"Aye," Montrose said absently, frowning at something beyond the leaves.
"So they were right then," Murine said sadly, staring at his dark silhouette as her mind began to race. Montrose and Connor were in cahoots. Had Montrose switched his will for one that left her in his care and then killed her father as well?
"Who were right?" Montrose asked, glancing around and she could hear the frown and worry in his voice. "And about what?"
Murine hesitated, but then shrugged and said, "Dougall, Greer and the others. They all think you switched Father's will for a forged one." She paused as Montrose sucked in a hissing breath, and then added, "And then killed him."
"What?" he squawked with dismay. "I did not kill him."
"I notice ye're no' denying switching the will though," Murine said dryly.
"What if I did?" he snapped. "It's not as if anyone was hurt by it. You made out well enough. You married a Buchanan and they're all rich as sin. They were not left with fallow fields and a castle full of mouths to feed when their laird died."
"So ye thought to improve the situation by gambling away what coin ye had?" she asked dryly, and then added, "And when that did no' work, ye went after my inheritance. What matter if ye had to push me father into his grave a decade or so early," she added bitterly.
"I told ye, I did no' kill him," Montrose growled, striding across the floor to loom over her. "He was ill. He died of his illness."
"He was recovering," she countered furiously. "All that remained of his illness were some sniffles and the fact that he still tired easily. He spent the afternoon before I left playing chess with me in the great hall. Do ye think I'd ha'e left otherwise?" she added sharply, and shook her head. "Ye can no' convince me he died of his illness, Monti. I ken better. Besides, I hardly think ye'd have switched the will and then let him live and risk his discovering it."
Of all her words, the last ones seemed to have the most impact and Murine watched narrow-eyed as his head went back as if she'd punched him. But after a moment, he turned away, stammering, "I-I didn't kill him." Voice gaining strength, he added, "I wouldn't kill anyone. Even him, who I hated for stealing Mother."
Murine's mouth tightened at his words. She'd heard the claim many a time this last year when Montrose was in his cups. Her father had killed his father and stolen his mother and was to blame for his having to live with his grandfather, a miserable old bastard who had made his and William's life hell.
She'd tried to tell him that their mother had tried desperately to get their grandfather to release him and William to her, but he wouldn't listen. And, frankly, she was tired of feeling guilty about having her parents while he had been raised by his paternal grandfather. Especially since, while she'd had a wonderful childhood, the last several years had been a hell made up of loss and grief, followed by a year of misery and humiliation at the hands of the man before her. She found it hard to feel sorry for the abuse he'd suffered when he'd turned around and inflicted his own abuse on her this last year in the form of insults and petty cruelties, which had been topped off with his trying to whore her out.
"Just admit ye killed him and be done with it," she snarled angrily. "Who else would have done it? Connor and ye are the only ones who benefited from his death and Connor was no' there."
"Aye, he was," Montrose said quickly.
Murine peered at him with disbelief. "Connor ne'er even set foot in Castle Carmichael until after the reading of the will."
"Aye, he did," Montrose insisted. "He rode in as one of my soldiers the night your father died."
When she didn't look convinced, he snapped, "Do you think he would have included me in the matter otherwise? He was the one who came to me. He'd heard about your father being ill and wanted to switch the wills, but needed a way to enter Carmichael without being noticed. He had a beard and mustache then, donned braies and mail, tucked his hair up under a cap and rode in with my men, pretty as you please. No one even gave him a second look. And no one recognized him when he later returned in a tartan, his face clean shaven and his long hair down."
Murine's eyes widened at this. She almost believed him. But--"Why did he need a way into Carmichael at all if ye were the one who was to switch the wills?"
"He was supposed to switch them himself originally," Montrose said stiffly. "But I convinced him that 'twould be better did I do it. Were I to get caught in the room, I could claim I just wanted a word with your father. Were he caught, no excuse would suffice."
"Well ye did no' do that out o' the kindness o' yer heart," Murine said grimly, knowing he'd only take a risk like that if he had something to gain from it.
"Nay," he admitted stiffly, his nose rising somewhat. "My having the original will was to ensure he paid me fairly for my aid."
"More fairly than he'd intended and more often," Murine guessed quietly. "Ye've been blackmailing him."
