Page 32 of Tangled in a Highland Conspiracy
“If he tries to escape, kill him,” he said savagely. He was not even trying to hide the hatred in his eyes anymore. “Or better still, hold him down and let me do it.”
Ramsay could not even summon the energy to be afraid. He was going to die anyway, but Larry was a coward, and he doubted that he would have the stomach to kill him. Larry was only able to put on a show of bravado because he had an army at his command.
Now all Ramsay could do was concentrate on putting one foot in front of the other. With five miles to go, it would take a long time to get to Balmuir, so he tried to think of the one person who made him happy: Ailsa. His heart leaped and he smiled widely as he thought of her. There was at least one thing to be thankful for, he reasoned. He had found the love of his life.
* * *
Laird Ormond had been expected to take the news of his son’s death stoically since he was usually a person who showed little emotion, but he had not reacted that way at all. When he had first heard the awful news, Laird Ormond had refused to believe it. However, since John’s body had been brought to the castle he had been inconsolable. He had taken one look at his dead grey face and immediately burst into a storm of weeping. “This cannot be John,” he cried. “John never looked like this; he had pink cheeks and he looked…he looked—” Little did he realise but the word he was searching for was ‘alive’. Moira and Larry almost had to drag him away from the coffin
Moira was deeply worried about him. His reaction was, of course, understandable, but from that moment on until the funeral, she could hardly get him to move away from John’s corpse. She herself had wept copiously when she saw the dead body of her once young and handsome nephew, and even Larry had managed to summon up a few tears. However, neither had been crippled by grief, as the Laird was.
Ramsay, of course, had not been allowed to see him again, if only to see John’s face and say goodbye to him.
He had been escorted to a cell as soon as they reached Balmuir. It was no different from the one he had occupied in Mulrigg, with the same dank smell of mould and stale bodies, the same pattering of rats. He supposed that prison accommodation was not meant to be comfortable, but he had become used to it.
He was amazed, however, when his father came to his cell and had a chair brought so that he could sit and talk to his son on the morning of the funeral.
“Father,” he said in disbelief. “Why are you here? Is John’s funeral not taking place today?”
The Laird planted his cane on the floor between his legs and stared at his son for a moment. He usually tried not to look at Ramsay, but now that he was the only son he had left he felt compelled to.
“You did not kill John.” It was a statement rather than a question.
“Of course not!” he told the Laird. “John was my brother, and I loved him. He was the only person in the world who treated me with respect and dignity, and I miss him more than words can say.”
“But you blame yourself for his death?” his father asked, looking at Ramsay keenly.
“I do,” Ramsay replied, swallowing deeply to stop tears, gathering in his throat. “I should have tried harder to bring him back here. I should have shut him in his room and tied him up. I should have… Oh, I don’t know what I could have done, but it is no good saying ‘what if’ now, is it?” He felt enraged again, but more than that, he felt hurt that once more he was being left out. He should have been used to it, he told himself. After all, it had been happening his whole life, but on just this one occasion he would like to have been included.
The Laird looked at him suspiciously, unsure of whether to believe him or not. Perhaps a lifetime of jealousy had finally caught up with Ramsay and he had engineered a plot to murder John, or perhaps he had taken advantage of a plot someone else had crafted? Whatever the truth, John could not be resurrected.
Ramsay had put his head between his knees and wrapped his arms around them, wishing that his father would leave. He looked up. “Why did you come here, Father?” he asked. “To torment me?”
Then Laird Ormond said the last thing Ramsay expected him to say. “To bring you to the funeral,” he answered. “You will not sit with the family of course, but I will allow you to be there.”
Ramsay jumped to his feet. “What?” he asked incredulously. “You really want me to be at the funeral?”
“No. I would rather you were not there at all.” The Laird’s voice was gruff. “Whatever the truth is, I also consider you responsible for his death. But I know that John would want you to be there. Do you want to come?”
“Of course I do,” Ramsay answered. “I want to say goodbye to my brother more than anything else in the world. Thank you, Father.”
The Laird got to his feet and nodded. “I will have your clothes sent down as well as some washing materials,” he stated, frowning. “I do not want you looking like a scarecrow.”
Ramsay sank down onto his pallet again. He felt weak with emotion; sadness and joy in equal measure. He knew he would be treated with the same careless disregard as he usually was, but he could cope with that. At least he would be able to say goodbye to John.
* * *
The funeral had been arranged in very short order, to be held two days after the coffin arrived at Balmuir. John’s body had already been taken out of its first resting place in the rough wooden box and laid in an oak coffin which had been made in haste by the McBains but showed great craftsmanship. It was a gesture of great generosity.
The service, which was being held in the castle chapel, was a short one, and after they had brought the coffin in, Ramsay saw very little. He was seated in the last row of seats beside the door and sandwiched between two hefty guards. He could not keep his eyes off the coffin, even though he knew Moira and Larry were glaring at him, no doubt wondering why he had been allowed in.
As the cortège passed him, he reached out and touched the coffin, even though his hand was immediately snatched away by a guard. He was not allowed to go to the graveside service, but he was happy about that since he had been dreading it. Seeing John lowered into a hole in the ground was the stuff of his nightmares.
He watched the little procession walk towards the graveyard and silently murmured, “Goodbye, John.”
14
Ailsa’s heart was aching as she trudged upstairs to her bedroom. She had watched Ramsay walking away under guard without a backward glance at her. She knew that what awaited him at Balmuir was more of the same kind of treatment he had received at Mulrigg—perhaps even worse.
