Ian shifted on the hard wooden bench beside his father, same as he’d done for the entire week since their arrival. His repeated attempts at telling Donald he was uninterested in the lairdship had fallen on deaf ears. Donald had insisted on Ian at least reviewing the accounts of Dunstaffnage.
While Ian saw through his father’s ruse—a flimsy attempt to get Ian interested in the lairdship—he still agreed to meet with his father for an hour a day. If nothing else, that hour had been compromise enough to still his da’s constant badgering.
They were currently poring over rents, and Ian noticed Donald’s careful avoidance of discussing the penalties for not paying rent. In fact, his da had not once mentioned Simon or Simon’s father.
Ian flipped through the pages and tried not to think of his friend and how those very rents had destroyed their lives.
Several figures appeared on the following pages, lined neatly in the far right column.
“What are these from?” Ian asked and pointed to the tallied amounts. The sum was considerable.
“A wise man has more than one source of income.” Donald closed the book. “But I dinna want to get into all that just yet.” A sparkle showed in his eyes. “It’s … complicated.”
The mystery and suggestion of its implied difficulty snagged Ian’s interest despite himself.
Complicated.
A challenge.
Fascinating.
“Ye did well today, lad. Thank ye for indulging an old man.” Donald patted his cheek, an affectionate gesture he’d done since Ian was a lad. “And I like that lass of yers quite a bit.”
“Ye dinna give me much of a choice.” Ian smirked. “I thought ye’d like her. She thinks like ye.”
In truth, they did appear to get on well. Donald and Sylvi could discuss fortifications and army strategy at length. Despite Sylvi’s stoic demeanor and air of skepticism, Donald appeared to have won her over. A feat not easily done.
“I like her all the more then.” Donald grinned. “I know she doesna have a dowry, but ye should marry her.”
Ian stared at Donald. His father had never been the one pressing him toward marriage as his ma always had. “Ye sound like Mum.”
Donald Campbell scoffed. “Ach, just an old man who kens his time is limited. I’ve a mind to see some grandchildren scampering about my feet. And Sylvi would give ye strong bairns.”
An image of Sylvi flashed in his mind, her head bent over their child. The idea warmed him, even if he found it unlikely. Not that Sylvi wouldn’t be a good mother. God knew she’d protect their bairns like a lioness. But the confinement would drive her to madness.
The idea of her as his wife, however, curled in his heart like a band of gold. He’d thought of it before, though he was sure he’d have a beast of a time convincing her to say yes. She didn’t seem the marrying sort any more than she appeared the maternal sort. But, aye, he could see her as his wife, by his side, as powerful as she was beautiful.
“I’ll think on it,” Ian said.
Donald caught his eye and gave a knowing smile. “Aye, ye do that.”
Ian got to his feet and made his way to the large door of the solar. He reached for the handle and paused. “Have ye found any more on mum’s death?”
Several papers rustled behind him. “No’ anything on my last report,” his father answered.
The answer did not surprise Ian. It had taken some bartering to get Donald to resume the search for Ian’s mum’s killer. Even though the laird had finally acquiesced, Ian wondered at the thoroughness.
In the meantime, Ian and Sylvi had been working with Liv on the pieces of jewelry in an attempt to locate some of the families who might be involved the way Sylvi’s family had been. Kyle had assisted, but between the search for their mother’s killer and caring for Percy, his time had been insufficient to be of use.
Thus far they’d gotten nowhere.
Ian stepped from the solar and into the coolness of the hall outside. His mother’s room was down the far left corridor. On any ordinary day, he would turn right. But today was no ordinary day.
Kyle had done a search of their mother’s room and had found nothing amiss. He’d asked Ian to do a thorough search to possibly identify something he might have missed. Ian had put it off for two days, dreading the rush of the painful ache of his mother’s loss.
Yet he knew he needed to go into his mother’s room, to face the memories as she had left them. He knew well enough by now running from problems only brought more. It was time to stop.
Ian turned left, his stride determined, and did not stop until he was in front of her door. He pushed on the latch. It rattled and stayed in place.
Locked.
He glanced at the framed portrait of his grandmother, whose pinched expression did not match the beautiful blue eyes of his mother staring out from the face. Careful to not knock it from its place on the wall, he reached behind it and extracted the key his mother had kept there. At least no one had removed it from its hiding place. Likely no one even knew it was there.
He inserted the key in the lock, twisted, and took a long, deep breath before pushing into his mother’s room.
The sweet lavender scent of her hit him like a kick to the chest. His heart crumpled at the fragrance and the flood of memories it brought. Her soothing voice, the love shining from her gaze, the gentle kisses on his brow. Too much. He near staggered beneath the force of it.
He held tight to the door for a long moment before finally releasing it and stepping into the room. It looked as he remembered, the large bed with the curtains pulled back and ready for an occupant to sleep on its purple velvet. New candles perched in sconces freed of all dust from the servants’ cleaning, ready to be needed and lit. Kindling and wood were piled in the hearth, ready for a roaring blaze.
