Highland Sinner

Book 16: Murrays

by Hannah Howell

Genres: General Fiction; Romance; Historical Romance

Synopsis

Sir Tormand Murray is certainly a rogue, but a callous killer? Never. Yet he cannot explain how he came to wake up next to the butchered body of one of his former lovers. Someone is prepared to kill again and again until Tormand is found guilty and hanged. And his only hope of discovering the culprit lies with Morainn Ross, a reclusive, sensual beauty gifted with second sight.

Branded a witch, Morainn has never met a man who accepted her strange talent, much less one who could so easily inflame her passion. There's no resisting Tormand's rugged masculinity—and no escaping the enemy, who grows more twisted every day. And even as logic decrees that a lasting union is impossible, Morainn knows that her destiny is bound forever with the knight who has claimed her, body and soul.

Release date: October 25, 2008

Publisher: Zebra Books

Print pages: 384

Sample

Scotland—Early Summer 1478

What was that smell?

Tormand Murray struggled to wake up at least enough to move away from the smell assaulting his nose. He groaned as he started to turn and the ache in his head became a piercing agony. Flopping onto his side, he cautiously ran his hand over his head and found the source of that pain. There was a very tender swelling at the back of his head. The damp matted hair around the spot told him that it had bled, but he could feel no continued blood flow. That indicated that he had been unconscious for more than a few minutes, possibly for even more than a few hours.

As he lay there trying to will away the pain in his head, Tormand tried to open his eyes. A sharp pinch halted his attempt and he cursed. He had definitely been unconscious for quite a while and something beside a knock on the head had been done to him for his eyes were crusted shut. He had a fleeting, hazy memory of something being thrown into his eyes before all went black, but it was not enough to give him any firm idea of what had happened to him. Although he ruefully admitted to himself that it was as much vanity as a reluctance to cause himself pain that made him fear he would tear out his eyelashes if he just forced his eyes open, Tormand proceeded very carefully. He gently brushed aside the crust on his eyes until he could open them, even if only enough to see if there was any water close at hand to wash his eyes with.

And, he hoped, enough water to wash himself, if he proved to be the source of the stench. To his shame there had been a few times he had woken to find himself stinking; drink and a few stumbles into some foul muck upon the street being the cause. He had never been this foul before, he mused, as the smell began to turn his stomach.

Then his whole body tensed as he suddenly recognized the odor. It was death. Beneath the rank odor of an unclean garderobe was the scent of blood—a lot of blood. Far too much to have come from his own head wound.

The very next thing Tormand became aware of was that he was naked. For one brief moment panic seized him. Had he been thrown into some open grave with other bodies? He quickly shook aside that fear. It was not dirt or cold flesh he felt beneath him, but the cool linen of a soft bed. Rousing from unconsciousness to that odor had obviously disordered his mind, he thought, disgusted with himself.

Easing his lids open at last, he grunted in pain as the light stung his eyes and made his head throb even more. Everything was a little blurry, but he could make out enough to see that he was in a rather opulent bedchamber, one that looked vaguely familiar. His blood ran cold and he was suddenly even more reluctant to seek out the source of that smell. It certainly could not be from some battle, if only because the part of the bedchamber he was looking at showed no signs of one.

If there is a dead body in this room, laddie, best ye learn about it quick. Ye might be needing to run, said a voice in his head that sounded remarkably like his squire Walter, and Tormand had to agree with it. He forced down all the reluctance he felt and, since he could see no sign of the dead in the part of the room he studied, turned over to look in the other direction. The sight that greeted his watering eyes had him making a sound that all too closely resembled the one his niece Anna made whenever she saw a spider. Death shared his bed.

He scrambled away from the corpse so quickly he nearly fell out of the bed. Struggling for calm, he eased his way off the bed and then sought out some water to cleanse his eyes so that he could see more clearly. It took several awkward bathings of his eyes before the sting in them eased and the blurring faded. One of the first things he saw after he dried his face was his clothing folded neatly on a chair, as though he had come to this bedchamber as a guest, willingly. Tormand wasted no time in putting on his clothes and searching the room for any other signs of his presence, collecting up his weapons and his cloak.

