“If ye force me to live among so many, I will become the madwoman again. I canna face that. I’d rather be alone. Lonely.”
“Ye are already lonely. We both are. But not when we’re together. Can ye no’ feel it? Together, we can heal each other. I have tried to help ye. I will keep trying. No’ because the elders bade me do it. Because I wish to see ye well and strong, and aye, to be part of yer life. Will ye walk away from the chance to learn to defend yerself? Let me help ye.”
He meant every word, every syllable. He was so sincere, so intent, it pained her, even without his touch. What if he was right? Perhaps her best hope for a future free from loneliness—or madness—lay with him. And truly, what choice did she have?
“If I agree, ye must leave me be until I am ready. I...I need time.”
“I will.” His simple declaration held the ring of truth.
Coira nodded, praying she wasn’t about to make another mistake. “Then I will return with ye.”
Logen’s relief washed over her like a summer tide, warm and comforting, full of promise.
****
During that week, Logen did his best to let Coira do what she would without pressure from him. If she needed him, she knew where to find him. He observed her in various places around the keep, always busy with different people. He surmised she continued her attempts to make friends, and worked to strengthen her barriers while she was at it. But he hoped she also used her awareness to search for the troublemakers in the clan, which was precisely what he needed her to do.
Logen certainly wasn’t making any headway. True, several meetings with the elders had gone smoothly—or as smoothly as possible when they were spent hammering out discrepancies he’d found in the clan’s ledger. No one had reached for weapons, so he considered those sessions successful. If he managed to resolve even the most minor inconsistencies he’d uncovered, he would be relieved. But since several more meetings would be needed to clear away the rest of his issues with the clan’s resources, and how they’d been squandered over the past four years, the use of weapons was still not out of the question. Determining who had been responsible for some missing funds under the previous lairds likely would expose even more problems and certainly would ruffle more feathers. If he hoped to strengthen his position as laird, he must also keep discord to a minimum. Worry over how he would accomplish that and still get to the information he required kept him up at night.
He allowed his gaze to roam over the keep as he walked the battlements, then stopped to regard a group of men standing outside the smithy. He’d gotten to know them all in the two years since he’d returned to the clan. But how well? That hadn’t mattered until his life depended on it. Until his election, he’d spent most of his time away at sea with their small fishing fleet. Now, most of Logen’s old friends were dead—lost at sea, lost at Flodden, lost in the clan’s in-fighting. A lucky few had married out of the clan. Only one or two remained whom he might trust—and then only with one eye open at all times.
His had a short list of suspects, but he could not guarantee it would stay that way. Archibald, the man who led the fishing fleet, was on it. He’d been on board the day Logen had been assisted into the shallow water. Had he set up the accident? Was the problem limited to one—or several—of the other men on board that day? He’d already questioned the ones he recalled being on deck. Of course, they all professed innocence. At least one of them lied, but Logen needed a talent like Coira’s to identify which one—assuming the man felt any remorse about what he’d done.
Logen didn’t want Coira directly involved yet, not until he confirmed his suspicions, and not until she had learned to defend herself against others’ feelings. And, not until she’d had more time to gain allies among the clan. If someone exposed the secret of her ability, she would need them.
Then there was Darach. Once, long ago, they had been friendly. Close to the same age, they’d trained as lads under the same arms master before Logen had been fostered away. But Logen’s best friends and Darach’s best friends were two different sets, so in the way of young lads, they’d passed some time together only in group activities—meals, training, schooling, the kirk.
Darach, former playmate, was now the arms master. He’d be a formidable opponent in a fight, but, so far, “accidents” seemed the succession method of choice.
As if thinking about him summoned the man, Darach stepped out of the keep. Logen considered confronting him as he watched him cross the bailey. Why not? It had to be done, sooner or later. Before he could reconsider, Logen descended the steps down to the bailey and hailed his quarry.
“Aye,” Darach answered, approaching him. “What do ye need?”
Logen studied him for a moment. Darach was battle-hardened, though not at Flodden. In the time Logen had been gone, the clan had fought many skirmishes with other clans along the coast—McColls, Stewarts, and Campbells—with greater success than the king had enjoyed on the Borders.
“How long have ye been the clan’s master at arms?”
“Seven years. Why do ye ask?”
“Why did the auld laird no’ take ye with him to fight with the king at Flodden?”
Darach frowned. “He left me in charge of the keep. Had he taken all his best men, who would have kept MacDugall safe from raiders?”
Logen nodded. A reasonable answer. “And when he and the men with him didna return?”
“Connal became laird, as was his right. Too bad he was too weak for the job.”
“How do ye mean?” Did he hear satisfaction in Darach’s tone? Alert for trouble, Logen glanced around, but they didn’t seem to be attracting much notice from anyone passing by. Their voices were low and their tones, up to now, had remained cordial.
“Ach, he’d barely sprouted a hair on his chin. The wolves started circling him the day we got the news.”
“Which wolves?”
“Well now, as I recall, most of them are gone. Each time the leader of the pack changed, men died.”
To Logen, it seemed Darach’s tone hardened with that statement. He paused, frowning, as he considered his response. He could think of nothing to say that would avoid the coming confrontation. He needed to know if he could trust this man. “Then who’s the surviving wolf? Ye?”
“Me?”
