“Are the Mackintoshes behind this?” She could believe it. The cloven-footed trumpet-blasters wasted no opportunity to shout their claim to the glen. “Did they send another complaint to court? Asking for the crown’s interference?”
Sir Walter’s mouth jerked, proving they had. “They did send a petition in recent days, yes.”
Catriona flushed. “I knew it!”
“They weren’t alone. Clan Cameron also sent an appeal, if you’d hear the whole of it.” Sir Walter’s tone was smooth. The glint in his eye showed that he enjoyed her distress. “Indeed”—he actually smiled—“it surprised us that we did not hear from your brother, considering.”
“Considering what?” Catriona’s belly clenched again.
Sir Walter’s smile vanished. “Perhaps you should ask your brother.”
Catriona turned to Alasdair, but when he fisted his hands and his mouth flattened into a hard, tight line, her heart dropped.
Whatever it was that she didn’t yet know was grim.
“Lady Edina has passed.” Alasdair spoke at last. “She did not leave a testament. Nor, according to the abbess at St. Bride’s”—he drew a deep breath—“did she ever make her wishes known to anyone.”
Catriona swallowed. Guilt swept her.
She hadn’t thought of the old woman in years. She’d been little more than a babe in swaddling when Lady Edina went, by choice, into a Hebridean nunnery. At the time—or so clan elders claimed—she’d desired a life of serenity and solitude behind cloistered walls.
But Edina MacDonald was hereditary heiress to the Glen of Many Legends.
She was also twice widowed. Her first husband—Catriona’s heart seized with the horror of it—had been a Cameron and her second, a Mackintosh.
And now Lady Edina was dead.
Catriona wheeled to face Sir Walter. “This is the true meaning of your visit. Now that Lady Edina is gone, and without a will, the King means to take our lands.”
Again, shouts and curses rose in the hall as MacDonalds everywhere agreed. Men stamped feet and pounded the trestles with their fists. The castle dogs joined in, their barks and howls deafening.
Even Geordie, a half-lamed beast so ancient he rarely barked at all, lent his protest from his tattered plaid bed beside the hearth fire.
Sir Walter stood unmoved. “These lands are the King’s, by any right, as even you must know. Be glad he wishes only to bring you peace,” he said, his weasel-smooth voice somehow cutting through the din. “When he received petitions from both the Camerons and the Mackintoshes claiming their due as Lady Edina’s heirs, he knew strong measures would be needed to settle this glen. He wishes to see these hills held by the clan most worthy.”
Alasdair made a sound that could only be called a growl. His face turned purple.
Catriona’s ambers blazed against her neck, the stones’ pulsing heat warning her of danger. She took a deep breath, drawing herself up until the disturbing prickles receded and her necklace cooled.
“How did the Camerons and Mackintoshes know of Lady Edina’s death?” She looked at the Lowlander. “Why weren’t we informed, as well?”
“You know better than me how swiftly—or erroneously—word travels in these parts.” Sir Walter shrugged. “Perhaps a missive meant for you went astray? Either way—”
“You mean to see good men slaughtered.” Catriona felt bile rise in her throat. “Men who—”
“Men who fight, yes, until only one remains standing.” Sir Walter set his hand on his sword again, his fingers curling around the hilt. “If they do not”—his voice chilled—“you must face the consequences. Banishment from this glen to parts even wilder. Resettlement, if you will, in places where the crown can make use of men with ready sword arms and women adept at breeding.”
The words spoken, he folded his arms. “The choice is yours.”
Across the hall, Geordie barked hoarsely.
Out of the corner of her eye, Catriona thought she saw the dog struggling to rise. She wasn’t sure, because the hall was spinning, going black and white before her eyes. Around her, her kinsmen shouted and cursed, the noise hurting her ears. Even more alarming, something whirled and burned inside her. It was a horrible, swelling heat that filled her chest until she couldn’t breathe.
Slowly, she felt down and along the folds of her skirts, seeking the lady dirk hidden there. But she caught herself in time, clasping her hands tightly before her just before her fingers closed on the blade.
Ramming a dagger into the King’s man would bring even more grief to her clan.