“Indeed, Your Grace.” Buoyed by that victory, Isabail waved Cormac forward. “There is something more. When we searched the keep where de Lourdes was hiding, we found this.”
The high steward accepted the velvet bag from Cormac and peered inside. “The ruby necklace, Your Grace. The one commissioned for Queen Yolande.”
A smile spread over King Alexander’s face. “How excellent.”
“De Lourdes was likely responsible for the necklace’s original theft,” Isabail said.
“There’s no proof of that,” said the king. “Your brother found the necklace in MacCurran’s rooms. And there’s still the matter of de Coleville’s death.De Lourdes took credit for slaying your brother, but not my courier. And even if he had, de Lourdes failed to name his liege lord, so my judgment against Laird MacCurran must stand. His lands remain forfeit.”
Isabail’s shoulders drooped. She had failed. Aiden was still a wanted man.
“What of your petition, Lady Isabail?” the king asked.
She drew in a slow, deep breath. All was not lost. The fate of Dunstoras still hung in the balance. A rousing petition might yet change the future—a petition that would be a great deal easier to make if Earl Buchan were not standing a mere twelve paces away. The Comyns were her rivals for Dunstoras, insisting the land rightfully belonged to them due to some ancient description of their border.
Keeping her gaze locked on the royal seal hanging about the king’s neck, she said, “I wish to formally claim Dunstoras.”
“Your Grace—” began Earl Buchan.
“Not for Earl Lochurkie,” Isabail added quickly, “but for myself, in recompense for the death of my brother. John served you faithfully, Your Grace, and for that, he was felled in his prime. Murdered in his bed. The person responsible remains at large, and I beg for some measure of justice, sire. Grant me Dunstoras.”
“Our claim to the land dates back three hundred years,” Buchan said.
Isabail pictured Aiden’s face and the weary faces of his clan. She straightened, facing her detractor squarely. “Lochurkie borders Dunstoras directly to the northeast. Were the lands granted to me, I would have easy support from the earl and could provide warriors to him in times of strife. The Comyns are separated from Dunstoras by the Red Mountains. I believe fulfilling my petition is best for Dunstoras and best for Scotland.”
“Strong words, Lady Isabail,” the king said.
“My love for my late brother lends me strength, Your Grace.”
Buchan’s lips twisted sourly. “Majesty, this request has less to do with love than greed. Justice would favor the Comyn claim.”
“Lord Buchan,” Isabail said firmly. “Surely, the need for peace is paramount. What message do we send to the people of Scotland if we fail to end a bitter clan dispute when the opportunity is within our grasp?”
The king nodded. “What message indeed?”
“How can granting MacCurran’s lands to his enemy bring about peace?” demanded Buchan.
“Much easier than you suspect,” Isabail said quietly. “I will repair the castle and rebuild the village. I will welcome any MacCurran cottar who pledges his oath to me. And I will bring prosperity to a glen that has seen too much of strife.” Lobbying so hard in favor of taking Aiden’s home made her stomach queasy. But the thought of losing Dunstoras, of seeing it fall into anyone’s hands but her own, made her feel worse.
Isabail turned to the king. “I beseech you, Your Grace. My brother is forever lost to me. Claiming Dunstoras will never make up for his passing, but seeing real justice done will ease my sorrows. Give Dunstoras to the one most committed to its redemption.”
The king met her gaze, solemn. As the length of their shared glance stretched beyond mere politeness, the corners of his mouth lifted ever so slightly and he gave her the barest of nods.
“Done.”
* * *
Isabail sank into the steaming hot tub with a groan of absolute delight. It had been longer than she cared to remember since she’d indulged in such a wonderfully frivolous moment. She leaned back against the wooden bathing tub and closed her eyes. The rose petals Muirne had tossed into the water added a sweet fragrance to the steam that filled her nose and curled the hairs at her nape.
The last fortnight had passed in a blur of travel, political intrigue, and audiences with the king. An exaggeration, that last bit. She’d had only one audience with the king. But, to be fair, it had been a most satisfactory one.
“Shall I wash your back, my lady?”
Isabail opened her eyes. Muirne stood next to the tub, a thick cotton towel in one hand and a bar of lavender soap in the other. The maid wore a broad smile that bordered on a grin.
“I take it Fearghus has finally arrived,” Isabail guessed.
“With all of my furniture,” Muirne acknowledged happily. “Including the bed, which he has already assembled in our room.”
