Page 40 of Devil’s Highlander (Clan MacAlpin #1)

Fiona paused to study Marjorie, gauging her, and must’ve seen something that gave her enough courage to continue.

Putting her knife down, she announced confidently, “I didna like that you went away so close after he appeared. Your uncle said you’d gone to visit that Bridget lass, but I think you should have a care when it comes to those MacAlpins. ”

Marjorie swallowed hard. She was the trouble now—not the MacAlpins.

And she’d brought it under Fiona’s own roof.

She eyed the boys, wondering how to explain them, and what to say about her sudden appearance on her maid’s doorstep.

“It’s not Cormac . . . or . . . well, ’twas Cormac who helped me.

” Her tongue felt thick, and she looked down, worrying the fabric of her skirts in trembling hands.

Fiona turned to stir the soup. She allowed a few minutes of silence before asking, “When will you take them to Saint Machar?”

“The boys?” The maid was right—Saint Machar would be precisely the place to drop them, if she hadn’t spotted Archie that night at the bailie’s party under such suspicious circumstances. But she dare not confess her doubts about Archie, and so she lied instead. “There’s no room there for now.”

Fiona’s eyes widened. “No room at Saint Machar?”

She nodded, despising her deception. A full heart never lies, she thought, considering the old proverb with regret. “I’m hoping to find their families. And I’m hoping to find them work.”

Both statements were true, in their way.

Working in a Scottish kitchen had to be far preferable to toiling on a distant plantation.

And who was to say she wouldn’t find their families?

She’d need to begin at once, querying the boys as to their origins.

For all she knew, they hailed from as far away as Glasgow.

The door screeched loudly as it scraped against the stone floor. A heavyset man stood in the entrance, glowering.

“Good Christ preserve us,” Fiona whispered.

What little light there was in the vennel hit him from behind, casting strange shadows on an already hard and ugly face. The room fell silent. “What the devil . . . ? Who let these vermin in?”

The words tripped uneasily from his tongue, and Marjorie thought it might be whiskey that dulled the man’s speech.

Slamming the door, he stormed to Fiona, hovering over her, the rage plain on his face. “What are you up to now, you silly chit?”

“I . . . I . . .” Fiona’s cheeks turned crimson as she sputtered for words. “Da, this is—”

Her father? Marjorie bristled. Father or no, Marjorie wouldn’t sit idly by as a drunken sot bullied her maid.

He struck her as a tyrant who hadn’t a care for any but himself.

A man like that would not only balk at having folk under his roof, he’d turn the lot of them out on the street without so much as batting an eye.

Drawing her shoulders back, Marjorie spread her grand skirts around her. She knew his type.

She’d put the situation into language he’d understand. “My name is Lady Brodie, sirrah, and your daughter is a clever chit indeed.”

“Brodie,” he said, and then belched. “I’ve not heard of no Brodie around here.”

“I’m a woman of great resources, though I insist on a quiet life.

But now I find myself in a crisis, and your daughter offers a means to my preferred ends.

” Marjorie pulled the coin purse from where she’d hidden it in the skirts of her gown.

“Her wily tongue talked me out of nigh close to my entire savings. It’s all arranged, though.

” Waving the pouch enough for the coins to clink enticingly, she cocked a brow in challenge. “Unless you disagree?”

Shaking her head, Fiona tsked quietly. “A full purse ne’er lacks friends.”

The sound of money stopped the man, as Marjorie had known it would. He stepped closer. “What are you talking about, woman?”

“I’ve important business to attend. In . . . Glasgow,” she improvised, realizing perhaps she was onto something. If she could hide the boys away here with Fiona, it would buy her time to . . . What?

She’d saved Davie. That had been her sole intention. She’d had no plans after that.

Without Cormac, things felt so incomplete. What did she need to do now? She’d have to travel back to Dunnottar, of course. Deliver news of his passing. Tears stung her eyes, and she forced herself to focus on the moment.

She’d also need to sort out the Archie . . . situation. Fury spiked her veins, and it was almost refreshing. There was no way she’d allow a predator back into Saint Machar, where he could cull the strongest of Scotland’s lads for a profit.

“I’ve asked your daughter to attend my charges for me.”

“Your . . . charges ?” A bit of spittle flew out of his mouth at the last word.

Grimacing, she flicked a bit of food where it’d landed on her arm. “Aye, they’re students of mine. They’ll be no trouble. And it won’t be long until I return. I’ve offered her coin for her trouble.”

He steadied himself with a hand on the table. “They’re to stay here ?”

Fiona gaped, no less shocked. “Lord love her.”

“Aye, here .” Marjorie sat up, trying to look as much like an affronted lady as possible.

“I offered your daughter one bawbee per day for each lad, but she asked for two bob, to which I said no indeed , and I went up to a shilling, which wasn’t good enough for the likes of her , and so we finally ended up at half a crown for minding the lot of them. ”

Fiona’s father gawked, clearly not following, which had been Marjorie’s intention precisely. She willed the man to shut his mouth, though. He was exuding a powerful stench, and it was beginning to turn her stomach.

Schooling her features, she slipped the pouch back into her skirts. “I should be gone no more than a fortnight.”

Fiona’s father stared, astonished. “A half crown comin’ to me, eh?”

“To you ,” the maid scoffed under her breath.

“To your daughter,” Marjorie snarled, losing patience. She felt the desperate urge to escape—from the stench, from this man, from her loss.

She rose and marched to the hearth, pinning him with her haughtiest look. “You will receive payment only upon my return, and only when I see that neither these boys nor your daughter have come to any untoward harm.”

He shrugged, his face a simple, thuggish grimace. He may not have understood her words, but it appeared he at least understood their gist.

Marjorie knelt down to cup Davie’s chin. “I’ll be back for you, laddie,” she whispered. She kissed him on his forehead and then cleared her throat, willing her voice to steady. “I swear it.”

She swept out the door, trembling violently. She needed to weep, to scream.

Davie, Archie, Fiona . . . life had handed her a series of appalling revelations, pulling the shades from her eyes. She’d been naive and foolish for so long. To think there was true charity in the world. To think the world made any sense.

And she was a fool now if she thought a life without Cormac would ever make sense again.

Her gorge rose. Cormac.

She tugged at her bodice, half walking, half running to the head of the alley.

She knew she should exercise caution; she should be more circumspect, less conspicuous.

She was a woman alone, and with a pocketful of coin, no less, racing along as though she were a child.

But she needed to flee. She was going to be sick.

Cormac was gone, and she’d never be right again.

Hands grabbed her roughly from behind, clapping over her mouth and hard around her belly.

Terror exploded, blurring the edges of her vision. Marjorie’s heart pounded in her chest, as she was dragged back into the chill shadows of the vennel.