Chapter Twenty-Four

Finlay followed Malcolm and Tristan as they took him on a twisting path from the stables, into the woods, and then toward the back of the house where the lavender fields began.

“Someone’s been living back here,” Tristan said. “I cannae believe I didnae find it earlier with all the work I’ve done on the grounds, but ’tis hidden well.”

“What’s hidden?”

“A makeshift camp. Someone’s been watching yer house. More specifically, yer wife.” Tristan swallowed. “There is a journal of sorts.”

Tingles erupted under his skin. Who would be watching his wife, and why? Hell, he’d left her alone with some blackguard camped right outside his house.

When they reached the spot, he was astounded by the bravado of the unknown person. A plaid was draped across sticks that had been cut and formed into a makeshift tent. When he pulled back the fabric, he saw scraps of food that had been carefully wrapped in bundles, along with a spyglass and some sort of sketchbook. It took a moment to make the letters come into focus. The name Bruce Graham was inscribed on the front.

His fingers clenched into a fist. The arse who had abandoned his kin in a time of need and tried to force Blair into marriage. Bruce had been the one to follow them, which would have been easy for the man to do with his tracking skills. And that day they’d walked the estate to check for threats, this camp hadn’t been here. Finlay was certain of it.

After stooping down to retrieve the book, he thumbed to the first page and froze—a charcoal drawing of his wife in front of a tapestry he’d seen at the Macnab castle. Flipping the page, he gagged when he saw an image of Blair clad only in her shift. Chill bumps gave way to anger.

In the image, Blair had been standing on the balcony, her hair blowing in the wind as she appeared to stare out at the fields of lavender.

His hands fisted on the pad, and he flipped to the next page. Another image of Blair, this time as if she were standing right here in front of him, watching him with those soulful eyes. His hands started to shake.

One more flick of a page and fury clenched like a vise in his chest—Blair nude, lying on a bed, staring up at the artist in invitation as if it had really happened, like the other pictures were rooted in fact.

Tristan held a small bundle up for his view. The man unwound a string holding the corners together, and stones fell from the fabric. They were identical in size and shape to the one that had been placed under his saddle on the journey here. Tristan turned over the material and held it out for Finlay’s inspection. It took him a moment to recognize the scrap of cloth through the red haze in his vision.

It was a kerchief depicting the coronation of King Charles—he’d never seen it, but the name embroidered into the bottom right corner stilled his breath…Blair Macnab. Until recently, a lady would have given it to her knight as a favor during a jousting tournament. Why did Bruce Graham possess something so personal that clearly belonged to his wife? Had Blair given it to him? He’d seen her with it in Edinburgh.

His heart closed in on itself. Bile rose in his throat. Tossing the book aside, he glanced at his men. “I’ve seen enough. I need to find my wife.”

Stepping back out into the air, he turned to Tristan and said, “Put a guard on this place. We need to catch him.”

A commotion toward the road drew their attention. A carriage veered into the long drive toward the house—his father’s. He wasn’t up for visitors right now. He needed to find his wife to squash the doubt the discovery on his grounds had sparked. Blair was innocent—he was certain—but damn if it didn’t look like she had intimate knowledge of Bruce Graham.

He marched toward the front, and Malcolm followed. A whizz sounded just before pain exploded on his arm. Crimson liquid dripped from just below his shoulder, his white shirt soaking up what didn’t ooze to the ground.

“I’ve been shot. Duck.”

Malcolm did, but Brodie took off running in the direction of the threat. He’d only suffered a minor wound, so Finlay gave chase, following the Cameron man’s lead. When they got to the front of the house where the shot had come from, the only animal there was Blair’s horse. Shaking his head, Brodie glanced over at him. “Is that one yer wife’s?”

Had she tried to kill him? He’d become complacent, spending all his energy on getting his message to the king and ignoring the threats to himself. Still, he had been convinced she wouldn’t harm him.

His father’s carriage pulled to a stop in front of them. After jumping out, his father ran toward him and yelled, “What happened?”

Brodie called, “Finlay’s been shot.”

“Best we get inside. We dinnae ken where it came from.”

Both of his brothers and Prudence alighted from the carriage, and he wanted to groan at how this day had gone from perfect to absolute hell.

Everyone filed into the house in front of him as he slammed the door.

…

After what felt like an hour of no movement or noise from the hall, Blair decided it was time to find her husband. She set her knife down on the bed as she switched into a gown without Jenny’s young son’s blood on the sleeve. It had only been a small amount, but the sight of it unnerved her.

Once finished, she inched toward the door and listened. As she cracked it open, silence met her, but the house’s walls were thick and sounds rarely carried into the halls. Still, she had to find Finlay to let him know Bruce had come looking for her and that he might be in danger. She knew for certain this time—the toad’s presence was real, and so was the threat he posed.

Sneaking down the back steps and avoiding the front of the house, she crept quietly through the back hall. She stuck to the shadows as she made her way to the chapel, because it was likely the last place Bruce would dare step foot, and perhaps the Cameron men or the king’s guards were in.

Skirting in through the door, she realized she’d left her knife, her only protection, on the bed.

She found no one in the chapel and nothing she could use as a weapon. She glanced out the window to see Robbie talking and laughing with the nun who had come back from Oxford. Although flanked by guards, the pair strolled down a path on the secluded side of the house. It was odd to see them so at ease with each other, almost like they had known each other before. If they’d been nearer, she would have called out for help, but they were too far away.

She sneaked back out and went in search of Finlay.

…

Andrew had patched Finlay’s shoulder, but no one had seen his wife or the housekeeper. The cook said something about the woman’s son cutting his hand and the pair of them rushing to take the lad to the village healer. But if Blair was still in town, why was her horse here? His stomach was tied in knots, and he didn’t know whether to be worried for her or if she was the cause of his current condition.

After setting up a round of guards to watch the house for her return, he tried their room. When he flung open the door, it crashed into the wall. Bits of plaster splintered and gave off a clunk as they hit the floor.

No sign of her. He hurried through the dressing area, the other room, then the nursery, but all were empty. Fear started to take root. According to Brodie, while Finlay was in Oxford, Blair barely left the house, preferring to stay in his study and analyze his books. Perhaps she wasn’t in league with Bruce.

He rushed back into their chamber and caught sight of the bed. He’d believed there was hope for a bright future with a wife who wanted to be with him. He’d even dared to think she might care for him.

Och, he wanted to go back to that moment, forget everything he had learned today. He wished to cling to her and run away, relive the happiest moment of his life over and over again.

But could it have been a lie?

The sun darted from behind a cloud and flooded the room with light. Something on the bed, almost under Blair’s pillow, caught his eye. Inching forward, he leaned down to inspect the object. A knife. His whole body went numb.

Had she planned to kill him in his sleep? If she was planning on killing him, he was lucky she’d not done it sooner. Had she conspired with Bruce Graham, the man who drew intimate pictures of her? Despite the evidence, he was having a hard time believing her capable of the betrayal.

As he stared at the dagger, he staggered into his study, anger and fear taking hold as his arm pulsed with pain. He pushed the door closed without waiting for the click.