Page 4 of The Lady's Guide to a Highlander’s Heart
The pipes were growing louder. Not far off now but as if in the passageway.
“Maggie!” Flora hissed through the darkness. “Do ye hear it?”
The woman in the cot muttered something but didn’t wake.
Still, the pipes were playing. They halted briefly by the door, so loud that Flora could hardly believe Maggie didn’t wake, then the piper seemed to move on, towards the staircase beyond, and downward, to her father’s chambers.
As the sound receded, Flora wondered at the quietness of the hall. Had no one heard? But there was no shout—of revelry nor protest.
Bringing her feet to the floor, Flora fumbled for the over-gown draped close by, pulling it over her shoulders, then felt her way to the hearth, to light her tallow.
She considered waking Maggie, but there was no time to waste. The piper might have disappeared altogether by the time her maid gathered herself.
Entering the passageway, Flora cupped her hand to protect the flame from the cool draught. Shadows flickered over the narrow stone walls and then the confines of the stairwell as she descended. Though she trod softly, each step seemed to echo—yet no door opened and no voice called.
Only the pipes’ wail drifted faintly from below but, upon reaching the lower floor, she saw no sign of anyone.
All was suddenly quiet and she hesitated a moment. She should return to bed but a stirring of unease brought her to her father’s door. No matter how deeply in his cups, he would never take his rest anywhere else. Nevertheless, an urge came strong to reassure herself he was there and she lifted the latch.
Even by the dim tallow’s light, Flora saw his form beneath the quilt. There he was, as he ought to be. Why then did a prickle move over her skin? Why did the darkness here make the room feel changed?
Hurrying to his side, she set the candle upon the chest.
“Father.”
She brushed back his hair and leaned close.
His eyes were half open but their lustre was gone, and his lips were still.
No breath.
Her own froze in her breast.
“Father!”
She pressed her palm to his cheek and found it warm.
A tug at his shirt loosened the yoke from his neck, and his head lolled to one side.
Gasping, she saw what she had not before.
The quilt was bunched upon his chest. Pulling it back, she saw the dirk buried between his ribs, thrust upward at a sharp angle, and the blood seeping from the wound. The ornate carving upon the hilt caught the candlelight. ’Twas his own blade!
“Father.” With a sob, Flora laid her head over his heart.
No movement there, no beat, no life—but the warmth of his body told her some evil force had but recently done its work.
Starting back, she looked to the farther reaches of the room. Though her hand trembled, she lifted the flame and made herself search each corner. Had the foul fiend lurked there, she would have been helpless to his whim, but there was naught in the room save herself and the flesh that had once been her father.
Lowering the candle, she turned to him again, closing the eyes that no longer saw. She kissed his forehead and took his hand in hers.
She feared not the dark, nor any spirit wandering in it. No supernatural being had ended her father’s life. That deed lay at the door of some living creature within the castle—and only one man had motive to do such a thing.
Only one man.
He who would greet the morning not just as laird of Balmore, but Dunrannoch too, and chieftain of all.
An ambitious man, and heartless.
