Page 13 of Highlander’s False Identity

Thud! She landed on the cold hard floor of the Craig keep.

“Edme!” Beathan leaped up and was immediately at her side, crouching down to her. “Edme, wake up!”

Wallace hurried over to where she lay. “Give the lassie some air,” he said, shooing his son out of the way. Freya too crossed over to where the girl fell.

“Here.” The lady’s soft voice sounded soothing to her ears. Beneath her heavy aching head, she felt something soft and smooth. “Let her have this cushion,” Freya added, propping the girl up a little. “Now, bring me a cup of that caudle,” she instructed her servant.

But Beathan did not wait for the servant; he jumped up to fetch the drink himself.

Within seconds, Edme felt a cold metal goblet pressed to her lips, and a stout liquid hit her gullet, leaving a sweet burn.

As the warm beverage made its way down her throat, Edme’s eyes opened slowly, bringing the room blurrily into focus.

Beathan’s eyes were staring into hers, locking her in their grip. Gradually, she became aware that he was holding her, his arm upon her shoulder, pushing her up.

“Steady,” he said, as he supported her to a sitting position.

“Fetch a chair,” the laird summoned, and Edme heard quick footsteps go off in the direction of the door. A few moments later, a stool appeared, by the look of it, from the servants’ quarters. it was crudely fashioned, but Edme was grateful for it.

“Now then, are ye recovered, lassie?” asked Wallace carefully, as she readjusted herself on the wonky stool.

Edme simply nodded.

“So then, what can ye tell me about this letter from Dunmor, then?”

The laird’s voice was neutral now, not threatening or accusing, but his tone remained severe. From his position supporting Edme, Beathan watched closely.

“Tell me what happened between ye an’ Dunmor then,” he added.

Beathan watched as the girl blanched; the flush draining completely from her cheeks at the mention of his name. She cleared her throat and spoke.

“Dughall,” she spoke softly, making everyone in the room turn around. “His name’s Dughall, an’ I can tell ye that nothing he says is true!”

Beathan stirred. He felt sure in his heart that she was telling the truth, but all the same, he scanned her face intently.

“Go on,” prompted the laird.

“My brother is in league with the English. Ye must believe me, sir!” implored the girl, her eyes widening yet further.

“Really,” added Freya, now back in the large chair by the laird. “This surely cannot be the truth!”

Edme leaped up from her stool. “It surely is the truth, my lady! An’ if ye listen ye might ken how…,” the girl’s eyes darkened, and Beathan could see pain reflecting in their depths.

“Ye all kent my father, the Laird of McKinley,” she said to the assorted party. The laird nodded. “An’ that he passed away not long since…”

“Aye, yes,” he said briskly.

“We were very sorry to hear it,” Freya chimed in. “An’ I sent our condolences to the new laird, immediately,”

“Well, ye might have saved yer breath because it was Dughall who killed him!” she announced to their shocked faces.

“That’s quite an accusation. What have ye got to back it up, lass?” the laird asked, seriously.

Beathan observed his father’s face. He wondered just how fair a reception he would give the lass. After all, he knew something himself about family discord and what it was like to be at the center of a plot to overthrow a laird. Perhaps his experiences would allow him to show some compassion with the lass. However, from the hardening look on his face, Beathan was not sure.

Edme also was not immune to the expression on the laird’s face and faltered slightly in her explanation.

Then she calmed herself down, stroking an errant blonde hair as it strayed across her face. Beathan couldn’t help admiring the look of her, seated in the full glare of everyone in the room.