Page 60 of A Dangerous Highland Affair

“An’ now, suddenly they’re dead,” she finished for him.

Lorcal turned to look at her. He nodded sadly.

“An’, an,’” she muttered, but Lorcal butted in.

“Aye, an’ not all o’ them are folks ye’d expect to wind up dead,” he said, thoughtfully.

At this remark, Teasag gave him a strange look.

Glancing out of the window, Teasag could finally see the silvery moon, casting its somber rays over the landscape.

“Nae, I mean, they’re just strange; the first man to be downed was McTaggart, an eccentric auld farmer who didnae like the laird much. Well, perhaps ye might think he would have a foe or two, an’ possibly so might have McAllister—the laird’s last right-hand man—that is, the first one, anyhow…” he began, then gave a pause.

“But then, the next one wasn’t the type ye might have thought would gather a lot o’ enemies at all…” Lorcal continued. “Duncan, one o’ the commanders for the laird…,” he drifted off, thoughtful. “An’ it’s so recent that folk are still reeling from the shock!”

Teasag listened, wondering to herself why Neacal, of all people, would want to kill such a strange mix of people. Or, indeed, even want to kill anyone at all.

“But he was the quietest, most unassuming man in the whole o’ the clan. I cannot believe he ever made a single enemy in his life, so why anyone would want to kill him, I dinnae ken…”

By now, Lorcal’s words had dwindled away to nothing, and he faded away, becoming stilled by the fire.

Tenderly, Teasag placed her hand on his shoulder, giving it a little twitch. Softly, her brother’s head fell on top of it, emitting a low-level snoring.

“Listen, I should leave ye in peace,” said Teasag, finally, getting up to move to the bed.

Although her brother had not said very much, he had given enough away to clarify that all was not well in the clan. But Teasag was now hungry for more details.

To nudge him along, she gave a little prompt. “So, then, is there anyone ye think who did this? The laird must have some idea?”

Teasag smiled at him. She was now wrapped up in at least two humungous patchwork blankets and trying her hardest to sound casual while aching to know all the gossip about Neacal.

“Nae, nae really, He doesnae really ken anything, that’s why it’s all such a mess…” said Lorcal, despondently. Then he piped up. “Although his second in command seems to have a few leads,” he added, thoughtfully.

“They seem to be pretty sure it’s that young vagabond in the center of the forest, noo,” said Lorcal, his light blue eyes darting about madly.

At the sound of young vagabond, Teasag’s eyes widened visibly.

“Och, an’ who might that be?” she said, as innocently as possible.

“Ah, just some lad, the local ne’er do well. Well, the laird’s right-hand man, ye ken, Marcas…,” he broke off for a moment, looking at her sleepily. Then he threw his hands around and waved clumsily. “Ah, ye dinnae ken him, do ye, I mean, he’s only arrived on the scene since ye left….”

“Marcas,” repeated Teasag, unsurely. A light went on in her brain. She had heard that name before. Sure enough, thinking back to the confusion of the afternoon and the chase that had ensured on the road to the village, she recalled Neacal saying that name—or something that sounded remarkably like it.

“Aye, like I said, ye dinnae ken him, anyhoo, he is the one in the ken about these things, so if he says it’s this lad, then I suppose it is, but,” here, Lorcal broke off again, rubbing the side of his head, slowly. “But it does seem a wee bit odd, the lad’s a petty thief an’ a brigand, but I didnae have him doon as a killer. Still, ye dinnae ken, I suppose!”

Teasag listened carefully, her heart pounding with every word. It was true that she didn’t know Neacal very well, but even so, she had found it impossible to believe that he was a killer.

And now it seemed as if Lorcal was having trouble believing it too. Closely, she scrutinized his face, all screwed up, contemplating what he had said.

“Here,” said Lorcal slowly, now coming over to her, carrying the heavy candlestick from the center of the mantel. Teasag noted that it now had gained a candle, now lit and flickering wildly in the dying light. Lorcal brought it over and placed it by the side of the patchwork bed she was cozying into.

“Aye,” he said, setting down the burning candle, then he paused, consideringly. “Aye, it does seem kind of odd that a chancer like that would want to kill someone so high up in the clan,” he said, lingering a while near her, his fingers drumming nervously against the heavy candlestick.

“Mm,” said Teasag, in the most noncommittal tone she could muster.

Then Lorcal brightened again. “Well, anyhoo, ye should get some rest,” he said, touching her on the sleeve, before turning to find his own bed, tucked into the opposite corner of the cabin.

He had barely put his head back on the straw mattress when Teasag heard him snoring. Lying there in the semi-dark, back in the same bed she had slept in as a child, a deep feeling of sadness came over her.