All of it as if his mother had never died. As if she were expected home that evening.
Pain drove deep into Ian’s heart. His mother would not be coming home. The scent of her, initially so powerful, was growing more faint with every breath. Ian pulled in a great, greedy inhale and held it until his chest burned, savoring the last tendrils of her perfume.
He released the breath, and an ache settled in his throat.
Her hands were always so warm, and Ian’s father had said it was because her heart was bigger than everyone else’s. Indeed it was. Filled with kindness and love and everything good.
Her sewing lay on the table beside the bed. The gold thread angel at its center dissolved to nothing from the waist down, where his mother would never finish the rest of it. She’d always enjoyed sewing.
An image jabbed at his heart, one of her sitting beside the fire while he played as a boy, her needle popping in and out of the fabric. Between stitches, she would gaze affectionately at him and Kyle, as if she had to constantly reassure herself they were near.
Ian’s heart was weighed down with regret. He’d never been able to say goodbye. His impulsive decision to leave Dunstaffnage the year prior had come with a high price.
He pulled open one of the drawers to her dressing table, and a small pomander rolled toward the front. The metal ball just barely was tall enough to rattle freely through the otherwise empty drawer.
He lifted it to his nose and breathed in, but was met only with the tinny scent of metal. Apparently the item was as yet unused. And never would be.
After searching through the remainder of her drawers and finding nothing save for the simple items of face creams and combs, Ian sat before the mirror of the dressing table. Something was amiss in the drawers, but he couldn’t quite place it.
He opened each in turn, noticing again how the pomander ball rolled forward. Something nipped at the back of his mind. He opened the matching drawer on the other side and placed the small pomander inside. The ball sat high enough on the velvet-trimmed bottom that the drawer would not close.
Ian ran his finger along the fine fabric base and discovered a corner of ribbon the same deep blue as the velvet lining. He caught the edge of his blunt fingernail against the ribbon and pulled upward.
The bottom of the drawer lifted up to reveal a hidden compartment beneath made of plain wood. A gold ring stared up at him.
Strange when, despite her high station, his mother seldom wore jewelry. He pinched the cool band between his fingertips and lifted it to see what memories it revealed.
His blood went cold.
The stone was round and blue with a flat band of gold securing it to the ring itself. He’d seen so many pieces almost identical to this, he could not help the word as it slipped from his mouth. “Square.”
With shaking fingers, he flipped the ring over and found the goldsmith’s mark beside the backside of the stone, pressed into the soft gold. A square.
Just like so many others in the sack hidden in his room.
Ian’s heartbeat roared in his ears.
He carefully replaced the false bottom back in the drawer and slipped the ring into his pocket. It would appear Kyle had been right, Reginald most likely did have something to do with their mother’s death. And Kyle’s flippant assistance with the search for the goldsmiths would be increasing in earnest.
Once they uncovered the secrets within the bag of jewelry, Ian had a strong feeling they would uncover the secrets about their mother’s murder.
•••
Sylvi wore the ring with the blue stone on her good hand alongside her father’s bracelet. It had taken over three weeks to get enough information on goldsmiths in the surrounding area for the square marker to be identified.
And, finally, it had. Not only did they learn the location of the shop, they found a daughter had survived.
The small goldsmith’s shop was located in Glenuig, a village four hours northwest of Dunstaffnage. In order to arrive, Sylvi and Ian had to ride over land and ferry over sea. Kyle had remained at Dunstaffnage with Percy, whose wounds had begun to heal nicely.
Liv, whose wounds had been minor, had healed within two weeks of their arrival and had found a place within the ranks of warriors in Dunstaffnage. The position had been hardwon and well deserved.
The briny ocean air whipped Sylvi’s hair around her face, and the humidity left a salty wetness against her skin. At long last, the thatched roofs of a village came into view, and Sylvi straightened in her saddle. Nervous energy rioted through her and made her heart beat as though she were preparing for battle rather than meeting the remaining daughter of a dead goldsmith.
“It was easier to keep up with ye when yer arm was in a brace.” Ian appeared beside her on his horse.
Only then did she realize she was practically racing the poor beast. She pulled back on the reins slowly and let her horse come to a frustratingly slow trot. Once they finally arrived, they found the village small and quaint, with only a blacksmith’s shop, a bakery, and several other undiscernible shops, as well as a handful of fish peddlers in the center of town.
Which is exactly where the small white cottage stood that had once been a goldsmith’s shop. Sylvi cast Ian an anxious glance and rapped on the door, the sound almost muted beneath the calling of vendors behind her.
Hette Schmidt had written a letter accepting their request to speak with her, though the length of time between their missive and hers had indicated her trepidation. The door in front of Sylvi did not open.
“This is the correct day, aye?” Ian asked.
Sylvi shot him a stern look. “Of course it is.”
He shrugged, nonplussed. She raised her fist to knock once more when the door finally creaked open. A woman with dull brown hair and bright blue eyes appeared. She waved them in and cast an anxious glance about.
The door slammed shut behind Sylvi and Ian, followed by the clinks and thunks of several various locking mechanisms being twisted into place.
