Page 22 of The Highlander and The Lady of Misrule

The foolish thought loosened his chest. He certainly didn’t need a lass chasing him. He had a mission to accomplish so he could go back to Edinburgh victoriously and Lord Moray would reward him so his mother could continue to live in comfort.

“I have many thoughts about Richard Whitby’s death. Did the Darbys conclude that it was poison?”

“Yes,” she said. “There were traces of arsenic in his saliva. ’Tis a fast-acting poison easily put into food and drink.”

“Most likely for the queen,” he murmured, and they continued to walk down the long courtyard toward the gates. Lucy seemed intent on accompanying him. He wanted to ask her more about whatever William Darby and his father were treating her for, but he also didn’t want her to walk away.

He cleared his throat. “Since ye have a…friendship with William Darby—”

“And his father,” she interjected.

“Both Darbys,” he said. “We should work together to discover the assassin.”

“Together?”

“Aye. Ye and I, with ye interacting with the Darbys.”

A soft smile turned up the corners of her lush mouth.Kissable. The word surfaced like foam in churned cream, and he tried to push it away. Not because Cordelia Cranfield would hate him for contemplating her sister’s perfect mouth, but because he certainly didn’t want to hurt Lucy’s heart. Was it as vulnerable as it was generous?

“I was planning to work on my own to find the killer,” she said, as if deciding whether to take him up on his offer or not.

He frowned. “’Tis too dangerous.”

She flipped her gloved arm out before her. “After all, I will be right in the middle of everything as the Lady of Misrule.”

“Ye will eat nothing placed near the queen,” he said, his tone fierce.

“Of course not,” she said. “I have no desire to follow Richard Whitby to the grave. If that happened, no one would agree to play the Lord of Misrule ever again. It would ruin Christmastide for decades at court.”

He looked at her, his brows furrowed. Her glance was full of mischief. “’Tis not a humorous matter,” he said.

Her grin faltered. “I mean no disrespect for poor Richard Whitby, but I have found that smiling and humor helps many situations.” A brilliant smile bloomed across her lips. “Just the act of curving one’s lips can make the heart not feel so sick.”

Who had made Lucy’s heart feel sick? Someone who had scarred her back? The fact that William Darby probably knew made Greer’s head ache.

“Like right now,” Lucy said, indicating him with a flip of her hand. “You look like you might bite the heads off innocent little animals. If you but smiled, I grant you’d feel better.”

“I feel well, and not in the least hungry.” He slowed Darach on the edge of a meadow dotted with oak trees.

“I’ll leave you to your training,” Lucy said and walked farther down the road.

“Where are ye going?” he asked, his voice rising.

“I promised the children leftovers from the Christmas feast,” she said, turning to walk backwards as she spoke to him. “And I need to check on Pip and Percy.” She turned to face forward but called over her shoulder. “And I must tell Simmons about Richard Whitby if he hasn’t heard already. I’ll let you know how he responds.”

Greer followed her, Darach in tow. “Ye have no food with ye. Ye shouldn’t go alone. And we should question Simmons together.”

She kept walking, although slower. “I wouldn’t give them possibly poisoned food from last night.” She patted her petticoat. “I have coin and will purchase food on the way. And I’m very capable of walking to my own house and talking to my housekeeper.” She hopped slightly in a skip as if enjoying the winter air. “But you are welcome to join me. If you get hungry, there will be baked bread and goose. I sent a messenger ahead to have them roasted for me at the bakers and poulters.”

They walked along the winter-white road and stopped at the bakery and the poulter shop. Greer tied the warm, fragrant feast to Darach’s saddle. He patted his horse’s neck. “Apologies,” he whispered. “Ye’ve become a pack horse.”

Darach snorted but seemed more interested in the turnip that Lucy held in her open palm. He lipped it right up, making her laugh softly. The ease of her happiness seemed to chase off the cold. What would life be like in the glow of such a joyful countenance?

Several shops were closed. Before the doors stood decorated spinning wheels, showing that no work was being done during the twelve days leading to Epiphany. Lucy stopped to admire each one, remarking on the composition to the pleased patron who hovered nearby. ’Twas a simple kindness she doled out with abundance, expecting nothing in return. Greer stayed silent, listening to the inflections in her gentle words of praise. It was almost like a song, one that warmed the hearts of each person she met. She was either an angel or the best liar he’d ever met.She does lie exceedingly well. But what would be the reason? To convince him she was good and above suspicion?

“You are certainly quiet,” she said, glancing at him as she walked. “I’d almost thought you’d wandered off.”

Her foot slipped, and she gasped. Greer’s arm shot out, catching her. He pulled her into him off the icy puddle. Her body hit his as if they embraced, and for a moment, he peered down into her wide blue eyes. “If I had,” he said, “ye’d be sprawled across the ice right now.” Slowly he released her, making himself look away from her face to regain some distance.

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