She wondered if she should tell Nicholas, but he probably didn’t care about his knight’s love affairs. She wandered over to her cabinet. Someone had dumped her untouched wine from yesterday. The goblet was clean and sitting with its mates on the silver tray. Had that been the last thing Aileen had done before she’d decided to take her own life?
Gillian sighed, wondering why it bothered her so much. She didn’t know the lass or how things worked at Kincreag. Sir Evan was right, she should stick with what she knew. Her hand slid into her pocket to remove the doll she’d placed there earlier, but it was gone. Her pocket was empty.
13
Several days later Gillian decided it was time to see more of Kincreag, and she asked Sir Evan to escort her to the village. With a handful of men-at-arms they spent hours picking their way down the mountain path, only for Gillian to discover there was little to see. It was bigger than Glen Laire’s wee hamlet, but it was still small, like most Highland villages. Gillian had grown spoiled living in the Lowlands, with Edinburgh not far, as well as several other large towns where merchants gathered weekly. Sir Evan informed her that merchants came to Kincreag quarterly and set up a great fair, so she shouldn’t fash overmuch. Their visit caused much excitement in the village. Everyone turned out to have a look at the new countess, and she was presented with a basket of fruit and a goat.
On the return journey Gillian casually asked Sir Evan to point out the spot where the late countess had fallen—ostensibly to avoid that spot herself, but intruth, it was just her morbid curiosity, worse now with the possibility of a ghost lingering about.
Sir Evan looked at her sharply, then said, “Not here . . . on the north side of the castle. There the wall is built verra close to the cliff edge, but there’s a walking path. You can get to it through a postern door.”
“Did she walk there often?”
He shook his head grimly. He’d become even more taciturn with her today. His sharp eyes were watchful as he hurried them along, making certain they passed through the gates of Kincreag before dusk. He dismounted in the courtyard and led Morfran beside the west gatehouse tower. He then sent someone to fetch her a step. Gillian didn’t really need the step to dismount but it was a very fine step, made especially for her by the master of horse. It had been presented to her with such pride that she really had no choice now.
A minute or two passed, then Sir Evan sighed. “A moment, my lady, I’ll get the step myself.”
Gillian watched his retreating back. He was exceedingly impatient today, snapping orders at the men. She wondered if she’d made him late for a tryst in the ghost wing.
The clear warm day was passing into a fine evening. Gillian sat comfortably in her saddle, watching the courtyard activity. Her goat was led around the side of a building, and a young girl lugged the basket of fruit inside. A frigid chill abruptly settled over Gillian, as if she’d just stepped into a dank, close cellar. The air stirred around her, gathering, pressing in so she felt as if her stays were too tight, her face covered with a snugveil. Her gasping breath came out a white plume of frozen air. She gazed at it in astonishment, but no one else noticed as they bustled about their duties. Her hair crackled, and a peculiar energy pressed in on her, humming over her skin. Gillian put her hand to her head and found the loose wisps of her hair standing straight out, as if reaching for something. Before she could study this phenomenon closer, pain stabbed through her temples, blinding her, and a scream rent the air around her.
Gillian squinted her eyes open, the dying light piercing them. She caught sight of several people stopped, transfixed by something above her, mouths open. Her eyes fixed on Earie—the one who’d screamed—pointing above Gillian, fist in mouth. Something slammed into Gillian’s back. She sprawled forward over Morfran’s withers. He shrieked and bolted. Gillian clung to the horse’s mane as he raced around the courtyard, rearing up as people rushed out to stop him. She tried desperately to catch her breath as the pain in her temples faded to a dull throb.
She scrambled for the reins, then pulled back, whispering soothing words to Morfran. The horse’s dark eyes rolled as he continued to cry plaintively, jerking his head. She rubbed at his neck and he stopped rearing, though he pawed the ground and snorted threateningly at the servants trying to close in on him.
Gillian straightened. Sir Evan ran to her, wooden step in his hands, his mouth open in horrified amazement.
“I’m fine!” she called. “Just stay back. He’s mad and liable to hurt someone.”
Sir Evan readily obeyed, backing away. After a moment he yelled at someone to fetch the physician.
Gillian slid from Morfran’s back but stayed beside him, stroking his neck. Sir Evan approached cautiously, handing the step off to a passing servant.
“Jesus God,” he breathed. “What happened?”
“I’m not certain . . . but I’m unhurt . . . something hit me in the back.”
Sir Evan stared at her incredulously. “Unhurt . . . how can that be?”
Gillian rubbed at the back of her neck. She could feel where something had hit her, but the spot was not tender. It probably wouldn’t even bruise. The bruise on her side from Scott MacGregor’s attempted stabbing hurt worse than this.
“What was it?” Gillian asked, gazing up at the tower, where the men-at-arms wrestled with a man. “A basket someone dropped from the walls? I’m sure it was an accident.”
Sir Evan gaped at her as if she’d claimed she could fly. Morfran snapped nastily at him and caught his plaid between large white teeth. Sir Evan jumped back, ripping his plaid.
Gillian shushed the horse, putting a hand over his nose to let him know that was unacceptable. Morfran blew warmly against her palm and lipped her fingers.
“My lady.” Sir Evan’s voice wavered. She’d never seen him quite so emotional. “’Twas no basket that fell onyou, but ballast—a twenty-pound ball of iron.” He pointed to something on the ground not far from the tower. Several people stood over it, looking from the ground to her and back. A cannonball.
“That’s impossible. Why, I’d be—”
“Dead,” Sir Evan said on a harsh breath. “That should have killed you, but you’re not even hurt.”
“She might be hurt at that.” A large bearded man appeared, examining Gillian critically from afar. “I’ve seen it before. A person can be so stunned by what’s occurred they feel no pain until later. Then they collapse. My lady, please come away from the horse so I can better look at you.”
Gillian blinked in amazement. This was no jest. The man patiently gesturing for her to join him was apparently the physician, and he looked very concerned. Morfran had calmed, and when Gillian motioned a servant over, he let the boy take his bridle.
Once Morfran was gone, Sir Evan rushed forward and tried to pick her up, but she pushed him away testily. “I can walk!”