The heat inside the home was stifling, almost suffocating, when compared to the nipping coastal winds outside. Piles of items were stacked around the small interior of the home. Various pieces of clothing cluttered the floor around an unmade bed, pamphlets were stacked on one end of the home’s one table beside bits of wilting vegetables, and a distinct odor of rot permeated the air. Sylvi swallowed and kept her face indifferent.
“Thank you for having us,” she said. “We have been eager to speak with you.”
Hette stared at Sylvi’s hand, the one with Hette’s father’s ring. “Yes. Yes. Please, come sit.” There was a foreign staccato to her words. Prussian, most likely.
Her anxious gaze flitted up to Sylvi, then to Ian, and back again before she backed up and nudged at a fat tabby lounging on one of the two seats at the table. Sylvi settled onto the seat, still hot from the cat’s generous body. Sweat prickled at her palms and brow.
Hette glanced apologetically to Ian. “I have only two seats.”
He grinned with his usual ease. “I prefer to stand, lass, especially after having been on a horse for the better part of the day. Dinna worry after me.” He lifted his arms and stretched in demonstration.
A nervous smile flicked at the corners of Hette’s mouth. She nodded, a short, vigorous movement, and settled into the remaining seat. The brunette’s skin had the sallow cast of one who did not often see sun, and lines creased small folds in her brow. Worry lines.
Sylvi removed the ring from her finger and held it out to Hette. “I came because of this.”
Hette reached for the ring and took it with the same hesitant care with which a wild animal might take proffered food, skittish with an expectation of malintent. “You know this ring?”
Sylvi nodded. “Your father?”
“Yes.” Hette’s stare fell on Sylvi’s wrist. “And this?”
Sylvi swallowed before replying. “My father’s.”
Hette’s pale gaze snapped up and met Sylvi’s. “Is he dead too?”
“Him. My mother. My brother and sisters. All of my family.” Sylvi touched her neck where the black ribbon remain tied over her scar and pulled the bow free. It slipped from her neck, and Hette’s eyes went wide.
“They tried to kill me too.” Sylvi touched the mutilated skin at her throat.
Hette sat back in her chair and stared at Sylvi. “They have not come back to kill you?”
“I killed them.” Sylvi couldn’t keep the pride from her voice. “How did you survive? When did they … ?”
“Five and twenty years ago. My father was told to send me away. What hasn’t been seen hasn’t been done.” Hette leapt to her feet and sent the cat skittering from its place beneath the table.
“What is unseen hasn’t been done.” The Prussian began to pace, her words blurring into more of a mutter than clear speech.
But Sylvi still heard her. And she knew those words.
What is unseen hasna been done.
A chill slipped down her spine. “What did you say?” she asked.
Hette was not listening. She was pacing frantically, her loose slippers slapping the dirty floor as she repeated the phrase over and over with a breathless frenzy. “What hasn’t been seen hasn’t been done. What hasn’t been seen hasn’t been done. What hasn’t been seen—” She fisted her hands in her hair and went quiet.
Her ranting did not continue. Instead, she darted to the window and secured her fingers over the latch, as though ensuring it was indeed locked. “You cannot be here.”
“Who said that to you?” Sylvi asked.
“You cannot be here,” Hette repeated. “They might come. They might find me.” She stiffened. “If you found me, they can find me.”
“Who said that to you?” Sylvi said firmly.
“Leave.” Hette lowered her head and charged at Sylvi as though she meant to ram into her.
Ian grabbed Sylvi and pulled her toward the door. “We should go, angel.”
“Was it the man with half an ear?” Sylvi stopped her question abruptly. Reginald would have had a full ear then. Hette’s father was killed before Sylvi’s family. “Was he fat and short?”
“A fine man with fine means,” Hette bellowed. “A bore.”
Sylvi reeled. “Was it a group of men, then? Led by one man?”
“Sylvi,” Ian said in warning in her ear.
“I—”
Hette pointed to the door. “Out. Out!”
“Was it a group of men?” Sylvi shouted at the madwoman.
“One man,” Hette flicked open one of her locks as she said it, repeating it over and over as she opened the remaining locks. “One man. One man. A bore.”
Before Sylvi could ask more, Ian dragged her from the stuffy room. Outside, she gasped for fresh air before pulling from Ian. “How could you draw me away? She was telling me what I needed.”
The door slammed closed, followed by the thuds and clatters of locks being slipped into place.
“She’s mad.” Ian stared at the door in disbelief.
“There is someone else, Ian.” Sylvi pulled him from the door, back to the edge of town where they’d left their horses. “She said a fine man. Neither Reginald nor the rest of his men were noble or fine.” Her brain rattled over the woman’s words. “A bore of a man though?”
“Dinna pay any mind to her.” Ian waved a dismissive hand behind them. “The woman is out of her mind.”
Sylvi stopped and stared back at that house. “Don’t you see it, Ian?” She suppressed a shudder. “If I had not met My Lady, if she had not allowed me to become who I became … Hette Schmidt could have been me.”