“I’ve nothing to offer you, not a home nor a good name,” he said. “Just myself. But I was earnest about a wedding.”
“You are a meager prize, to be sure,” she said, pressing a cold kiss against his lips. “But fear not. I have something to offer you.”
“Oh?”
“I’ll give you the names of the guests at Lochurkie that night”—she wagged a finger at him—“on one condition.”
He frowned. “And what is that?”
“You must promise not to kill any of them.”
Staring at her beautiful face in the moonlight, Aiden knew he could never deny her anything. But he still protested. “One of them cost me everything. Harmed my kin in unspeakable ways, dishonored my name before the king, and put a barrier called the law between you and I,” he said. “Yet you expect me to spare him?”
“I simply ask that you let justice take its due course. Prove without doubt that this man is guilty. We both know that innocent people can be accused of crimes they did not commit.”
He kissed the top of her head.
“I will do everything in my power to honor your request. More than that I cannot promise.”
She nuzzled the skin at his neck, her nose cool against his throat. “That will do.”
Chapter 16
The corridor was ablaze with lit tapers, every nook and hollow illuminated, every colorful pennant and silken tapestry artfully displayed. Isabail resisted the urge to smooth imaginary wrinkles from her burgundy gown. She had walked these very halls of Edinburgh Castle once before—the year she’d been presented as Andrew Macintosh’s bride—but the circumstances today were much more challenging. Today, she had one chance to make everything right. Her words must be firm and persuasive, passionate and incontrovertible.
She must convince the king to pardon Aiden and return Dunstoras to the MacCurrans.
Not an easy task.
She paused before the iron-studded doors to the king’s receiving room. The guards on either side, aware that she was expected, stared straight ahead, expressionless.
“You’ll do fine, my lady,” whispered Cormac encouragingly. He stood several paces behind her, attired in an uncharacteristic velvet tunic. Green, of course. The bowman’s presence was comforting, but Isabail would have given anything to lean against Aiden’s strength at this moment, to lose her fears in the solid warmth of his embrace. An impossible wish, of course. He still had a price on his head.
Palms damp with sweat, Isabail adjusted the parchment in her hands.
With the help of her cousin Archibald, she had documented Daniel’s confession to killing John Grant. The words had seemed so perfect when she’d read them a few minutes ago, but now her belly quivered with uncertainty.
Footsteps echoed on the granite tiles behind the doors, and a moment later, the heavy oak panels swung inward. With a stately bow, the king’s hostariusushered her inside, the wave of his hand guiding her across the room to a rather simple wooden throne, upon which sat King Alexander. He wasn’t alone. At his right side stood Earl Buchan, the justiciar of Scotia, and next to him, the king’s bastard half brother, William Dunkeld. To the king’s left stood James Stewart, the high steward. None of them were smiling.
An intimidating group, to say the least.
Isabail crossed the room. She focused her gaze on the bearded face of King Alexander, telling herself the look in his brown eyes was kindly and welcoming. Her brother had been one of his favorite nobles; she had nothing to fear. Except failure.
As she neared, the king rose to his feet and stepped off the dais.
“Lady Isabail,” he greeted, grasping her hand in two of his and giving her a gentle squeeze. While not particularly tall, he had the quiet strength and easy confidence that only a man of royal birth possessed. “My condolences on the passing of your brother. He will be sorely missed.”
Isabail curtsied. “Thank you, Your Grace.”
“Lochurkie has informed me that you have a petition.”
Isabail nodded. “I do. But before I make any claim, my honor dictates you be informed of all that transpired in the past sennight.” She held out the parchment. “I was witness to a confession that may inform your decision against Laird MacCurran.”
The king took the letter, unfolded it, and began to read. When he was finished, he handed the parchment to the justiciar and turned back to her with a faint frown. “Based on this confession, I would willingly pardon the healer...”
“Ana Bisset,” offered the justiciar.
“Ana Bisset,” the king continued. “It would seem she was unfairly accused of murdering your brother.”
