was smiling. It was the twinkle in his eyes that gave it away. No doubt he had the lad trapped in one of his countless riddles.
“A bed but does not sleep?” the lad said, scratching his head. “It is impossible. All things must sleep.”
“Answer right or the coins are mine. Time’s up. What say you?”
“A river,” Jock said from the doorway, stepping forward and sweeping the coins from the table into his hand.
“That’s no fair,” Lachlan said, turning to the Laird. “You already ken that one.” He swung a punch at Jock who easily ducked back. The carter’s lad gasped, no one swung at a laird and lived. The rest of the tavern barely looked up. They were used to such horseplay between Jock and Lachlan.
“You’re getting old and slow,” Jock said with a laugh, ducking as a second punch came his way.
“Aye,” Lachlan replied, holding his other hand up and opening it to reveal the coins he’d stolen back while Jock’s attention was on the fisticuffs. “But still faster than you.”
“Once again, you outwit me.” Jock laughed, not surprised to find his own hand emptied in the distraction.
Lachlan tossed a coin to the carter’s lad. “Get yourself a drink with that,” he said before turning back to Jock. “What brings the laird out to drink with the tearaways of the clan on a fine evening such as this?”
“I seek your counsel.”
“Then I shall provide it alongside two foaming tankards. Sit.”
A one armed man went to rise from the nearest table to make room but Jock shook his head. “You remain where you are, Harry. Any man who can slay six wolves and live to tell the tale deserves both his seat and his drink. I shall take the table over by the window.”
Harry nodded and returned to his ale. Jock made his way across the room to the window.
Lachlan returned from the kitchen a minute later with two tankards which he set down on their table.
“It’s a woman, isn’t it?” Lachlan said.
