Fletcher shook his head. “Perhaps I should keep it, in case something changes…”
“Ye’re daft.” Jamie stripped the document from Fletcher’s hands and looked it over through narrowed eyes. Both signatures were bold and sure, revealing no sign of hesitation by either party to agree to the terms. The seals were affixed beneath the inked names. It was as official as it could get. Jamie’s stomach soured. “How could ye?” He started reading from the top. “Ach, aye, I see. MacGregor is prepared to pay ye handsomely for the hand of yer only child. ’Tis good to ken her worth to ye.” He put all the contempt and derision he could summon into his voice. “Why do ye still have this? I would think ye’d be eager to collect the bride price and be gone from here.”
Fletcher’s eyes never left the document as he pulled it from Jamie’s grasp. “Something held me back. I do listen to her, ye ken. And then he threatened her…”
Jamie frowned. “As long as it exists, he could yet force ye to honor it. So burn it.”
Fletcher moved like a man on the way to the gallows, so slowly, Jamie wanted to take the agreement again and throw it into the flames for him. But nay, it wasn’t his to do.
Fletcher dropped it into the hearth fire, where it caught immediately. The edges blackened and curled. The wax seals melted and ran, then flared up.
Jamie breathed a sigh of relief as it went up in flames.
“So goes my hope for a stronger future for my clan. On a pyre,” Fletcher muttered so softly, Jamie barely heard him. Louder, he said, “Though I told MacGregor I didna believe we could come to an agreement, I held out faint hope. Fool that I am, I held out hope.” He turned back to Jamie. “But ye ken I sent Uilleam to Fletcher to ensure MacGregor had no’ already taken it from me?”
Jamie canted an eyebrow. Was this Fletcher’s idea of an olive branch? “He wouldna say, but I suspected as much.”
“I am no’ the heartless fool ye have thought me to be.”
Jamie found he could grant the man some measure of compassion, now the contract was in ashes. “Glad I am of that.”
Fletcher waved him away. “I’ll bring only what I can carry under a cloak.”
Jamie nodded and left Fletcher to his preparations. The hardest, most dangerous task required before their leave-taking remained to Jamie. How to get Caitrin’s copies of MacGregor’s documents out of his solar without being caught?
****
Alasdair MacGregor studied the man before him. Head bowed, hands behind his back, he knew how to appear harmless, subservient, non-threatening. Just as he knew how to lie. He was quite good at lying, in fact.
“They plan to bring her to the croft,” he said. “As soon as I ken it, ye will as well. I’ll see she is no’ harmed.”
“How do ye plan to do that?”
“They dinna ken me well, but they trust me. They trust us. We willna fail ye.”
Alasdair narrowed his eyes. Was he a fool to trust a liar? “For yer sake, and hers, ye’d best be right. I have plans for the lass.”
The man dipped his chin even further, never having lifted his head to look directly at his laird. He was powerless. Except for the favor Alasdair showed him now and again for keeping his laird informed. Trust was his only currency, and it was counterfeit.
But he knew what would happen if he ever lied to his laird. The consequences would be painful for him, enjoyable for his laird.
Alasdair knew how to make his discipline long-lasting. He’d had years of practice drawing out his own pleasure, and looked forward to many more, especially once he got Lady Fletcher to wife and under his control.
Should he go on as his father and uncle had done? Why not?
In the meantime, the man before him would deliver on his promises or face the consequences. Aye, painful. Long-lasting. And fatal.
Chapter Eighteen
Jamie headed to the great hall. He hoped to find the rest of his men, but more than anything, he wanted to be seen in the hall. That way, if MacGregor asked later, someone would tell him Jamie had been there and not elsewhere in the keep.
Two of his men sat near the fire. He quietly gave them their orders and sent them to prepare. Then he settled into one of their seats, planning to spend a few minutes. Lady MacGregor surprised him by taking the seat opposite.
“Jamie Lathan, I have had little opportunity to speak with ye,” she commented as she arranged her skirts to her liking. “I hope ye have succeeded in yer mission here. Caitrin Fletcher is a lovely lass.”
Jamie called on years of practice to keep his expression amiable and his posture relaxed. Could Alasdair’s mother truly be so ignorant of her son’s proclivities? Caitrin had said she knew. Did she simply refuse to believe?
“Aye, she is,” he said, as noncommittal as he could manage to be. If her son sent her to see if anything unusual was going on—like preparations to leave—he must appear relaxed and ready to spend the day with her.
