Journey to Bongary Spring by Kasey Stockton

Chapter Ten

Ian clutched his arm, his jaw clenched against the pain pulsing in his shoulder. He hadn’t hurt this badly since Roger had caught him with his daughter behind the stables and knocked him out. He hadn’t gone near her again and was glad when she’d married shortly afterward and had left the castle.

Isobel returned from the stream, water flask in hand and a furrow on her pale brow.

“Dinna fash, lass,” Ian said, doing his best to sound confident when the opposite was true. He hadn’t felt this woozy in quite a long time, and the blood wouldn’t seem to stop running down his arm. “It’ll take more than a wee shot to bring me down.”

One of Isobel’s fair eyebrows rose, and she looked unconvinced. Her bonny face was lined with worry, and Ian was grateful to have her there to tend to his wound. “I wouldna call a gunshot a wee injury, Ian.”

He leaned against the tree with his good shoulder, anchoring himself by Isobel’s steady gaze. He understood now that he would not be standing much longer, not unless something was done about his arm, and he was loath to accept that a Duncan would be his downfall. Drawing in a sharp breath, he ignored the stinging pain slicing up his arm.

“Can ye fix it?” he asked, his voice raspy.

Isobel’s eyes hardened, but she didn’t look down at his injury. She was so unassuming, so beautiful. If only she’d given him any attention, he could have shown her exactly how lovely he found her to be. But any fool could see where her interest lay, and it wasn’t in Ian.

“I’ll do my best. Can ye sit?”

Her slender hands circled his arm, and Hugh appeared at his other side, helping to ease him to the ground.

“This may hurt,” she said, grimacing, her eyebrows pulling taut in compassion. “But we must stop the bleeding.”

He nodded, certain words would not form on his tongue even if he tried. The pain was too acute, the dizziness too enduring.

Thudding shook the ground beneath him, and he registered horses coming toward them. He ought to warn Isobel in case they were unfriendly riders, but he couldn’t quite find the right words. Or any words, for that matter. He was struggling to keep his eyes open.

One man jumped down from his horse and strode toward them, his voice gruff. “How bad is it?”

Ah, Kieran. Of course he would return. He was the valiant man Isobel deserved, and a complete idiot for not recognizing her marked interest in him.

Ian had never been one to back down from a challenge, but even he had lost interest in making Isobel his wife since discovering her with the redcoats. As much as it pained him to admit it to himself, he didn’t want a woman who sought approval from another man, and Isobel clearly only had eyes for Kieran.

Isobel said nothing in response to Kieran’s question, which only worried Ian. He struggled to hold on to consciousness, to remain awake, to give them a reason to fight for him. If he died now, he couldn’t tell Kieran to be a man and accept Isobel’s affection or get sweet revenge on the Duncan idiot who did this to him.

But worst of all, he wouldn’t be able to continue his work for Scotland. The important work that he’d been called to do, that his chief, McEwan, needed him to do. Had McEwan found the little leather book where Ian had left it in his bookcase? If Ian died today, who would even know of his duty? Of his sacrifices?

“Ian,” Isobel said, anchoring him once more with her chocolate eyes. She was so lovely, could be of so much use to the cause. “This might hurt a wee bit.”

He tried to nod, but his chin dipped down, and he had trouble lifting his head again.

Kieran swore somewhere to his side, and a smile tugged at Ian’s lips. He liked giving them cause for concern. He only hoped he’d have the chance to tease them about it later.

But if not, he’d need to make certain his report got back to McEwan. He’d been scribbling little notes here and there, and his chief would want the papers. Doing his best to lift his face, he searched for Isobel’s eyes again in the swirling colors and light.

“McEwan,” he said, the word slurring over his tongue like a slippery fish.

Isobel centered before him, her hand cupping his cheek. Her cool fingertips on his skin felt like a balm and words were leaving her mouth, but he couldn’t decipher them. Then black crept in, slowly shoving away the swirling colors until he could see nothing, and he slipped into sleep.

