Marjorie smiled and wound her finger around one of her chestnut curls. “Will ye agree to do what I tell ye?”
“Tell me.”
She gave out a little sigh. The instant she didn’t need MacRae anymore she would have him killed. “I found a letter she wrote to my husband.” She looked around conspiratorially. “In it she is utterly repentant fer killing a man.”
The oaf didn’t seem surprised. But he was curious. “Whom did she kill?”
“Roderick MacDonald, Clan Chief of the MacDonalds of Glencoe.”
He thought about it for a moment and then his face drained ofcolor. “The mighty chief Roderick MacDonald who wath felled by a mere gel? Talth are still told about that child. She ith hailed by many to be more of a hero than a murderer.”
“Not a hero to any MacDonald,” Marjorie assured him. “Remember the Camerons and the MacDonalds are kin. So anyone who kills a MacDonald is the Camerons’ enemy. Tell the Chattan about Ismay and her whereabouts. Tell them how much danger she is in from the Camerons. They will try to rescue her. Ye are to let them so ye can marry her. If ye canna wait fer the money and want to see her dead, ye have to marry her first in front of witnesses. Do ye understand? That is the only way to get the inheritance.”
“I underthand.” MacRae lifted his hands in surrender. “Ath long ath I dinna have to be near him.”
Marjorie looked him over with his purple, swollen face and wanted to laugh at him. “Do ye truly think he would kill ye? Another Highland chief? Would he risk another feud fer her?”
“I’ve nae doubt he would kill me,” MacRae told her and shivered as if a cold breeze blew through him. “I felt hith affection fer her with every punch.” He stopped for a moment, then smiled. “And if hith heart ith gone to her, I may wed her and then have her and make him watch.”
Marjorie wanted to scorn him openly. He was such an unpleasant, rash young man. She covered her mouth with her hand and laughed at how he sounded without his teeth and a broken jaw. “Ye are too eager, Chief,” she said to cover her amusement at how the Lochiel had left him. The Lochiel. Marjorie ground her jaw. Why him? She’d heard of him, everyone had. He was a deadly ghost, killing without mercy or remorse. He did all to keep his kin fed and protected. He was a dreaded enemy, leaving Oliver Cromwell’s army rotting dead on the fields where they fought, or left alive at various castles they had taken hold of just so the Cameron chief had enemies to fight when the moodstruck him.
And this complete fool before her thought nothing of making the Lochiel his enemy…and hers, as well.
“Chief, if ye intend to torture her in the sight of such a man as Constantine ‘the Ghost’ Cameron, best make certain to kill him if he cares fer her as ye say he does. Be prepared to kill all his men as well. Everyone at Tor Castle, in fact. I’m told he is well-loved among his kin. Ye would be wise to wed her quickly and take her away. Forget him. Use her fer yer pleasure until she perishes, I dinna care. Just procure that purse.”
The fool seemed to be thinking about it. Marjorie rolled her eyes heavenward. “Chief, if ye are going to visit the Confederation, ye should be on yer way.”
She didn’t offer him a smile when he rose and left. Och, had he truly been her only option in searching for a husband for Ismay? She sighed and climbed the stairs to her rooms. Thanks to her dead husband telling her suitors lies, no eligible man, young or old, wanted a wife who didn’t cook or clean, had a vile temper, and sores that sometimes broke out over her body. John was clever—and eager to make his wee Ismay happy. If she didn’t want to marry, he made sure she was rejected by all.
MacRae hadn’t wanted her either until Marjorie told him her plans for Ismay’s inheritance. She didn’t worry if he refused to give Marjorie her share. He would be dead before then.
Inside her sitting room, she paced before a bench facing the hearth. Hanging on the wall above it was a painting of her and John standing behind a chair, where a little fire-haired gel sat like a queen on her throne.
Marjorie reached for an empty goblet on the table beside the bench and threw it as hard as she could at the little brat.
John never told her the child he brought into their home was a murderer. She could have killed Marjorie at any time. “I will never fergive ye fer that, John. I will never fergive ye fer leaving everythingto her!” she seethed at the painting. “I’m happy ye are finally dead. If that brat of yers ever steps into this house…my house, I will kill her, just as I killed ye.”
*
Constantine stood beforeFather Langley MacDonald, Tor’s resident priest and cousin to almost everyone living there. He repeated what the priest asked him to say. But he barely heard his own words. He was marrying again. He wasn’t mad, nor was he riddled with guilt. He was too in love with Ismay Drummond to think of anything else. He didn’t need a priest to tell him he was Ismay’s husband. The night he had first claimed her, he was hers. Aye, only death could separate them, and even then he would fight without ceasing to stay by her side.
He became aware of her delicate voice. She was declaring her heart to him.
“I promise to love only ye.”
He slid his gaze to her. His heart quickened inside him. It made him cough. It helped keep tears from filling his eyes. At the thought of tears, he scowled.
His beloved Ismay immediately appeared upset by his expression. He realized what he was doing and slew his scowl. “I promise to love only ye,” he let her know with a tender smile.
She giggled. “Ye already promised that. Are ye paying attention?”
He laughed with her and shook his head. “I’m too stunned that ye have agreed to never leave me.”
“Until death do ye part,” his cousin, Father Langley tossed in.
“We will never be parted,” Constantine told her in his most needful voice.
Ismay smiled at him as if she didn’t hear the messenger running, breathless, into the inner court shouting he hadnews from the Chattan Confederation.
