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“Nay,” said Niven. “Laird Duncan stressed the point he wanted to see ye while Alastair was away.”
“He did?”
“Go on,” Niven told her. “Dinna be afeard of him, he willna hurt ye. He hasna enough strength left in his body to hurt a flea.”
“I’m no’ afeard.” Fia headed to Laird Duncan’ s solar. Outside the door she paused, feeling anxious about talking with the man. Why did he call for her and why did he request to speak with her alone? She had no idea but had the feeling he wanted to say something that he didn’t want his son to hear. Fia raised her hand and knocked softly. The door opened and the healer, an old Scotsman, nodded and let her in.
“Leave us,” said Duncan from his bed.
“Aye, my laird,” answered the healer, slipping from the room and silently closing the door behind him.
“Come forward, lass.”
Fia ventured closer, feeling awkward being alone in the room with the dying man and wishing Alastair was there with her. “Ye wanted to see me?”
“Sit,” he commanded, talking to her like he would a dog. She didn’t like it but, in respect to a dying laird, she sat on the edge of a chair next to the bed. Just a sheet covered the man’s thin body. His eyes were sunken on his face, and she swore he was not much more than skin and bones. His midsection was wrapped with a bloodstained cloth.
“How are ye feelin’ my laird?” She tried to make casual conversation to ease her nerves.
“Stop with the pleasantries. I didna ask ye here to inquire about my health. We both ken I am dyin’.” His voice was rough and low. The dank, dark room smelled musty. Burning sage smoldered from atop a copper plate next to the bed. It thickened the air, making her feel as if she were going to choke. She coughed into her hand, wanting to rip open the shutter for fresh air.
“Why did ye summon me here?” she finally asked him. “Ye have never even spoken to me before today.”
“Ye are a brash lassie, and I dinna like it.” Even in his dying moments, Duncan MacPherson was a crude and intimidating man.
Her hand covered the heart brooch on her bodice as she thought of Imanie and tried to be strong.
“That brooch,” he said, closing his eyes for a second, struggling to breathe.
“What about it?” she asked, surprised he had even seen it in his condition.
“I noticed it at Grant Castle. Where did ye get it?”
“It was a present, my laird.” She didn’t feel as if she owed him any more of an explanation.
He nodded slightly. “A present from the late Queen Philippa of England.” As he said the words, he stared at the ceiling.
“Aye. How did ye ken?”
“Alastair has a brooch just like that.”
“Aye, he showed it to me,” she said, running her fingers over her pin. “He said it was given to him by a mysterious woman who saved his life on the battlefield. He also said ye dinna believe him.”
“Fia, I am dyin’. The reason I called ye here was because ye will soon be my son’s wife.”
“Aye, I will. But I dinna understand what ye want.”
The man turned his head and coughed before continuing. “I never doubted Alastair’s story for a minute.”
“Really? Then why did ye tell him ye didna believe him?”
“It was a choice I made to keep him from findin’ out more.”
“More? About what?”
“About the queen’s secret group of women kent as the Followers of the Secret Heart.”
Fia gasped. “Ye ken?” she asked, almost falling off the chair. She repositioned herself and pushed back further to regain her balance.
