MacTarril glanced at her and grinned. Or was it a sneer? "So, Lady Grey, you have found yourself another wealthy earl, have you? You seem to have the greatest fortune."
She felt as if she'd been slapped, then drenched in hot water. What gall the blackguard possessed to say such a thing in public. Not daring to glance at Cyrus, she squared her shoulders. "Laird Stornmor is a friend who offered to help me."
"I'm certain of it." MacTarril's nasty grin sickened her.
"How dare you speak to a lady in such a manner?" Cyrus seethed.
Thankful he was rising to her defense, she ventured a glance at him. His frown was the stormiest she had seen yet.
MacTarril barked a laugh. "You don't know her very well, do you?"
"She's a lady, deserving of your respect. Apologize," he ordered in the most threatening tone she had heard from him.
His reddened face tightening and his stare spearing first Cyrus and then her, MacTarril hesitated for a moment, then bowed. "As you say, m'laird. Lady Grey, I pray you will forgive me. Now, as to your jewel thief, he or she left no trace. I arrived at your home shortly after Master Morrison sent for me. I found no clue as to the intruder's identity, but I suspect 'twas one of your own staff. Hard to find good help these days, aye, m'lady?" he scoffed.
Bastard.She glared at him, then turned to Cyrus. "I told you 'twould be useless to come here."
"Aye, you were right. The magistrate is about as useful as a sheep mired up to his arse in dung."
MacTarril's face turned crimson and the veins in his forehead bulged. "'Twas her own staff, I'm telling you!"
"Don't trouble yourself, MacTarril. We'll find the guilty party." Cyrus turned and opened the door for her while sending the man one last withering glare.
She hastened outside and down the wet stone steps. Lifting her skirts a bit, she bypassed a puddle.
"Still a whoreson," Cyrus grumbled under his breath as they approached the guards who awaited them by the horses.
She eyed his dark scowl. "How do you know MacTarril?"
"He was a foster brother of mine."
She well knew the Highlanders had a custom of fostering out their children to other clans and families for purposes of alliances and friendships. "He does not seem very brotherly to you."
"Nay, indeed. I certainly don't claim him as a brother or a friend." Avoiding eye contact, he lifted her into her saddle then mounted himself.
His guards followed as the horses trotted forward, carrying them onto the muddy road.
Elspeth prayed that Cyrus would assume MacTarril's mean-spirited words to her were unfounded gossip. But what if he asked her about it?
∞∞∞
"Bastard!" Grinding his teeth so hard they ached, Magistrate Paul MacTarril snatched out a piece of parchment and slammed it onto his desk with his palm. He stabbed the quill into the inkhorn and addressed the missive to Henry Crawford, the new Earl of Dalacroy.
From the Angus area, the young aristocrat was newly arrived in Aberdeen and staying for a time at one of the many castles he'd inherited from his father. MacTarril had known Henry's father, Alexander, but had never been fond of him. The old earl had been a bounder and, in the end, reaped what he sowed.
Henry had paid MacTarril a visit four days prior and had given him a generous donation. MacTarril was only too happy to look the other way while the wealthy earl thwarted the jezebel baroness. Women these days were gaining far too much power and wealth. The king didn't like it, nor did the church.
But now that MacKenzie was involved, MacTarril couldn't wait to see them both lying face down in the muck.
His hand jerked with outrage as the nib scraped across the page and dabs of ink spattered onto the ivory parchment.
He signed his name at the bottom and blotted at some of the stray ink spots. Having no time to wait for it to fully dry, he folded the four corners of the missive inward. Holding the candle's generous flame beneath his wax stick, he watched the melted red wax dribble onto the flap like thick blood. After setting the candle and wax stick aside, he stamped his seal into the warm scarlet blob so hard it smeared. Muttering a curse, he shoved up from his desk and found his young messenger, a lad of about sixteen summers, in the back room.
"Laddie, deliver this missive directly into the hand of the Earl of Dalacroy at Wingate Castle. Be quick about it. And tell him 'tis of vital importance."
"Aye, sir." The lad bowed and sprinted out the door.
He knew another man who would surely love to hear that Cyrus MacKenzie was in the area. After hurrying back to his desk, he scribed another missive, this one to Chief Ben Comyn. As lads, they had all been foster brothers, but Cyrus MacKenzie had betrayed them. 'Twas time to repay him for all the problems he'd caused.
