WhoisMalcolm MacDowylt?
“Eric left at first light, taking three men along with him. They should reach MacKilyn Keep in two days’ hard ride to present yer petition for aid. Within a sennight you should have yer answer.” The voice of the man who’d kept to the shadows last night. “Unless the MacKilyn decides to drag his feet.”
“Aye. He’s an obstinate old bastard, that one. He kens he has us by the short hairs and I’ve no a doubt he’ll use that advantage to exact some sort of—”
Malcolm’s response came to an abrupt halt as she pushed the door fully open and entered to greet two sets of hardened eyes turned in her direction.
The owners of which were sadly mistaken if they thought to intimidate her with their stares. She could easily enough incinerate them both with a wave of her hand should she so choose.
And choose she might if the brazen young laird failed her test.
“Morning fare is served in the great hall, my lady, at the end of the corridor. Yer welcome to join those in attendance to break yer fast.” Malcolm looked from her to the door as he spoke.
Luckily for him, she’d spent lifetimes honing her tolerance for fools.
“It’s not my stomach that requires filling this morning, lad. It’s my ears. I’m ready for that chat we discussed last night.”
Did he pale at her words? His lips certainly tightened into a thin, straight line, and a look passed between him and the other man.
“Perhaps your guest would grant us time to discuss my daughter’s final days in privacy.” She waited, determined not to launch into the discussion in front of his man.
Again a look passed between the two men, this one alive in tension.
“I have no secrets from my brother, Patrick. He is as my right hand.”
His brother, was it? Had she paid more attention, she might have guessed as much from the similarities in their appearance. They were of a size, the two of them, both tall and well-muscled. Battle-hardened men, she’d guess, from the identical expressions they wore to mask the depth of emotions roiling behind their intense blue eyes.
Schooling her own expression to a matching blandness, she crossed the room and seated herself, taking extra care to assume an air of calm and control as she once again met their gazes.
“As you wish. But know this, young laird of the MacGahan, I expect your complete honesty, no matter who is in the room with us.”
His eyes flashed with what appeared to be an unguarded moment of anger before he caught himself and once again hid his emotion.
“I can assure you, my lady, that I am well past being a scholar at the master’s knee and I am always truthful.”
Malcolm’s clipped tones conveyed more of his emotion than she suspected he would have liked.
“To a fault,” his brother added.
“I’ll be the judge of that.” Elesyria glanced down to her hands clasped in her lap, marshaling her emotions for what she was about to ask. “I traveled to Castle MacQuarrie. I saw my daughter’s gravestone.” She paused, raising her gaze to meet his. “Are you responsible for her death?”
Pain leaked through the cracks in his mask. Pain and guilt, igniting her anger even as she caught scent of his emotions.
Let him try to deny it now.
The beast of retribution seethed in her heart, its deadly claws unsheathing, prodding her to her feet.
“Yes.” He spoke the word quietly.
“You are not!” Patrick was at his side, a hand to his shoulder. “I canna allow you to claim as much to her own mother. Yer no to blame for what happened, Colm. You did everything in yer power to see her away and on the path to her own happiness.”
Elesyria held her tongue as clouds of emotion rolled off the brothers, buffeting her senses. Patrick’s story matched what she had heard from the Tinklers. But if it were truth, why did she sense so much guilt from the man who’d married her daughter?
“No.” Malcolm shook his head slowly from side to side in denial of his brother’s defense. “Had I forced her to stay here, she would yet live. All of them would. Isabella, the man who held her heart, even the poor, wee deformed lad. I sent them to meet their deaths.”
Patrick turned from his brother, pounding a fist on the table next to him. “You allowed them to follow their own path. Who do you think you are? No even you could change what Skuld had woven for them.”
“Skuld?” Elesyria had held silent for as long as she could. “I thought you were Scotsmen. Highlanders.”
