Siren of the Highlands: Scottish Medieval Highlander Romance (Highlanders of Cherrythorn) Read online

  “All right then,” Fin said. “I’ll be back. Daenae do anythin’ stupid.”

  “Me?”

  “Aye. Ye.”

  Hollis chuckled as Fin turned and headed for the larder. He moved aside as a pair of liveried servants came bustling out, their arms loaded with burlap sacks of food stuff bound for the kitchen. Fin stepped in to find a tall man with thinning gray hair in the Duke’s livery counting items on the shelves and making notations on a piece of parchment attached to a writing board. When Fin walked in, the man gave him a once over.

  “Who’re you?” he snapped.

  “Me name’s Fin, Mr. White,” he introduced himself. “I’m ‘ere on the Duke’s bus’ness.”

  The man sighed and set his writing board down, his face pale and drawn as a look of sorrow crept into his eyes.

  “And a nasty business, that is,” he said. “The Duke’s a good man. Don’t deserve to have this happen to him.”

  “The physician says he should recover,” Fin informed him.

  “I’m glad to hear that,” he said. “Thanks be to God.”

  “Aye. Me tae,” Fin replied.

  “What can I do for you?”

  “I need tae know who handled the Duke’s wine b’fore he drank it.”

  The man sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Could’ve been anybody in the kitchens, to be honest,” he replied.

  “Coulda been but I daenae ken so,” Fin said. “But I want tae start with yer wine stewards and cupbearers.”

  The man shook his head. “All of them have been with us for years,” he said. “They’re good lads. Loyal to the Duke. All of them.”

  “Ye’ve nae ‘ad any new lads come tae work for ye?”

  The steward screwed up his face for a moment as if thinking and then turned to Fin.

  “Now that you mention it, we did take on a new cupbearer a few weeks back,” he said. “He is the son of one the household smithies.”

  “What’s ‘is name?”

  “Marcus,” he replied. “Marcus Long.”

  “And where can I find Marcus Long?” Fin pressed.

  “He is in the grand hall. I have him polishing the formal goblets,” he said. “You don’t really believe he could have something to do with this, do you?”

  “I daenae,” Fin said. “But I’ve some questions I need tae ask ‘im.”

  “He is a good lad,” he argued. “I can’t see--”

  “I’m nae sayin’ he’s involved,” Fin cut him off. “Nae yet. But I need tae ask ‘im some questions.”

  White seemed genuinely stricken by the idea that one of his charges could have been involved with the Duke’s poisoning. Though he seemed like he could be a harsh man to Fin, he seemed to genuinely care about the men who worked under him.

  “Tell me, what dae ye know about monkshood?” Fin asked.

  “Other than to say I know it isn’t a plant that can be used in cooking, not much I fear. My expertise is in baking and running an organized, disciplined kitchen,” he replied. “But there is an apothecary in the village outside the castle walls you can speak with. She will know far more than I.”

  Fin nodded. “I’ll dae that.”

  He studied Mr. White for a moment longer. He seemed an honest and forthright man. But did that mean he was not a man capable of slipping a dose of poison into the Duke’s wine? Or ordering somebody else to do it? Fin wasn’t sure, and though he did not detect any sort of deception, Mr. White would bear further scrutiny. But he wanted to question the cupbearer next as this Marcus had the most direct line to the Duke’s wine.

  “Thank ye,” Fin said. “I’ll go’n find Marcus now.”

  As Fin marched through the kitchen, Hollis fell into step beside him, munching on what looked like a sweet cake. Crumbs were stuck in the man’s beard, and Fin just shook his head.

  “Get yer fill did ye?” he asked.

  Hollis shrugged. “Nay. Ye werenae gone long ‘nough for that,” he said. “But it’ll tide me over for now.”

  The doors groaned, and the hinges squealed as they pushed through the doors and stepped into the grand hall. A young man of about eighteen or nineteen years was standing at the far end of the table and looked up as they approached, a nervous tremor passing across his face.

