Page 49 of Fragile Oath

“Hear ye. Let us take our start.” MacArthur called for the proceedings to begin in his nasally voice, and I suppressed an eye roll at the unnecessary excess of pomp.

Though the docket master was an arseworm of epic proportions, one who had most assuredly been taking bribes from Tavish, at least Jameson was known to be fair. He spoke up in a strong, even tone.

“We are here to discuss the murder of Laird Tavish Anderson—”

“No, we are here to discuss hismurderer,” Laird Wilson called out, pointing his crooked old finger at me.

A cacophony of voices sounded at once, like a gaggle of enraged chickens, some in clear agreement, several more to argue. I scanned the crowd, noting the scattered few neutral expressions. MacBay looked chronically disappointed, while Lady Fenella’s expression was almost pitying behind her judgment.

Even Fiona’s calculating stare was less vengeful than I might have expected. I could only hope that at least half of the other two hundred thirty-seven lairds felt the same way.

“We do not convict men without clear evidence in this kingdom,” Uncle Logan’s voice rang out louder than the rest. “Unless there’s been a change to the Lochlannian law since last I was at Council.”

A beat of silence fell while the members of the Assembly looked at one another, trying to decide who was brave enough to challenge their king. One of them eventually found their courage.

“The evidence speaks for itself—” Laird Stewart began, but Laird Buchanan cut him off.

“Are we really going to try the marquess with murder?” he asked, indignation lining his wrinkled brow. “An esteemed member of our royal family convicted and tried for murder like some commoner?”

“We are when his cufflink was found at the scene of the crime,” Wilson fired back.

Right. The cufflink. Something I still had no way to account for outside of the obvious, that someone was clearly framing me for this murder.

“And when he fled the moment he was questioned,” Buchanan added.

Camdyn MacBay stepped forward. His family was one of the oldest in the kingdom, and he was, by all accounts, a genuinely decent laird. His people adored him. The Assembly viewed him as the epitome of what a Lochlannian should be, stable and loyal and strong.

He had been a longtime friend of our family, specifically my Aunt Charlie and Uncle Finn, but he hadn’t been happy since we decided against retaliation to Socair for taking us. He also wasn’t particularly fond of me these days, since someone had let slip to him my…history with his daughter.

Still, he was known to be fair, so I wasn’t worried when he cleared his throat, gathering the attention of the room…until he turned to me, something like an apology written across his features.

“I think we would all like to hear a plausible explanation for those things.”

The demand wasn’t unreasonable, nor was the tone in which it was being delivered. But for all his reputation of fairness, I could have sworn I caught a hint of something…pointed.

Uncle Logan stiffened, but my mother made a subtle gesture with her hand. I gave a broad look around the Assembly chamber, being sure to meet several eyes.

“I haven’t seen those cufflinks in months, as I already told Master Ward,” I said evenly. “And as for why I left, it was because my betrothed had been kidnapped. So I went to ensure her safe return.”

My words echoed in the silent chamber while I hastily scanned the expressions around me, looking for a sign of anyone who didn’t look as surprised as they should. I met Fiona’s cobalt gaze, and she raised a challenging eyebrow.

Because she had known? Or because she detected the hint of a lie behind the reason for my initial departure?

There was a smattering of other faces that didn’t look as surprised as I may have expected. MacBay merely grimaced in disapproval.

“If that’s true, why did you not call the guard?” Laird Stewart asked, his tone grating against my already frayed nerves.

I bit back a long-suffering sigh. “I’m sure you’ll understand the need for discretion, under the circumstances.”

Wilson scoffed. “So you expect us to believe your betrothed was stolen the same night your cousin was murdered in some bizarre coincidence?”

“I don’t think it was a coincidence at all, actually,” I countered. “I think it’s clear the rebels are responsible for both.”

“Was it also the rebels who were responsible for threatening Laird Tavish at the festival that same night, or will you at least be taking responsibility for that?” Laird Wilson sneered.

I was beginning to get whiplash from the constant barking of questions on either side of me. There was no point in explaining that the threat had been in retaliation, not now that Tavish wasn’t here to defend himself. Before I could formulate another response, Laird MacArthur chimed in.

“Of course he wanted Tavish dead. I have it on good authority that he was going to lose the vote.”

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