Knowing he could not avoid looking at the body in the bed any longer, he stiffened his spine and walked back to the bed. Tormand felt the sting of bile in the back of his throat as he looked upon what had once been a beautiful woman. So mutilated was the body that it took him several moments to realize that he was looking at what was left of Lady Clara Sinclair. The ragged clumps of golden blond hair left upon her head and the wide, staring blue eyes told him that, as did the heart-shaped birthmark above the open wound where her left breast had been. The rest of the woman’s face was so badly cut up it would have been difficult for her own mother to recognize her without those few clues.

The cold calm he had sought now filling his body and mind, Tormand was able to look more closely. Despite the mutilation there was an expression visible upon poor Clara’s face, one that hinted she had been alive during at least some of the horrors inflicted upon her. A quick glance at her wrists and ankles revealed that she had once been bound and had fought those bindings, adding weight to Tormand’s dark suspicion. Either poor Clara had had some information someone had tried to torture out of her or she had met up with someone who hated her with a cold, murderous fury.

And someone who hated him as well, he suddenly thought, and tensed. Tormand knew he would not have come to Clara’s bedchamber for a night of sweaty bed play. Clara had once been his lover, but their affair had ended and he never returned to a woman once he had parted from her. He especially did not return to a woman who was now married, and to a man as powerful and jealous as Sir Ranald Sinclair. That meant that someone had brought him here, someone who wanted him to see what had been done to a woman he had once bedded, and, mayhap, take the blame for this butchery.

That thought shook him free of the shock and sorrow he felt. “Poor, foolish Clara,” he murmured. “I pray ye didnae suffer this because of me. Ye may have been vain, a wee bit mean of spirit, witless, and lacking morals, but ye still didnae deserve this.”

He crossed himself and said a prayer over her. A glance at the windows told him that dawn was fast approaching and he knew he had to leave quickly. “I wish I could tend to ye now, lass, but I believe I am meant to take the blame for your death and I cannae; I willnae. But, I vow, I will find out who did this to ye and they will pay dearly for it.”

After one last careful check to be certain no sign of his presence remained in the bedchamber, Tormand slipped away. He had to be grateful that whoever had committed this heinous crime had done so in this house, for he knew all the secretive ways in and out of it. His affair with Clara might have been short, but it had been lively and he had slipped in and out of this house many, many times. Tormand doubted if even Sir Ranald, who had claimed the fine house when he had married Clara, knew all of the stealthy approaches to his bride’s bedchamber.

Once outside, Tormand swiftly moved into the lingering shadows of early dawn. He leaned against the outside of the rough stone wall surrounding Clara’s house and wondered where he should go. A small part of him wanted to just go home to Dubhlinn and forget about it all, but he knew he would never heed it. Even if he had no real affection for Clara, one reason their lively affair had so quickly died, he could not simply forget that the woman had been brutally murdered. If he was right in suspecting that someone had wanted him to be found next to the body and be accused of Clara’s murder, then he definitely could not simply forget the whole thing.

Despite that, Tormand decided the first place he would go was his house. He could still smell the stench of death on his clothing. It might be just his imagination, but he knew he needed a bath and clean clothes to help him forget that smell. As he began his stealthy way home Tormand thought it was a real shame that a bath could not also wash away the images of poor Clara’s butchered body.

 

“Are ye certain ye ought to say anything to anybody?”

Tormand nibbled on a thick piece of cheese as he studied his aging companion. Walter Burns had been his squire for twelve years and had no inclination to be anything more than a squire. His utter lack of ambition was why he had been handed over to Tormand by the same man who had knighted him at the tender age of eighteen. It had been a glorious battle and Walter had proven his worth. The man had simply refused to be knighted. Fed up with his squire’s lack of interest in the glory, the honors, and the responsibility that went with knighthood Sir MacBain had sent the man to Tormand. Walter had continued to prove his worth, his courage, and his contentment in remaining a lowly squire. At the moment, however, the man was openly upset and his courage was a little weak-kneed.