  Marcus was older than Fin had expected but still had a youthful air about him. He was tall and thin with narrow shoulders, long arms, and long, spindly fingers. He had dark eyes, a mop of shaggy, dark hair, and pale skin. He was antsy and shifted from foot to foot, doing his best to avoid looking at Fin, which put him on edge immediately.

  Fin stopped in front of Marcus and looked up him up and down, sizing him up. Hollis stood behind Fin, his arms folded over his chest, a fearsome look on his face, doing his best to silently intimidate the cupbearer.

  “Are ye Marcus Long?” Fin asked.

  “Y - yes, sir,” he replied.

  Fin narrowed his eyes and glared at him and took a step back. He looked nervous as if he was going to bolt from the hall.

  “Little old tae be a cupbearer, are yet not?” Fin asked.

  Marcus shrugged. “I used to work in the smithy with my father, sir,” he said. “But I am not cut out for that sort of work. I’m not strong enough, I fear.”

  Fin looked him up and down for a moment and nodded. He could see that. Smiths were big, brawny men, and Marcus was definitely not that. He probably was better suited to working in the household.

  “And how long’ve ye been workin’ in the Duke’s house?”

  “I’ve been a cupbearer for several months now, sir,” he replied.

  Better suited to be working in the house than the smithy or not, it seemed to Fin that it was a mighty big coincidence that shortly after Marcus started to work as a cupbearer, the Duke winds up poisoned. Fin had never been big on believing in coincidences. He didn’t think there was much that could not be explained by a more rational reason.

  He looked at Marcus closely and could see how twitchy the younger man was. He looked like a rabbit staring up at a hungry hawk that was circling above him. Fin thought the best approach would be straight forward and blunt. He thought he could rattle Marcus enough that he would trip over a lie and unintentionally reveal something to him...

  “What dae ye know ‘bout what ‘appened tae the Duke?” Fin asked.

  “I - I do not know anything, sir,” he replied.

  The young man looked ready to cry or run. Sweat beaded on his brow, and Fin thought he looked more nervous than he should have if he had nothing to do with the Duke’s poisoning.

  “Are ya sure ‘bout that?” Fin asked.

  “Y - yes, sir,” he stammered. “Very sure.”

  Fin wasn’t so sure about it, though. He knew he could be imposing and intimidating. He had scared more than a few lads in his day with nothing more than a hard gaze. But there was something about the kid’s behavior that wasn’t ringing true to him. He was too nervous, and it made Fin think he was hiding something.

  “Did ye dae it?” Fin asked. “Did ye poison the Duke?”

  “No, sir,” Marcus said. “I told you, I had nothing--”

  “Aye. I ken that’s what ye told me,” Fin cut him off. “But I ken ye know somethin’ ‘bout it. I can see it in yer eyes, boy.”

  Marcus looked around, his eyes sweeping the hall as if he was looking for the nearest exit. He seemed to be trying to decide whether or not to make a run for it while weighing the odds of whether or not he could get to the door before being brought down by Fin or Hollis.

  “What is it yer nae tellin’ me?” Fin pressed.

  He shook his head and would not meet Fin’s eyes. “There is nothing for me to tell you, sir. I swear it.”

  “I ken there is,” Fin pressed.

  Marcus paled before Fin’s eyes, and the fear on his face was palpable. There was something he was not telling Fin, and he got the idea that there was more happening than he was aware of. Marcus was afraid of something, but he knew it was not him. Oh, Fin thought he sca
red the boy plenty, but something else was going on, and Marcus knew what it was. Fin could practically smell it on him.

  “Did somebody make ye do it?”

  “I did nothing, sir.”

  His voice was trembling, and he swallowed hard again, which made Fin look at him harder. He was certain the boy wasn’t truthful. He had no proof of it, and it was nothing more than his instincts whispering to him. But his instincts had never led him astray before, and he had learned to rely on them. And, at the moment, Fin’s instincts were telling him that whoever it was that had put him up to slipping the poison to the Duke scared the boy more than he did.

  Fin stepped closer until he loomed over the boy. “I ken ye’re lyin’, lad,” he said. “Ye can either tell me who put ye up tae it or ye’re goin’ tae find yerself swingin’ at the end of a rope.”

