Page 79 of Beloved Enemy
Tavish’s face twisted with discomfort, a reluctance clear in his eyes even as he looked he had something else to add.
“Out with it,” Reid demanded, his patience frayed.
Tavish hesitated, then sighed. “Ye ken she’s nae the easiest person, Reid,” he began. “Aye, she’s yer sister, and my cousin, too, but she’s always been a bit spoilt. She believes the world turns around her. Ye cannae ignore that.”
Reid sighed, unable to convincingly refute Tavish’s assessment of Fiona. “But Lachlan? He would have to ken he’d be flogged if any liaison were discovered. Or hang, if a relationship with Fiona involves treason.”
“The things we do—and conveniently overlook or dismiss—for love, aye?” Tavish theorized, lifting a knowing brow at Reid.
“To embrace this theory would have me believe my own sister would betray me.”
Tavish did not insist this was impossible. He said nothing at all.
“Shite,” Reid seethed.
Tavish shifted his weight from one hip to the other and planted his hands on his hips. “Now, more than ever,” he said, his expression measured, “we need to question everything.”
“I willna insult Fiona by even entertaining this nonsense,” Reid ground out, resisting anew the very possibility as it was too outlandish, too difficult to accept. “Questioning her would make me nae better than the worst kind of brother.”
“I’m nae saying to accuse her outright. But there are too many unanswered questions, and ye canna dismiss the lot of them simply because ye refuse to see what might be right in front of ye.” He let that sit for a moment before adding, “Lachlan, though—there’s nae harm in asking him a few questions. If he’s innocent, he’ll have naught to hide.”
Reid opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again. Tavish’s suggestion was reasonable, and more importantly, it would mean he could avoid accusing Fiona directly, which sat unwell with him.
“Aye,” Reid muttered, his voice gruff. “We’ll question Lachlan.”
Tavish considered his laird critically. “Ye still dinna believe the woman in the tower can be guilty,” he presumed.
Reid sighed. “I dinna ken what to believe anymore.” He snorted a laugh that contained no humor. “What are the chances both Fiona and Charlotte might be innocent?”
The pained expression on Tavish’s face sufficiently answered that question.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Lachlan was brought out to the glade under the willow under the guise of searching the area and directing the removal of the Englishmen’s bodies. Once there, with a party of a dozen men in total, Reid barked out orders as he normally might, not wanting to alert Lachlan in any way that he was under suspicion.
“Search them,” he ordered. “And the surrounding area. Eoin, see if ye can locate their trail, how they came in.”
He watched Lachlan saunter with seeming nonchalance over to the very body on which Reid had found the dagger. Reid supposed he read profound relief on Lachlan’s face as he discovered nothing on the man’s person to identify him, but then he also recognized that his own perception might be skewed by his current suspicion of Lachlan—maybe he saw only what he thought he should see or expected to see.
Aside from a signet ring and a few personal effects—flasks and one unremarkable gold chain—nothing was found on the dead Englishmen that offered any useful identification. A wagon was brought forward to transport the bodies, its wooden wheels creaking as the first corpse was lifted onto it.
With a subtle signal to Tavish, Reid moved toward Lachlan. His steps were deliberate, his expression unreadable as he withdrew the dagger he had discovered earlier and held it out.
“Found this on that man,” Reid said, jerking his head toward the Englishman Lachlan had already searched. His voice was calm but heavy with intent. “Do ye recognize it?”
Lachlan’s reaction was barely perceptible—a flicker of his eyes, the briefest twitch at the corner of his mouth. But Reid caught it, and so did Tavish, who stepped in closer, his eyes narrowing in suspicion.
At that moment, the pieces clicked into place in Reid’s mind. The insignia on the dagger had nagged at his memory, and now, standing before Lachlan, the connection became clear. It bore the crest of the House of Bothal, belonging to Baron Robert Bertram, a distant relation of Lachlan’s with whom he’d fostered as a boy.
Tavish’s voice cut through the tense silence. “Would Fiona recognize this as well?”
Lachlan’s gaze snapped to Tavish, his eyes shifting from the blade to his captain. Even as he began to shake his head in denial, his face betrayed nothing of innocence, but everything of guilt. His expression tightened, the brief flash of panic unmistakable; he wasn’t wondering why Fiona’s name would be introduced at this moment, but rather was trying to figure out how so much had been deduced.
The silence between them grew heavier. Lachlan’s strained composure only confirmed Reid’s worst fears.
Bluidy hell, Charlotte had been telling the truth.
Lachlan stood motionless, his shoulders taut, and said nothing. Reid and Tavish waited, the weight of their stares pressing down on him. The stillness in the clearing beneath the old willow was oppressive, the others in the group pausing and closing in on the trio facing off.
