He gave her a solemn look. “I don’t know.”
Duncan paused outside the door, listening for any sound that might indicate that all the occupants of the keep weren’t tucked safely away in their beds. But the soft crackle of the dying fire was the only sound to disturb the empty black void of night.
Still he hesitated. He hated that it was necessary to do this, hated the need for subterfuge. Sneaking about in the middle of the night was not his way. But he’d waited as long as he could. He could delay no longer.
What had he been waiting for?
Jeannie.Part of him had hoped that she would change her mind about helping him.
He bit back the wave of disappointment. Maybe he was a fool, but after Ella’s wee hunting adventure and Jeannie’s near disastrous attempt to find her, he’d allowed himself to think that she’d softened toward him. That maybe, just maybe, she would confide in him what she knew.
That he wouldn’t need to sneak into the laird’s solar to look through her dead husband’s papers because she would show him herself.
He’d thought she’d been about to offer her help, but something had stopped her. Loyalty to her family? To her husband? Or something else?
He didn’t know, but he’d waited as long as he dared. Every day he lingered put him in greater danger of discovery.
And with what had happened this morning, Duncan knew his time was running out. The proverbial dogs had been unleashed and the hunt was on.
He’d sent Conall to Inverness to check for a response to the message he’d sent Lizzie at Dunoon Castle earlier this week, asking for her help and instructing her to leave word for him at an inn. Fortunately, his men were well trained and Conall had smelled the trap. From an alehouse across the way, he’d spotted soldiers beneath the battered plaids meant as a disguise.
Duncan frowned. Someone must have intercepted his note; his sister would never betray him. But who? Colin was the captain of Dunoon Castle. Had his brother sent soldiers after him? After Colin’s help in seeing him safely away ten years ago, Duncan didn’t want to think it possible. But in the notes he’d received from Lizzie over the years, he’d sensed her growing distance from Colin. It was Jamie she admired, Jamie she trusted, Jamie she begged him to talk to. Though Argyll was usually at Inveraray this time of year, he supposed there was always the possibility it had been his cousin.
Whoever it was, what mattered was that his return was no longer a secret. He was now the hunted. Wherever he went, he would need to be very careful. In the alehouse Conall also had heard that rumors of the Black Highlander’s return were spreading across the countryside. Once word reached Aboyne, it wouldn’t take the Marchioness long to figure out his identity. Though the way she watched him, he wondered if she already had. He couldn’t risk staying around to find out.
They would leave tomorrow.
Originally, he’d planned to go to Freuchie Castle, but now it would be too dangerous. With rumors spreading of his return, he knew the Grant’s stronghold would be one of the first places they looked. They would guess Duncan was looking for a way to clear his name. Only Lizzie knew of his connection to Jeannie, but with the Marchioness he couldn’t risk staying any longer.
Over the years Lizzie had begged him to go to Jamie and it looked like he had no other choice. But he sure as hell wished he had something more to give his younger brother than his word.
He’d searched the laird’s solar the night before he’d fallen ill and found nothing. But the very fact that he’d come across no personal correspondence at all had bothered him. When Jeannie had brought him in here the other day, his eye had caught on an oddity in the wood paneling of the walls near the fireplace—a gap in the carving, almost undetectable. The back of his neck had prickled, wondering if the rumors of a secret chamber were true. Before becoming part of the Gordons’ holdings, Aboyne Castle had once been in the possession of the Knights Templar and rumors of a secret “monk’s room” had circulated for years.
Carefully, he opened the door and slid into the solar. With no windows the inner-chamber was pitch-black except for the soft orange glowing embers of the fire. It took him a moment to find a candlestick, but with a few puffs of air he managed to light it.
Even with the candle, however, he needed time for the flame to gather strength and his eyes to adjust. When he could see well enough to get around, he headed straight for the incongruity in the wood paneling he’d noticed near the fireplace. His fingers slid over the place where the two pine planks abutted, feeling not only a distinct gap but that one side was raised slightly. He followed the gap around the top and knew it was a hidden panel—in this case a door. There had to be a way to pop it open. Perhaps the fireplace?
He tried pressing the rosettes, the vines, the shells—any part of the relief. Then he methodically started searching for any moving part…nothing. He was about to take out his dirk and pry the damned thing open, when he decided to reach around inside the fireplace itself and struck gold. He pulled a small wooden lever and heard the distinct pop.
A small door—about four feet high by three feet wide—opened. Holding the candle into the dark space, he could just make out the stone walls of a narrow passageway. From the dank smell and the layers of cobwebs and dust, it looked like it hadn’t been used in some time. Fortunately, however, it was tall enough for him to stand in.
After ducking through the door, he allowed his eyes to adjust for a moment before he carefully stepped forward. He was glad he did, as the floor suddenly became stairs. He realized he must be in a hollow section of the outer wall of the castle. The stairs seemed to go down forever. When he reached the bottom, he realized he was below ground because he was no longer seeing stone under foot, but dirt. The ceiling was also much lower and he was forced to duck as he walked through a tunneled passageway for about ten feet. Suddenly the tunnel gave way to a small chamber—if the old alter table in the center of the room was any indication, he’d found the monk’s room.
But if the layer of dust on the table and handful of chairs scattered about the room was any indication, it hadn’t been used as such in a very long time. Taking advantage of the two candelabrums that still held candles, he significantly improved the lighting.
Not wasting any time, he started looking in any place that might hold documents. He noticed a drawer in the alter table, and opened it to see it stuffed with papers. His pulse sped up, certain that he was about to find something important. He removed piece after piece of parchment, reading as fast as he could, quickly discarding the more recent documents to get to those from ten years ago. There were correspondence between Francis Gordon and nearly every laird in the Highlands, but nothing to do with him or Glenlivet. A short while later Duncan found himself staring at the wood plank of the bottom of the drawer.
He couldn’t believe it. He’d been so certain. Maybe Jeannie was right. Maybe her husband had nothing to do with what happened to him.
As he replaced the papers where he’d found them and closed the drawer, he felt the distinct prickle of guilt. Should I have trusted her?
His instincts rarely failed him. His gaze scanned the room and landed on a trunk, tucked into a small alcove in the wall. Lifting the top, he found himself staring at a thick stack of parchment.
Every nerve ending stood on edge. This was it. He removed the papers and began to read.
Near the bottom he found the missing map, creased where it had been folded in ninths. Parts of the wax still remained where it had been sealed closed, and scribbled on the back in one of the boxes created by the folds was a note:
This came to me unexpectedly. Consider it a betrothal gift.