“I need to find out who did this,” Tormand said and then sipped at his ale, hungry and thirsty but partaking of both food and drink cautiously for his stomach was still unsteady.

“Why?” Walter sat down at Tormand’s right and poured himself some ale. “Ye got away from it. ’Tis near the middle of the day and no one has come here crying for vengeance, so I be thinking ye got away clean, aye? Why let anyone even ken ye were near the woman? Are ye trying to put a rope about your neck? And, if I recall rightly, ye didnae find much to like about the woman once your lust dimmed, so why fret o’er justice for her?”

“’Tis sadly true that I didnae like her, but she didnae deserve to be butchered like that.”

Walter grimaced and idly scratched the ragged scar on his pockmarked left cheek. “True, but I still say if ye let anyone ken ye were there ye are just asking for trouble.”

“I would like to think that verra few people would e’er believe I could do that to a woman e’en if I was found lying in her blood, dagger in hand.”

“Of course ye wouldnae do such as that, and most folk ken it, but that doesnae always save a mon, does it? Ye dinnae ken everyone who has the power to cry ye a murderer and hang ye and they dinnae ken ye. Then there are the ones who are jealous of ye or your kinsmen and would like naught better than to strike out at one of ye. Aye, look at your brother James. Any fool who kenned the mon would have kenned he couldnae have killed his wife, but he still had to suffer years marked as an outlaw and a woman-killer, aye?”

“I kenned I kept ye about for a reason. Aye, ’twas to raise my spirits when they are low and to embolden me with hope and courage just when I need it the most.”

“Wheesht, nay need to slap me with the sharp edge of your tongue. I but speak the truth and one ye would be wise to nay ignore.”

Tormand nodded carefully, wary of moving his still aching head too much. “I dinnae intend to ignore it. ’Tis why I have decided to speak only to Simon.”

Walter cursed softly and took a deep drink of ale. “Och, a king’s mon nay less.”

“Aye, and my friend. And a mon who worked hard to help James. He is a mon who has a true skill at solving such puzzles and hunting down the guilty. This isnae simply about justice for Clara. Someone wanted me to be blamed for her murder, Walter. I was put beside her body to be found and accused of the crime. And for such a crime I would be hanged—so that means that someone wants me dead.”

“That is true enough. Nay just dead, either, but your good name weel blackened.”

“Exactly. So I have sent word to Simon asking him to come here, stressing an urgent need to speak with him.”

Tormand was pleased that he sounded far more confident of his decision than he felt. It had taken him several hours actually to write and send the request for a meeting to Simon. The voice in his head that told him to just turn his back on the whole matter, the same opinion that Walter offered, had grown almost too loud to ignore. Only the certainty that this had far more to do with him than with Clara had given him the strength to silence that cowardly voice.

He had the feeling that part of his stomach’s unsteadiness was due to a growing fear that he was about to suffer as James had. It had taken his foster brother three long years to prove his innocence and wash away the stain to his honor. Three long, lonely years of running and hiding. Tormand dreaded the thought that he might be pulled into the same ugly quagmire. If nothing else, he was deeply concerned about how it would affect his mother, who had already suffered too much grief and worry over her children. First his sister Sorcha had been beaten and raped, then his sister Gillyanne had been kidnapped—twice—the second time leading to a forced marriage, and then there had been the trouble that had sent James running for the shelter of the hills. His mother did not need to suffer through yet another one of her children mired in danger.

“If ye could find something the killer touched we could solve this puzzle right quick,” said Walter.

Pulling free of his dark thoughts about the possibility that his family was cursed, Tormand frowned at his squire. “What are ye talking about?”

“Weel, if ye had something the killer touched we could take it to the Ross witch.”