"I owe a great deal of coin to some very powerful lords," Montrose said rather than deny it. "Besides, he owes me. He inherited everything . . . and all because of me."
"Everything except Waverly," Murine pointed out coldly.
"Aye," he acknowledged unhappily. "I made that part of the bargain. The original plan was that he would have your care, but I knew the king was interested in Waverly and hoped he'd forgive a debt I owed him if I signed it over to him instead. I convinced Connor to change the will so that I had your care and charge of your dower."
"And did yer plan work?" she asked. "Did the king forgive your debt?"
Montrose grimaced. "Only part of it."
Murine was silent for a moment, considering what she'd learned, then murmured, "So yer claim is that ye only switched the wills and 'twas Connor who killed father?"
Montrose frowned and looked torn for a moment, but then shook his head. "Nay. Connor is not a killer. I would not have dealings with a killer. Nay. That would ruin me. Yer father must have relapsed," he decided. "His ailment must have returned and hit him harder the second time. Or mayhap his heart just gave out from the strain."
"Connor is not a killer?" Murine asked with disbelief. "What do ye call what he did to Alpin's escort?"
"He did not do anything to the boy's escort," Montrose said with a frown. "He said he grabbed the lad while they were distracted."
"Then why were they found dead on the roadside?" she asked.
She saw his hands squeeze into fists, and then he peered briefly out of the opening again before hurrying over to grab her arm and drag her to her feet. "The way is clear. We can go now."
Once upright, Murine struggled against him, keeping him distracted while she did the only thing she could think to do and quickly tore the lace trim from one sleeve of her borrowed gown. She let it fall to the cave floor as Montrose dragged her toward the opening he'd been standing in front of. Her hope was that they would realize she'd been taken out through the secret passage, and that Dougall would find the lace and know she'd been there. She would leave her entire gown in pieces across the country for him to follow if she had to, and if she could.
Chapter 16
"Stop dawdling. We are almost there."
Murine grimaced at that news and dropped the bit of cloth she'd managed to tear from her sleeve. "That eager to see me dead, brother?"
"I told you, Connor is not a killer," Montrose growled, jerking her several feet forward.
> "Aye, and if ye believe that then ye're lying to yerself," she said as she peered around at where they were. It seemed to her like they'd been walking for hours, but she suspected that was mostly because she had been dawdling. Had they ridden on horseback they probably could have covered the distance much more quickly. But they were on foot, and Murine had done everything she could think of to slow their progress, sure that if Connor got his hands on her, she was as good as dead. That thought made her jerk her arm from Montrose and say, "Ye can tell yerself what ye like, but in yer heart, ye ken he killed me father and Alpin's guards, and now ye're delivering me to me death."
"He does not want to kill you. He wants to talk to you," he said impatiently, and then using a more wheedling tone, added, "All you have to do is agree to say you saw the will and knew your father was leaving all to Connor before his death and all will be well."
"Oh, aye," Murine said dryly as he caught her arm and started pulling her forward again. "And what of Alpin?"
"What of him?" Montrose asked shortly.
"He can hardly let him live," she pointed out. "He kidnapped him, killed his escort and--"
"Shut up!" Montrose bellowed suddenly, shaking her by the hold he had on her arm. "Just shut up."
"Why?" she asked softly. "So ye can pretend ye've not sunk so low that ye're willing to be a party to murder?"
Montrose stared at her bleakly, then jerked around when a branch snapped in the trees ahead. A moment later a man stepped into view. Tall, with dirty blond hair and an affable smile, the man glanced from Murine to Montrose, then said, "I was beginning to worry ye'd been caught. Then I heard ye shouting, Monti." He tilted his head. "Everything a'right?"
Montrose stared briefly, then sighed and started forward, pulling Murine behind him. "Aye. My sister was just irritating the hell out of me as usual."
"Ah." The man she supposed was Connor Barclay nodded with understanding. "Siblings can be a trial at times."
"Is that why ye tried to kill yers?" Murine asked sweetly, recalling the rumors Greer had garnered about this man. "Imagine. Had ye succeeded ye'd be the Barclay now. Instead ye failed and were banished. Yer mother must be doubly proud."