"In essence, it says the bearer of this deed owns but one square foot of the courtyard of Darby Hall."
Molten rage flooded Henry's veins. "That bitch!" The words exploded from his mouth.
Talbot jumped and eyed him warily.
"Are you certain?" Henry ground his teeth, trying to restrain his fury at being tricked.
"Aye, my laird. 'Tis my duty to be completely honest with you. This is not a true deed for Darby Hall and will not stand in court."
Henry crumpled the parchment. He would throttle that conniving jezebel. "What about the next one? The one for the dress shop and tenement building?"
Talbot skipped the beginning and moved right to the ending lines. "Uh-huh," he said sharply. "'Tis much the same trick."
Rage chewing its way through him, Henry cursed and smashed a fist upon the table.
Talbot lifted a brow, peering at him through his spectacles.
"Go on then. Look at the rest." Certain now that all of them were worth naught more than kindling, Henry tossed the remaining deeds in front of the solicitor and paced across the room. He wanted to call Lady Grey every whorish name he could think of. She and her lover had well and truly duped him. But not for long. He would kill them both for this, even if he never got his hands on the properties.
Talbot calmly examined the remaining deeds, shaking his head and grunting over them. "Someone is very canny, I have to say."
"She will regret her canniness, I vow." Henry could not wait to get his hands around her skinny neck.
Now, where the devil were the true deeds? They had to be at Darby Hall. Or they could be at any of the properties—Greymont or the businesses.
He cursed her for everything he could think of. The three men he'd sent after her and MacKenzie last night had not returned yet. He held out hope they would run the barbarian through and drag the wench in.
A knock sounded at the door.
"Enter," he snapped.
A manservant opened the door and bowed. "M'laird, I'm to let you know the Chief of Clan Comyn is at the gates."
"Clan Comyn?" he muttered. He had never met the man before. Was he friend or foe?
"Also Magistrate MacTarril."
"Ah! Why didn't you say so?" 'Twas the Highland clan MacTarril had recruited to help him. He hurried out the door and down the steps. MacTarril had come through for him just in time. With the Highlanders added to his depleted fighting force, he would surely defeat MacKenzie.
Henry rushed out into the bailey, seeing several men waiting outside the gates. Aye, 'twas indeed a vicious looking band of Highlanders, all wearing belted plaids and carrying swords and targes. They glowered from behind MacTarril and a stocky man with long brown hair, a bitter, downturned mouth, and a long beard. He appeared even more merciless than MacKenzie.
Henry approached the portcullis. "MacTarril, I'm glad to see you. Are these the men you spoke so highly of?"
"Aye, m'laird. Have you ever seen such braw fighting men?"
"Nay, indeed." Grinning, Henry turned to the guard in the gatehouse. "Raise the portcullis!"
Once it had been hoisted to its open position, MacTarril and his companion entered. "Ben, I would like you to meet Laird Henry Crawford, the Earl of Dalacroy. This is Ben Comyn, Chief of the Toramuir branch of the Comyn Clan," MacTarril said. "And my foster brother. We've been close since we were lads."
"I'm pleased to meet you, Laird Dalacroy." Ben's voice rasped over the words.
Henry shook his beefy hand. "A hearty welcome to you and your men."
"He wishes to help you bring Cyrus MacKenzie down." MacTarril grinned.
"Indeed?" Glad to know his assumptions were correct, Henry felt invigorated. They would triumph. "I'm most glad to hear that. How much is your fee?"
"No fee." Comyn's face remained stern. "But we would be most honored to form an alliance with you."