  The boy licked his lips nervously and still refused to meet Fin’s eyes. “I - I don’t know anything, sir. Please, I don’t know anything.”

  “Enough!” Fin roared.

  Fin slammed his fist down on the table, making the goblets he’d been polishing tumble over. They rolled off the table and hit the ground with a resounding clatter that echoed around the hall.

  “Ye’re lyin’. I can see it in yer eyes,” Fin growled. “I’ll give ye this one last chance tae tell me the truth.”

  He shook his head, “Sir, I--”

  “That’s it.”

  He reached out and grabbed Marcus by the back of the neck and stared down into his eyes, letting the full weight of his looming presence sink in. The cupbearer just stared back at him, wide-eyed, lips quavering, his entire body trembling. Disgusted, Fin pushed the young man over to Hollis, who snatched him up by the back of the neck as Fin had.

  “Take ‘im out of ‘ere,” Fin growled. “Put ‘em in the keep’s dark cells ‘til we can figure out whether we want tae ‘ang ‘im or cut ‘is bleedin’ ‘ead off.”

  The boy squeaked as Hollis heled him fast, but said nothing. Fin called out for a pair of the Duke’s personal guards to come in and take the boy to the cells. As they waited, Fin glared hard at him, and Marcus turned away, refusing to meet his eyes. The guards took him by the arms and started to escort him away.

  “Last chance tae save yer life, Marcus,” Fin called after them. “Who put ye up tae poisonin’ the Duke?

  He shook his head and remained silent. Not even the threat of death was enough to make the boy speak. That told Fin whoever had threatened him had threatened to take more than just his life - perhaps the lives of his loved ones. And the boy knew whoever had put him up to it well enough to know that he could make good on his threat, too.

  “Ye’re nae actually goin’ tae have the lad executed are ye?” Hollis asked.

  Fin chuckled. “Nay. But it’ll be good for ‘im tae think so for a while,” he replied. “Maybe a night in the dark cells’ll loosen the lad’s tongue.”

  “I don’t know about that one,” Hollis observed. “He’s terrified of somethin’, and it ain’t us. Or at least, there’s somethin’ that terrifies ‘im more than us.”

  Fin nodded. “Aye. Had the same thought.”

  There was definitely something going on. Some bigger plan in motion, and it involved somebody that was truly frightening. At least to Marcus. It was intriguing and a good start. But nowhere near good enough. At least he had a direction to begin running in, though. He thought it was better than nothing.

  Chapter Three

  Ivy

  “I do not see why I must be here, brother,” Ivy complained. “You are the Baron of Elix, Castor. I am not.”

  “No, but you are part of my household,” he replied. “And as such, it is important we present a united family front as we express our condolences. It is a matter of politics, Sister.”

  They rode side by side on horseback, and Ivy sighed as she rolled her eyes. Her brother Castor was a calculating and ambitious man. Ivy knew that better than anybody. Elix was once a large barony, but their father’s taste for wine, women, and gambling had frittered it down to almost nothing. There was a time when it had nearly rivaled York in its grandiosity. But now, it was a shell of what it had once been.

  Ivy was content in Elix, though. She wanted for nothing, and there was still more than enough land to ride her horses through the countryside. What it lacked in size, she thought it made up for in beauty ten times over. She loved Elix and was happy there. Yes, their father’s proclivities and vices had whittled down what their barony had once been. But for her part, she would be happy there from now until the end of time.

  Castor, though, was obsessed with returning their barony back to what he called its “former glory.” Whatever that meant. It was not as if Elix was a center of art, culture, or science. Nor was it a barony coveted by many in London. Elix never had been nor ever would be sought out for political alliances or their favor. It was a large farming barony that, at one time, rivaled York - in terms of size. That was all it was - Elix’s lone claim to fame is that it once had nearly as much acreage as the Crown’s jewel in the north.

  But Castor, ever since they were children, had talked ceaselessly about restoring Elix’s glory and forging it into something new, something grand, and something not even their forefathers had ever envisioned, let alone achieved. Castor often traveled to London, though Ivy knew he was widely viewed as a fringe hanger-on by many in Court. Ivy believed she was held in more esteem by members of the Court than her brother.

