Page 42 of Tangled in a Highland Conspiracy
“What business is that of yours?” Molly cried. “Who I marry is my own concern. It is far better that I wed Larry than either of his imbecilic cousins.”
“You don’t love Larry Ormond,” Ailsa’s husky voice was as hard as flint as she stared at the person whom she had thought of her friend up till an hour before. “You are interested only in what you can get from him, and he is buying you with gifts and professions of love. Do you think he really means it when he says he loves you?”
For a moment, Molly looked as though she might spring on Ailsa and attack her with her fists, but instead, she took a deep breath and closed her eyes. She gathered her willpower and shot back with a scathing answer.
“You think I am unworthy of Larry’s love?” she demanded. “How convenient, since you are the one who is next in line to marry him and receive his wealth and his estate. Do you love him?”
“No, definitely not,” Ailsa answered. Her voice, to Molly, was maddeningly calm. “But then I do not want to marry him. As far as I am concerned, you deserve each other, but I will not stand by and watch an innocent man’s life be cut short so that you and Larry Ormond can live off the fat of our land. Do he and his uncle want to make peace with us at all?”
“I am not privy to all his plans, but I know he wants peace,” Molly answered. “Yet he also wants to see justice done for his cousin.”
“If he wants to see justice done then he should set Ramsay free and concentrate on finding the real killer,” Ailsa growled. “Ramsay is nothing more than a sacrificial lamb to the slaughter whose life will be taken merely so that justice will beseento be done. He is not guilty; you know it and I know it. The real killer is still at large.”
“The real murderer will be dealt with in court!” Molly spat back. Her eyes were blazing with rage. “You have no evidence against Larry, but Ramsay was there. So were you, by the way, and the only reason you are not sitting in a cell beside Ramsay is because you are McBain’s daughter.”
This last insult was too much. Fuelled by a sudden spurt of rage, Ailsa lunged forward, drew her arm back, and landed an open-handed blow on Molly’s face which was so hard that she squealed in pain and staggered backward to fall onto her bed.
She was clutching at her cheek and looking up at Ailsa with pain written all over her face, and when she uncovered her face there was a perfect, bright red imprint of Ailsa’s hand on it.
Ailsa knew she should feel ashamed of herself, but she could not summon up even an atom of regret. This woman had betrayed her and shattered her trust; she had ceased to be the friend she depended on and confided in and had instead become her mortal enemy.
Molly had curled up on the bed with her hands over her head as though she was expecting another attack. This was not the amiable, good-humoured Ailsa she knew and had always been able to tolerate and even like sometimes. This was another side of her, one that Molly had never seen before.
All her life Molly had carried a heavy weight of bitterness and resentment which had festered inside her. The only way she had been able to cope was to keep quiet and never show her deepest feelings, then Larry had come along and she had discovered a kindred spirit. He too felt as though he deserved better, and as they compared their respective experiences, they found they had much in common, and that was when their common goal had been found.
He had fallen in love with her, of that Molly was sure, and although he had never actually said the three words, he had written her affectionate letters and showered her with gifts. Now she had ruined everything, she realised, by being too careless. She had underestimated Ailsa’s cunning and intelligence, thinking that she herself was in complete control of the plan, and now she was paying the price.
Presently she felt Ailsa’s hand on her arm hauling her upright into a sitting position. Her face had a look to it that Molly had never seen before; it was expressionless as if it had been cast in stone, and somehow the lack of emotion made her even more frightening. Molly began to tremble.
“My father wants to talk to you,” Ailsa said flatly. “And I would advise you to answer all his questions truthfully.”
18
Ramsay sat down on his straw-filled pallet on the floor of his cell, in Balmuir, home of the Ormonds, and sighed deeply as the door of the next cell shut and echoed like the clash of discordant bells. He missed Ailsa terribly. What he would give to put his arms around her and hold her all day and all night! They need not make love, or even kiss, just lie in the safety and shelter of each others’ bodies; it would be heavenly.
He thought about what his life would have been like had he been treated the same way as John had, and given the same recognition. Things like new clothes did not worry him much, although he had to admit that he would have loved to look better for Ailsa.
He wondered what it would feel like to be able to walk down the passages and have all the guards salute to him, to hold his chin up and shake the hands of Lairds and even barons and other nobles. No doubt he would be invited to parties and ceilidhs, society weddings where all the beauties of Balmuir, Mulrigg, and all the surrounding estates would be attending. However, he knew that no matter who was paraded in front of him, there would only ever be one woman for him.
Ramsay knew that he would be able to fence, hunt, and take part in archery competitions with all the other young blood in the upper echelons of society. He was adept at all these activities and knew he could impress as many of them as he wished.
However, these were not the things that mattered to him. He would have loved to go into the dining room with his brother, father, and especially the mother he had never known. The Laird would never speak about her; Ramsay did not even know her name. John had been two years old when Ramsay was born, too young to remember her. His father always treated him with cool indifference, and he had never been allowed to eat with him and his brother. That was what hurt the most.
If his life had been like John’s, and he had not been born out of wedlock, would his father have treated him any differently? Of course, he would, he decided. He would still not be heir to the estate, being the second born, but he was not sure that he wanted to carry all that responsibility on his shoulders anyway. However, his father would treat him with more respect, he reasoned.
He imagined sitting around the table in winter with a huge log fire chasing away the chill in the room. They would eat venison, his favourite meat, and drink excellent French wine, while they talked and laughed. However, that was all incidental, and not what he really craved.
All Ramsay really wanted was to be treated with dignity, and now the only person who had ever done that was dead. How he missed John! He thought again of his dark eyes and wide smile, the way he tossed his black, unruly hair out of his eyes. He missed their conversations when they would sit in John’s room well into the wee hours, sometimes setting the world to rights, sometimes playing chess or cards.
He smiled as he thought of their chess games. John had taught him to play but had sometimes regretted it, for Ramsay was his equal, and each match was very hard fought. Sometimes John would pretend to be angry, and a playful wrestling match would start.
The food that passed for his midday meal was delivered by a surly guard, and although it was deeply unappetising, Ramsay knew he had to fill his stomach with every crumb of nourishment he could.
He looked down at the uninviting stew which was made of mixed vegetables, with a few scraps of meat here and there. Added to the meagre mixture was a chunk of hard bread and a glass of weak ale, and he sighed. There was no Ailsa to bring him any more filling and palatable fare, so he would have to make do with what he had.
He soon found out that the meal tasted as bad as it looked, but he persevered, yet when he had finished he found that he was still hungry. How he longed for Ailsa!
His longing for her led him to a new train of thought. What if they were married? He knew it was impossible, but dreaming about it did no harm and brought him a measure of comfort. He would be wearing a new kilt in his clan colours, his plaid over his shoulder, and a snow-white linen shirt, but nobody would be looking at him. no one ever took much notice of the bridegroom; all he had to do was show up at the church and wait at the altar for the bride. All eyes would be on Ailsa.