* * *

Marion crept quietly into her mother’s chamber and leaned against the wall, holding her breath as she listened for footsteps to indicate she’d been followed. She had searched Father’s study again and his personal bedchamber but had come up empty in both rooms. The only place she imagined he would hide the book now was here among her mother’s things, though even Marion could admit that was unlikely. Surely he must have a hidden compartment somewhere that Marion was unaware of. There was no other way to explain the missing book.

She glanced about the room, her chest tightening with a rising need to find it. The more difficult it became to locate, the more she felt compelled to understand what it meant. Father had many men under him willing to serve and take care of his needs. His tacksmen covered the tenants and rents, and Hugh, Kieran, and Ian all managed different components of training and guarding the Moraigh grounds. There was something occurring that he didn’t wish for anyone to know of, and that made Marion wish to know all the more.

Whoever she married would one day become the McEwan chief. It was important to her to know what sort of awful, underhanded dealings her father was participating in, and what sort of clan he would be leaving for her and her future husband to clean up and sort out. It was something nefarious, of that she was certain. If the ledger was perfectly acceptable, why wasn’t it stacked with the rest of her father’s ledgers? Why go to such great lengths to hide it?

Because it meant something more. The odd notations and random amounts of money meant something. That was the only answer that made sense. But what?

Marion set herself to her task, beginning with the obvious places. She searched her mother’s small shelf of books before moving to her trunk and carefully rifling through the linens and trinkets stacked within. As she moved aside a small, knitted gown, she felt a niggle of reserve. Father wouldn’t hide a ledger among Marion’s old bairn gown.

Understanding fell over her swiftly, and she cursed softly under her breath. She’d been searching in the wrong places all this time. If this book was that important, Father wouldn’t let it out of his sight, which only meant one thing: it was on his person. It had to be.

Marion let out a sound that was somewhere between a scoff and a groan. Her hunt had thus far been a waste of time. Gently piling everything back into Mother’s trunk, she only paused when she heard footsteps coming down the corridor. She cocked her ear to the side to listen.

The steady steps were approaching, and it sounded to be more than one person. Quickly setting the lid softly back on the trunk, Marion crossed to the wardrobe and slipped inside, closing the door as much as she could. She nestled herself between two of her mother’s more formal gowns and pressed herself against the wooden back wall, commanding her heartbeat to slow.

“Close that door,” Mother’s soft voice said. “We mustn’t be overheard.”

We? Who was with her mother?

Marion held her breath, willing her chest to settle and her lungs to slow. She wouldn’t be able to hear the conversation over her heavy breathing if Mother continued to speak so quietly.

“What’ve ye learned?” a woman asked, her voice soft and low. Marion didn’t recognize the tone, but the woman spoke so quietly, she could hardly hear her at all.

“’Tis not good. Alexander is determined to hold this dinner,” Mama said. “I’ve not been successful in my attempts to dissuade him.”

“Surely he must realize that bringing Duncans into his home with the Kilgannon McEwans is naught but an invitation to brawl.”

Whoever this woman was, Marion agreed with her. Her McEwan kin that resided in Kilgannon were short-tempered and quick to conclusions. Inviting them all to convene together felt like tempting fate and inviting disaster.

There was movement outside the wardrobe, and Marion shifted slightly so she might peer through the small gap in the door and see who was speaking to her mother. They stepped further away before Marion was able to see who was speaking, however, and thus grew more difficult to hear.

Mumbling continued for a few minutes further, and Marion inched her way closer to the door, straining to hear what was being said.

“Whatever happens, we canna let him form an alliance,” the stranger said. “We’d be paying for it in blood.”

“Aye,” Mother said solemnly. “But I dinna think Alexander is the worry in this matter. It is who Marion marries that ought to concern us more.”

She froze at the sound of her name, leaning closer to better hear.

“Will Alexander not choose her husband?”

“He will,” Mother said, dejected.

“Then he will choose a man who shares his ideals, certainly.”

“I suppose ye’re correct, and I’ve no way to decipher how to manage it.” Mother’s concern was alarming. If she disagreed with Father, why did she not say so to him?