Tormand had heard of the Ross witch. The woman lived in a tiny cottage several miles outside of town. Although the townspeople had driven the woman away ten years ago, many still journeyed to her cottage for help, mostly for the herbal concoctions the woman made. Some claimed the woman had visions that had aided them in solving a problem. Despite having grown up surrounded by people who had special gifts like that, he doubted the woman was the miracle worker some claimed her to be. Most of the time such witches were simply aging women skilled with herbs and an ability to convince people that they had some great mysterious power.

“And why do ye think she could help if I brought her something touched by the killer?” he asked.

“Because she gets a vision of the truth when she touches something.” Walter absently crossed himself, as though he feared he risked his soul by even speaking of the woman. “Old George, the steward for the Gillespie house, told me that Lady Gillespie had some of her jewelry stolen. He said her ladyship took the box that the jewels had been taken from to the Ross witch and the moment the woman held the box she had a vision about what had happened.”

When Walter said no more, Tormand asked, “What did the vision tell the woman?”

“That Lady Gillespie’s eldest son had taken the jewels. Crept into her ladyship’s bedchamber whilst she was at court and helped himself to all the best pieces.”

“It doesnae take a witch to ken that. Lady Gillespie’s eldest son is weel kenned to spend too much coin on fine clothes, women, and the toss of the dice. Near every mon, woman, and bairn in town kens that.” Tormand took a drink of ale to help him resist the urge to grin at the look of annoyance on Walter’s homely face. “Now I ken why the fool was banished to his grandfather’s keep far from all the temptation here near the court.”

“Weel, it wouldnae hurt to try. Seems a lad like ye ought to have more faith in such things.”

“Oh, I have ample faith in such things, enough to wish that ye wouldnae call the woman a witch. That is a word that can give some woman blessed with a gift from God a lot of trouble, deadly trouble.”

“Ah, aye, aye, true enough. A gift from God, is it?”

“Do ye really think the devil would give a woman the gift to heal or to see the truth or any other gift or skill that can be used to help people?”

“Nay, of course he wouldnae. So why do ye doubt the Ross woman?”

“Because there are too many women who are, at best, a wee bit skilled with herbs yet claim such things as visions or the healing touch in order to empty some fool’s purse. They are frauds and oftimes what they do makes life far more difficult for those women who have a true gift.”

Walter frowned for a moment, obviously thinking that over, and then grunted his agreement. “So ye willnae be trying to get any help from Mistress Ross?”

“Nay, I am nay so desperate for such as that.”

“Oh, I am nay sure I would refuse any help just now,” came a cool, hard voice from the doorway of Tormand’s hall.

Tormand looked toward the door and started to smile at Simon. The expression died a swift death. Sir Simon Innes looked every inch the king’s man at the moment. His face was pale and cold fury tightened its predatory lines. Tormand got the sinking feeling that Simon already knew why he had sent for him. Worse, he feared his friend had some suspicions about his guilt. That stung, but Tormand decided to smother his sense of insult until he and Simon had at least talked. The man was his friend and a strong believer in justice. He would listen before he acted.

Nevertheless, Tormand tensed with a growing alarm when Simon strode up to him. Every line of the man’s tall, lean body was taut with fury. Out of the corner of his eye, Tormand saw Walter tense and place his hand on his sword, revealing that Tormand was not the only one who sensed danger. It was as he looked back at Simon that Tormand realized the man clutched something in his hand.

A heartbeat later, Simon tossed what he held onto the table in front of Tormand. Tormand stared down at a heavy gold ring embellished with blood-red garnets. Unable to believe what he was seeing, he looked at his hands, his unadorned hands, and then looked back at the ring. His first thought was to wonder how he could have left that room of death and not realized that he was no longer wearing his ring. His second thought was that the point of Simon’s sword was dangerously sharp as it rested against his jugular.

 

“Nay! Dinnae kill him! He is innocent!”

