“No, it’s me,” he chokes out. “I’m the one?—”
I can’t take it. A scream rips out of me, raw and blood-curdling. “STOP!”
Silence fills the room.
Even Callum goes still.
I jerk my chin from Donag’s grasp, ignoring the burn of fingers still tangled in my hair, and force my gaze to the laird. My hands tremble, my body shakes.
This is it. The last thing I have.
“I told you I’m from far away,” I whisper. “And it’s true. My home is far away in place…and time. I don’t know how it can be, but I’m…I’m Janet’s daughter. I’m a Campbell.”
Men start hollering over me—lies, guilty bitch, MacGregor scum—but I don’t pay attention. I stare only at the Campbell, surprised by his steady assessing gaze on me.
“Enough,” he thunders. “Let her speak.”
I wrench free, and tears prick my eyes as more of my hair is left tangled in Donag’s fingers.
“Get up,” he orders me. “What have you to say about Janet?”
I quickly scrub at my face. “I don’t know how, but it’s true. I’m her daughter. I have proof.” Hands trembling, I reach under my bodice and pull the ring from around my neck, handing it to him. “This was my mother’s.”
Campbell angles it toward the firelight, going rigid withrecognition. “My Janet’s betrothal ring.” He stares at me. “How did you get this?”
“The lass stole it,” Donag shouts. “She killed your Janet and took the ring off her body. She’s to blame for Janet’s disappearance.”
The room explodes again. Callum rages at Donag, while men rage at the laird, demanding my punishment.
“I’m her daughter,” I say, but my words are lost in the melee.
Campbell hushes the crowd, his nostrils flared and cheeks purple with rage.
I’m in it now. All I can do is speak the truth. “Janet is alive. And I’m her daughter.” I repeat and raise my voice over the din, getting the words out as quickly and steadily as I can. “My mother was—is—difficult. She likes to wander through the woods. She’ll disappear for hours at a time. She hates currants. And carrots, too, except when they’re raw, then she can’t get enough. She soaks her oats in sheep’s milk,” I add with a shudder, “unless the sheep is black, which she says invites bad luck.”
Some in the room are shouting that anyone could know these things, and yet a light gleams in the Campbell’s eyes. He’s not shutting me up, which means something about this is ringing true. I wrack my brain for every tidbit I can remember.
“She’s got the biggest sweet tooth,” I say, speeding up, “and will make these disgustingly sugary things she calls clootie dumplings and insists on eating them for breakfast. But she refuses to eat sausage, or bacon, or pork of any kind because she says she once saw a pig eat its own shit. She loves porridge, but only for lunch, and not if it’s overcooked. And the thing is, she gets away with all of this. You’d thinkthe universe revolves around her. She’s spoiled. So spoiled. She drives me nuts, but I’d never kill her. She gave me this ring. Said it was a gift from her ‘lord.’ Her ‘beloved oldbodach.’”
Everyone gasps in outrage as I stumble over that last word, but not the laird. He laughs, and it’s not just a regular laugh—it’s a deep, rolling boom erupting from deep in his belly.
Encouraged, I half smile, half cry as I finish, “I thought she was only looking out for herself. I didn’t know. How could I?” I peter out with one final, quiet thought. “How could I have imagined any of this?”
“How indeed. None knew her name for me.” His gaze goes distant, his voice the barest whisper repeating, “Bodach.”
Refocusing, Campbell stands, and I brace myself as he studies me. His expression is unreadable, like he might hug me or strangle me, and I wouldn’t know which until it happened.
“How?” he asks again. “You get to the heart of my Janet. Aye, mayhap you helped kidnap her, but how then would you ken the clootie dumplings? She was pampered, but proud. And the black sheep…och.” A half laugh escapes him. “Not even the servants know of such things. Superstitious girl, but proud too. She’d not have told a soul.”
He takes my chin in his hand and turns my head from side to side. His touch is soft as he whispers, “You have the look of her. I recognized it from the first. You’re the same age as she, and yet I’d swear you were her child. Were it not for your eyes, which favor—” He grunts, tossing away my chin like I’ve burned him.
I hear his unspoken thought:Gregor MacGregor.
“What witchcraft is this?” he demands.
Seeing her chance, Donag bursts forward. “Don’t trust her. She’s the witch. You shan’t suffer a witch to live.”
Callum’s gaze swings to Donag. “How could you say that? You who—” His voice breaks. Callum is nothing if not loyal. Steadfast and true. His voice cracks into a whisper as he finishes, “You, on whose shoulders this blame lies.”