“One thing at a time,” the woman said kindly. “Just one thing at a time.”

Unease gripped Marion’s stomach. She fought the bile rising in her throat. Of course her father would choose her husband for her. That was a fact she’d known her entire life. It was important when her spouse would be the next man to lead and govern the McEwans. Marion harbored no false ideals where her future marriage was concerned, but if Mother worried about the man her father would choose, perhaps Marion had reason to worry as well.

“These men, the ones who wish to alliance themselves to yer husband, they aren’t good men. They dinna care for the cause. They care for ending up on the winning side.”

“They’ve chosen the wrong side, then,” Mother said bitterly. “Why canna they see it?”

The woman spoke too low for Marion to pick up what she was saying, and she strained to hear, but the conversation had apparently drawn to a close. Footsteps snaked from the room and the door closed, but until Marion could be certain that her mother had left as well, she wouldn’t leave her hiding place.

Too many things swirled around in her mind like flying swallows darting about, unwilling to touch the ground. She couldn’t piece all the components together into one coherent thought, though the concept niggled at her mind that she had each of the pieces she needed in order to complete the puzzle. She merely needed to figure out their proper order.

Whatever underhanded dealings Father concerned himself with, it was clear that Mother was not a collaborator. She had said far too many things in opposition to him.

A shuffle sounded in the room, and Marion pressed herself against the back of the wardrobe again. Mother hadn’t left, evidently, and there was no knowing exactly how long she would choose to remain within her bedchamber.

Minutes ticked by, and her hunger grew. Marion should have slipped an apple in her pocket or something else to fight the echoing hunger deep within her empty stomach. A loud rumble sounded, and she pressed against her midsection, willing the sound to cease. Surely tucked away in the corner of the wardrobe, buffered by gowns and multitudes of fabric, the sound of her loud, empty stomach would be hidden.

She silently listened for her mother’s movements, but the room stayed quiet. Very, very quiet.

Another rumble moved through her stomach, rolling and building, echoing within the small wardrobe. Good heavens, must it be so loud? The door flew open, and light poured into her hiding place, blinding Marion in its brightness.

“Marion,” Mother scolded, reaching for her hand within the folds of gowns and pulling her free of the fabric prison.

She covered her eyes, waiting for them to adjust to the brightness in the room and to give herself a reason to avoid speaking yet. She waited for her mother to question her on why she was hiding away, but the silence in the room sat heavily between them. Once her eyes were adjusted and she lowered her hand, she froze.

Mother stared at her, lips pursed and her blue eyes wide. Marion had expected her to be angry, but she hadn’t expected this. She hadn’t expected fear.

Stepping forward, Mother took her hand, distress clouding her gaze, and she swallowed. “Tell me, Marion. How much did ye hear?”

“Naething,” she lied. “Ye were speaking so quietly. Who was with ye?”

Mother brushed away the question. “Why were ye hiding?”

Something in her mother’s anxious eyes made Marion want to shield her from further dismay. She had all but confirmed that her mother was against whatever her father was involved in, but looking at her now, Marion balked. She had nothing to go on but a vague concern and an odd ledger. She would look childish presenting these things without even a report of what the book contained.

Marion manufactured a smile and tried to look meek. “I came searching for yer pearl drop earrings to wear to dinner this evening. I hid when I heard ye coming. Dinna be angry with me.”

Mother glanced to the open wardrobe, soft lines forming between her eyebrows. “Ye ken how I dislike it when ye take my jewelry. It will be yers one day, but it isna yet.”

Marion dipped her head subtly. “I ken. Why d’ye think I was hiding?”

A small smile tugged at Mother’s lips. Her relief was so palpable, it caused guilt to swirl in Marion’s stomach.

“Go on. Take the pearl drops.” She paused, lifting a delicate eyebrow. “But be sure ta return them after dinner.”

Marion grinned, triumphant. “Thank ye.” She snagged the earrings from her mother’s dressing table and threw her arms around her for a hug before swiftly leaving the room. She’d never been more relieved in her life.