Morainn Ross blinked in surprise as she looked around her. She was at home sitting up in her own bed, not in a great hall watching a man press a sword point against the throat of another man. Ignoring the grumbling of her cats that had been disturbed from their comfortable slumber by her outburst, she flopped back down and stared up at the ceiling. It had only been a dream.

“Nay, no dream,” she said after a moment of thought. “A vision.”

Thinking about that a little longer she then nodded her head. It had definitely been a vision. The man who had sat there with a sword at his throat was no stranger to her. She had been seeing him in dreams and visions for months now. He had smelled of death, was surrounded by it, yet there had never been any blood upon his hands.

“Morainn? Are ye weel?”

Morainn looked toward the door to her small bedchamber and smiled at the young boy standing there. Walin was only six but he was rapidly becoming very helpful. He also worried about her a lot, but she supposed that was to be expected. Since she had found him upon her threshold when he was the tender age of two she was really the only parent he had ever known, had given him the only home he had ever known. She just wished it were a better one. He was also old enough now to understand that she was often called a witch, as well as the danger that appellation brought with it. Unfortunately, with his black hair and blue eyes, he looked enough like her to have many believe he was her bastard child and that caused its own problems for both of them.

“I am fine, Walin,” she said and began to ease her way out of bed around all the sleeping cats. “It must be verra late in the day.”

“’Tis the middle of the day, but ye needed to sleep. Ye were verra late returning from helping at that birthing.”

“Weel, set something out on the table for us to eat then, I will join ye in a few minutes.”

Dressed and just finishing the braiding of her hair, Morainn joined Walin at the small table set out in the main room of the cottage. Seeing the bread, cheese, and apples upon the table, she smiled at Walin, acknowledging a job well done. She poured them each a tankard of cider and then sat down on the little bench facing his across the scarred wooden table.

“Did ye have a bad dream?” Walin asked as he handed Morainn an apple to cut up for him.

“At first I thought it was a dream, but now I am certain it was a vision, another one about that mon with the mismatched eyes.” She carefully set the apple on a wooden plate and sliced it for Walin.

“Ye have a lot about him, dinnae ye.”

“It seems so. ’Tis verra odd. I dinnae ken who he is and have ne’er seen such a mon. And, if this vision is true, I dinnae think I e’er will.”

“Why?” Walin accepted the plate of sliced apple and immediately began to eat.

“Because this time I saw a verra angry gray-eyed mon holding a sword to his throat.”

“But didnae ye say that your visions are of things to come? Mayhap he isnae dead yet. Mayhap ye are supposed to find him and warn him.”

Morainn considered that possibility for a moment and then shook her head. “Nay, I think not. Neither heart nor mind urges me to do that. If that were what I was meant to do, I would feel the urge to go out right now and hunt him down. And I would have been given some clue as to where he is.”

“Oh. So we will soon see the mon whose eyes dinnae match?”

“Aye, I do believe we will.”

“Weel that will be interesting.”

She smiled and turned her attention to the need to fill her very empty stomach. If the man with the mismatched eyes showed up at her door, it would indeed be interesting. It could also be dangerous. She could not allow herself to forget that death stalked him. Her visions told her he was innocent of those deaths, but there was some connection between him and them. It was as if each thing he touched died in bleeding agony. She certainly did not wish to become a part of that swirling mass of blood she always saw around his feet. Unfortunately she did not believe that fate would give her any chance to avoid meeting the man. All she could do was pray that when he rapped upon her door he did not still have death seated upon his shoulder.

“Do ye intend to be my judge and executioner, Simon?”

Tormand watched as Simon struggled to gain some semblance of the calm and sanity he was so well known for. Despite how badly it stung to think that, even for one brief moment, Simon could believe that he could do such a thing to Clara, to any woman, Tormand could understand what prodded the man. Any man of honor would be horrified by what had been done to Clara and would ache to make someone pay for the crime. The brief insanity that could grip a man upon seeing such dark brutality easily explained why finding Tormand’s ring clutched in Clara’s hand would bring Simon to Tormand’s door in a blind fury. The fact that Simon had not immediately killed him told Tormand there was some doubt stirring behind Simon’s shock and fury.

