Page 6 of Tangled in a Highland Conspiracy
The idea was a sensible one since they had had such a short acquaintance, so when she had finished reading the letter, Ailsa hesitated for only a second before declaring firmly, “I will go.”
Katrina smiled, the first time she had done so since their arrival back at the castle. “Maybe you will fall in love after all, Ailsa,” she said hopefully.
Ailsa looked at her little innocent face and smiled back at her. It would take a great weight off her mind if she could make Katrina happy, even if she had to pretend to fall in love to do so. She would miss her little sister more than she dared think about, and the thought of not seeing her bright countenance every day saddened her deeply.
However, now it was time to make plans. She wondered briefly about how she was going to escape without being noticed, then dismissed the thought; she could work it out later. Then she glanced at Molly, who was sitting beside her, her mind far away in a distant daydream, as it often was. Molly was like another sister to her since they were the same age and had known each other for what seemed like forever. Molly even had her own spacious chamber next to hers, because Ailsa would never consent to her sleeping with the servants.
Molly was a tall, slim woman, topping Ailsa by four inches. Her hair was the colour of ripe wheat, and her eyes were the brightest blue Ailsa had ever seen. She moved with a graceful, swaying walk and was often followed by the stares of guards and manservants. She was in an awkward position in the social hierarchy, being not quite a servant and not quite a member of the elite. However, Ailsa had made it quite clear to all of the staff that Molly was to be treated with the respect with which they treated each other.
Molly had come into her life through a strange set of circumstances. Her father, Allen Sinclair, was a wealthy importer of fine cloth, and during her childhood, Molly had wanted for nothing. She and Ailsa had known each other through moving in the same circles and enjoying the same activities, and their close friendship had developed from there.
They had done almost everything together, frequently sleeping over at each other’s houses and going for riding lessons together. Laird McBain had done a lot of business with Allen Sinclair, so it came as a great shock to him when he received a visit one day from one of his other connections, a wool merchant named Craig Johnstone, who bore disturbing news. The two men had been business associates for a long time and had become friends over the years, although their relationship was not as close as the one he had with Allen Sinclair.
“Craig!” the Laird said, smiling as he grasped the other man’s hand firmly, “what a pleasant surprise! What brings you here so early in the morning? Sit down and have some ale with me.”
Johnstone, a tall dark man in his forties, looked troubled and agitated. He refused the offer with a shake of his head and began to pace the room. The Laird watched him for a few moments, then said anxiously, “What is troubling you, Craig?”
“Sinclair.” The word was sudden and forceful, like a heavy object being dropped on the floor, and the Laird stared up at the other man, puzzled by the expression of black anger on his usually amiable face.
“What about Sinclair?” he asked. “Has something happened to him?”
“Not yet,” Johnstone replied grimly. He sat down at last and looked his friend in the eye. “I was informed by someone close to me—I cannot divulge his name, even to you, Malcolm.” He paused for a few seconds. “He told me that Sinclair had been trying to sell information about the defences in your castle to the Ormonds. As you know, his business is losing money due to his gambling habit, and I think his desperation is driving him to extremes.”
Laird McBain was shocked. “I had no idea things had become so serious,” he said, running his hands backward through his hair in agitation.” He paused to think for a moment, then asked, “Craig, are you sure?”
“My informant is well-known to me and absolutely trustworthy,” he replied. “But if this ever leaks out Sinclair will take out his spite on his family, and he has young children to protect. Anyway, Malcolm, I have given him my word, and Ineverbreak it.”
Malcolm McBain knew this for a fact since Craig was an extremely honest and ethical man. “Do you know if the Ormonds received the information?” the Laird asked, now extremely concerned.
“No.” Craig’s voice was firm. “Thanks to my informant, I managed to intercept him before he could do any damage, thank god.”
“Then where is he now?” the Laird asked.
“I visited him this morning,” Craig answered. “And I brought him with me to speak to you. He is under guard, so do not worry.”
The Laird stood up. He still had some hope that there had been a misunderstanding somewhere; he did not want this to be true.
“Take me to him,” he said, standing up and squaring his shoulders. “There must be some mistake, Craig. Allen Sinclair would never do such a thing.”
Craig Johnstone looked at him pityingly. The good-natured, charitable man in front of him was about to have his illusions shattered.
* * *
Allen Sinclair stood in front of the Laird doing his best to look defiant and failing miserably. His hands were unbound, but each of his arms was being held by a burly servant from Craig Johnstone’s house.
Sinclair was a tall man with a head of thick sandy hair that was just beginning to turn grey. He could have been handsome, but he had a sizable paunch that protruded over his belt and a puffy double chin. Even at this time in the morning, the Laird detected the smell of whisky wafting over to him from Sinclair’s breath.
“Tell me this is not true,” the Laird demanded, folding his arms and glaring at the other man. “I think I must have misheard the news that you have been trying to destroy me and my family.”
“I have done nothing wrong,” the other man claimed, his voice trembling even as he made a feeble attempt to make it forceful and challenging. “And if you believe that I have, I demand that you show me the proof.”
“Here is the proof,” Johnstone answered as he held up a letter. “It is addressed to Laird Ormond. This was found by a person who is loyal to those of us who do the right thing. It was found just outside the tavern in the village, where you are well known. Obviously, you dropped it when you were in your cups.”
Sinclair tried to lunge for the letter but was held back by the two servants who had tightened their grip on his arms. He struggled fruitlessly for a moment then gave up.
The Laird took the letter and studied it for a moment. It showed in detail where the weapons were stored, where the escape tunnels were, and the stores of food in case of a siege. Every word was akin to a piece of treasure to anyone who wanted to breach the castle's defences and invade.
“This is your handwriting, Allen,” he said incredulously, then looked up at his erstwhile friend. “Where did you get this information from?” The Laird was stunned, and he stared incredulously for a moment at the man who had hitherto been his friend. He felt hurt, betrayed, and furious; he could not believe that this man who had been his friend for all these years had been planning to betray him. He had obviously been deceived for years and cursed himself for being so foolish.