  Castor, though, never passed up an opportunity to curry favor with the other nobles or attempt to ingratiate himself. Which was how Ivy found herself on the dry, dusty road to York. They had received word a couple of days ago that an attempt on the Duke’s life had been made, and his life hung by a precarious thread. Castor had seemed unusually energized by the news, and he had hastily put together an entourage to make the trip to York. They traveled under the pretense of expressing their sympathy and condolences, but Ivy saw it for what it was - yet another attempt to ingratiate himself to a powerful Lord.

  “Surely you, my soft-hearted sister, cannot object to looking in on a fallen ally and friend. To stand united with them,” Castor pressed. “We should offer our services to help track down whoever committed this fiendish act.”

  “A friend? When has the Duke ever counted you among his friends?” Ivy laughed.

  Castor glowered at her. “As a member of my household, you are expected to do your part to honor the Duke and help his household in this time of crisis.”

  “I am expected to participate in a system I am not permitted to take part in,” she mused, ignoring his obviously prepared remarks. “Yes, that sounds perfectly fair.”

  “Do not be sour,” Castor said. “It is unbecoming.”

  “Then how should I be, Brother?”

  “Gracious. Courteous,” he replied. “You should show yourself to be a proper lady and an upstanding member of my household.”

  “It is our household,” she rolled her eyes.

  “Oh, is it?” Castor asked. “Have they changed the laws to allow women to inherit title? Because last I checked, after father died, I became the new Baron of Elix.”

  Ivy feigned a yawn and effected a look of absolute boredom, which she knew got beneath her brother’s skin. His biggest flaw was that he desired to be taken seriously so badly, he was often boorish. Castor often seemed to her like a man standing in the middle of an open field shouting at the clouds in the sky.

  “The Duke has one living heir - his daughter Gillian,” she shot back. “And she stands to inherit title and land.”

  “Bollocks,” he snipped, casting a strange look at her.

  She knew she was poking the bear by continuing to argue, but ever since they were children, she sometimes enjoyed getting under his skin. Especially at times when he was taking himself too seriously. She thought of it as her attempt to keep him humble.

  “And unless her brother returns from exile - which he will not unless he desires to have his head off his shoulders - Gil
lian will be the heir to York,” she said.

  “A woman cannot inherit title,” he said. “And her husband, that filthy, jumped-up Scot the Duke raised to baron cannot inherit either.”

  “Col, I believe his name is, could inherit,” Ivy told him. “It would not be the first time a Scotsman was made an English noble - and vice versa. You really should have spent more time learning your history lessons, Brother.”

  “Rubbish,” he said. “It will never be allowed to happen.”

  Ivy shrugged. “Well then, Gillian has a claim as the last living heir of House Hamilton,” Ivy corrected him. “And lest you believe otherwise, there is precedent of women inheriting land and titles.”

  “Also rubbish,” Castor said.

  “Why are we even talking about this, Castor?” she asked. “It all seems quite premature, and frankly ghoulish, because the Duke still lives.”

  “You brought it up,” he noted with a shrug.

  “Actually, you did, Brother.”

  Castor cast an imperious and icy glare at her, ending the conversation. They rode on in silence for a while, and Ivy could feel her brother sulking. He had a very strong presence when he was pouting. Ivy had always enjoyed pouring cold water on her brother’s plans. But she did not do it to be cruel; she did it for a practical purpose. Her brother often dreamed up grandiose - yet ultimately unachievable - plans.

  He so desperately sought the approval and favor of those higher on the social ladder that it often made him behave recklessly and irrationally. So long ago, Ivy had taken upon herself to hit him with a dose of reality. She hoped that one day he would learn to love Elix just as it was and focus on building it up from within rather than trying so hard to curry favor with others. She hoped he would stop trying to mold himself into a prominent lord — something Ivy did not believe was ever likely to happen.

  “We are here,” Castor said as they approached the gates of York. “Please refrain from airing your grievances in front of the Duke’s household.”