“Why was she clutching your ring?” Simon demanded.

“I fear I have no answer for ye,” Tormand answered. “It was undoubtedly put there by the same one, or ones, who placed me in Clara’s bed.”

Simon stared at Tormand for a moment before sheathing his sword. He sat down, poured himself a tankard of ale, and drank it all down. A shudder went through his tall, almost too lean frame, and then he poured himself another tankard full of ale.

“Ye were there?” Simon finally asked in a much calmer tone of voice.

“Aye.”

Tormand drank some ale to prepare himself and told Simon everything he knew. He had not even finished his tale before he began to realize that he actually knew very little. All he could swear to was what he had seen—someone had killed Clara—and what he knew in his heart—that someone was not him. He did not know how he had been captured and taken to the room. He did not even know how Simon had become involved. It could have been simple bad luck, but Tormand’s instincts told him that it was much more than that. Although he had no proof of it, he felt certain it was all part of a plan. He just had to figure out what that plan was.

“Why did ye go to see Clara?” he asked Simon. “Did her husband return, find her body, and then send for you?”

“Nay. I received a summons I believed had come from Clara.” Simon shrugged. “It told me to arrive at her house with some of my men at a very precise time and to do so as furtively as possible.”

“And ye acted on that? Did ye ken Clara weel enough for such a summons to make ye hie to her side?”

“I didnae ken her as weel as ye did,” drawled Simon. “But, I did ken her weel enough. She was a cousin of mine.” He smiled faintly at the shock Tormand could not hide. “Dinnae fear that I will demand ye meet me at sword point to defend her honor. She had little left to defend. The woman had been lifting her skirts for the lads, any lad with a fair face, since not long after her first flux. She was ne’er sweet, rarely honest, and felt the world owed her homage simply because God had gifted her with a bonnie face. Nay, I did as she asked because I hoped she was about to give me proof of her husband’s many crimes, ones I have been looking into most carefully for months now. It was a faint hope as she benefited from his dealings, but I couldnae ignore it.”

“Do ye think he may have killed her?” Tormand began doubting that possibility even as he asked Simon the question.

“Nay. She was useful to him and, e’en if she had thought to betray him, she was cunning enough to keep him from discovering it, to make sure she could never be connected to that betrayal. As I said, I doubt she would e’er have betrayed the mon, for she fully enjoyed spending the coin he gained from all his crimes and lies. Yet, it can be no surprise that, upon seeing her butchered body, his was the first name that leapt to mind.”

“But then ye found my ring in her hand.”

“Aye.” Simon grimaced and dragged a hand through his thick black hair. “I couldnae believe it of ye and, yet, why was it there? And then I recalled that ye were once her lover. Jesu, I feared some madness had seized you and, like some rabid dog, ye needed to be cut down. I think a madness overcame me e’en to briefly consider that ye could do such a thing. ’Tis as if whoever did that to Clara left the stench of their insanity befouling that room and I breathed too deeply of it.”

Tormand nodded. “I ken exactly what ye mean. When I realized that Clara must have been alive during some of the horrors inflicted upon her, I did wonder if someone had tortured her because they thought she had some information they needed.”

“That is a possibility, although it doesnae explain why such an effort was made to make it look as if ye had committed the crime. There may be some cuckolded husbands who would like to see ye dead, but I cannae see why they would do something like this to strike out at you.”

“I dinnae cuckold husbands. Nay knowingly.” Tormand hated the defensive note that entered his voice, but forced himself to ignore it. “Yet, I cannae shake the feeling that Clara was killed because of me, because she had once been my lover. It seems vain to think it—”

“Nay. Ye were set there to be blamed for it and thus it must have something to do with you.” Simon rested his forearms on the table and stared into his tankard of al. . .