“Jamie doesna care yet,” Black Gawain continued. “The newness hasna worn off. But when it does, he’ll hate you for what you’ve done. And it’ll be too late by then. His kin will be set against him—and all because of you. But that is what youreallywant, isna it, Sheena Fergusson? You want him torn ’atween you and his kin.”
Sheena couldn’t find a quick answer, but they didn’t wait for one. Both walked away abruptly, leaving her alone to ponder their vicious lies. Only…were they really lies? She probably was resented there. She was a Fergusson, the enemy. And look at what had happened since her wedding. Hadn’t she blamed herself for the feud beginning again? Well, everyone else blamed her, too, no doubt.
She sat there in a daze for several minutes more, then got up slowly and left the hall. She walked toher room, where she changed to her old green gown, her movements unhurried, mechanical. When she was ready, she went to the courtyard, where she was given a horse as soon as she asked for one. The lad jumped to do her bidding. She had no problem at the gatehouse, either, the gatekeeper simply waving her through.
It was really too easy, she thought dismally as she guided her mare down the mountainside. Had she known how easy it would be, she’d have left the other day, when she had planned to, before Jamie had a chance to make love to her again. That way, she wouldn’t have found out that even anger and hurt couldn’t stop her from wanting him. Oh, how she wished she hadn’t found that out!
Sheena rode blindly, her thoughts in a jumble, until she realized how dangerous that was and stopped to get her bearings. She found herself on a small plot of land in the middle of a recently harvested field. And then she found she was looking down into the face of a crofter.
“You dinna look well, lass,” the man said with genuine concern.
“I’m fine—really,” Sheena assured him, but she didn’t feel fine. She felt all manner of things, but not fine.
“Sir Jamie’s new bride?”
Why deny it? “I am.”
The man nodded. “He’ll be back ’afore long. Off to be meeting him, then, are yer?”
“I…I…”
“Here, now, yer really dinna look at all well, lass. Come inside and rest. My Jannet’ll get yer a dram of the potents.”
Sheena let him lead her horse over to a small croft. He helped her down and ushered her inside. The croft was dark, with heavy cloths over the windows. There was a glowing fire in the center of the single room. The wicker door closed, and she was enveloped in a friendly warmth.
Jannet, a ruddy-faced woman, quickly set aside the meal she was grinding and came forward. “Och, Sir Jamie’s bride! I saw yer at the wedding, but I didna think to be seeing yer again sae soon.”
“She’s out of sorts, Jannet, and could be using some of yer potents,” the crofter explained.
“Och, yer poor wee thing,” Jannet sympathized. “I’ll be getting yer a dram, and yer’ll come over by the fire to set a spell. ’Tis a chilly day to be out and about, and nae mistake.”
Sheena sat by the fire on a stool and took the whiskey gladly. The crofter and his wife stood by anxiously. Sheena saw that the room was scantily furnished, with only two stools and a table, a box bed, meal kists, and a few utensils. A barren existence, yet the middle-aged couple seemed happy enough.
She wondered if they resented her, too, as Black Gawain claimed everyone did. They didn’t seem unfriendly, yet they had probably known Hamish MacKinnion quite well.
“Why are you being so kind to me?” Sheena asked suddenly, her feelings brought to the surface.
The man was truly surprised. “And what else would we be?”
“But I’m a Fergusson,” she said sharply. “You dinna have to pretend you don’t know.”
“Pretend, lass?” The man chuckled. “Do you really think I do?”
“But you must hate me. Others do.”
“I dinna know about others, as yer say. I only know I judge each man on his own merits. Why should I be holding yer birth against yer? Yer a MacKinnion now, anyway. Yer’ll bear the laird a son, and yer son will be laird one day. Yer one of us, lass, or dinna yer feel that way yet?”
Sheena didn’t feel like that or believe she ever would. She felt alone, isolated, neither a MacKinnion nor a Fergusson. Thinking of it, she suddenly knew she could never go home, not as long as the feud continued, not bearing the MacKinnion name. Among Fergussons she would face exactly what she faced among MacKinnions. So where did that leave her?
No sooner had Jamie dismounted and handed his horse over to the stable lad than Jessie Martin sidled up to him, blocking his path. He was in no mood to be detained, and he didn’t want a scene with Jessie while his men looked on. He was in no mood for anything except sleep after riding to Angusshire without stopping, and back without stopping, either.
What a disgusting waste of time it had been. He didn’t know what he’d expected to accomplish by talking to Dugald. He had been received grudgingly, had listened to the man storm and bluster, and had come away without any resolutions. The problem was he didn’t know Dugald Fergusson well enough to know whether he was an adept liar or was speaking the truth. Even in the midst of a powerful rage, he might have been acting.
Jamie didn’t doubt Dugald’s anger. For apparently Iain had indeed died on the way home, just as Sheena had feared. Jamie had left a generous settlement with Dugald to compensate, as was his custom in accidental deaths. But that had not appeased Dugald or his MacAfee cousin, who had insisted on being present during their meeting.
Jamie remembered Niall speaking of MacAfee with disgust, confessing that Sheena couldn’t stand him, either. Jamie found himself thoroughly disliking William MacAfee, as well. Except for that tall, thin man, Jamie might have accepted Dugald’s word that he hadn’t raided the MacKinnion lands that night. But Sir William MacAfee had exuded an air of gloating satisfaction when Jamie mentioned the raid, an air that couldn’t be denied. If only Jamie had been able to talk to Niall, but Niall had been nowhere in evidence.
Jamie did receive one promise, confirming Sheena’s belief. Dugald swore he would not, could not, take action as long as Sheena was in Jamie’s hands. But…truth or lie? Sweet Mary, he wishedhe could be sure! If only Jock had not sworn the raiders’ plaid was green, gold, and gray. If only Jock had not identified the cry as the Fergusson battle cry.
