Part 1 (2/2)

”To everything there is a season.”

Alexander laughed at that.

Footsteps sounded outside the room, followed by the main door opening and closing.

Lochlan and Alexander exchanged puzzled frowns.

It was far too late for company.

An old servant entered the hall with a youth behind him. The boy hadn't quite reached his majority.

Dressed in rags, the boy carried a weathered satchel.

”Forgive me, my lord,” the old servant said to Alexander. ”The lad said he had news of Lysander.”

Alexander motioned the boy to come forward. ”Is there a problem?”

The boy hesitated, then shrank back. He looked hesitantly at the servant, then to Lochlan.

”Speak, lad,” Alexander said patiently. ”No one here will harm you.”

Still the boy looked doubtful. ”I have word, my lord. This man came to our village and he told me I was to bring this to you.”

The boy rushed forward, dropped the satchel on the table, then ran back to a safe distance as if he expected the wrath of h.e.l.l to fall down upon his young head.

Lochlan frowned at his fearful actions.

Alexander ran his hand over the worn leather. ”Is this Lysander's?”

The boy swallowed. ”I know not, my lord. I was only told to give it you and to not open it.”

By the pallor of the boy's face, Lochlan could surmise the child hadn't listened.

”Who gave you this?” Lochlan asked.

The youth scratched his neck nervously. ”He said there was a letter for Lord Alexander inside and...and to tell his lords.h.i.+p that next time you should hire yourself someone better than a French knight.” The boy was shaking. ”Can I go home now, please, my lord?”

Alexander nodded.

The boy shot from the room as if Lucifer's hounds were after him.

Lochlan's frown deepened.

Alexander studied the bag. ”How very strange.”

”Aye,” Lochlan said, leaning forward to look at it as well. ”It is indeed.”

Alexander opened the satchel and dumped its contents onto the table.

Lochlan stood up the instant he saw the green-and-black plaid that their father had commissioned years ago for his sons. He'd never known anyone other than he and his brothers to have it.

His blood went cold as he stared at it in disbelief.

Alexander opened a small piece of parchment while Lochlan pulled the plaid closer to examine it.

”Canmore,” he read aloud, ”I don't like being made a fool of by anyone. You can tell the gypsies that they are next on our list. You should have never told the king about us. Had you stayed quiet, your daughter might have lived. Now we'll be coming for her and the rest of the MacAllisters. Guard your backs carefully.”

Alexander's hands shook and his face turned dark red with rage. ”It's signed Graham MacKaid.”

Lochlan barely heard the words. He was too fixated by the initials embroidered in the corner of the tattered and worn plaid.

K.M.

Kieran MacAllister.

But how?

Who would have had his brother's plaid? No one outside of their clan would have access to it.

Seeking more clues, Lochlan unfolded the material and cursed as a disembodied hand fell to the floor.

Alexander's own curse rang out as he saw it and the strange brand that was on the back of the hand.

”So help me,” he growled. ”I'll kill every one of those b.a.s.t.a.r.ds for this.”

Lochlan found it hard to breathe. Hard to focus. He ran through his mind the man whom he had met briefly. A man he had paid all too little attention to.

”Who was Lysander?” he asked Alexander.

”I don't know to be honest. I found him in France about five years ago when I went to visit a friend. He had just come back from Outremer and refused to speak of it.”

”And this plaid?”

Alexander shrugged. ”It was wrapped around him when he asked for work. Does it mean something to you?”

It meant more to him than his own life. ”Did he say how he came by it?”

He shook his head. ”I only know it was very dear to him. My wife's maid tried to take it from him once to clean it and he almost tore her arm for the trouble. He was rather feral in the early days of his employment.”

Alexander retrieved the hand and went to find the priest to dispose of it.

Lochlan ran the monogrammed corner of the plaid through his long fingers as he stared at the initials his mother had placed there.

How had a Frenchman found Kieran's plaid?

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