Page 100 of Highland Renegade
“Lady Woodhaven—”
“Please call me Emily.”
Devon smiled at her. If Ian hadn’t seen it, he never would have believed it.
“Emily,” Devon continued, “caught me with Margaret Cameron in the Campbell’s folly at the ball. She said naught when she could have gotten me in much trouble.”
Ian looked at her and she shrugged. “I did not think it anyone’s business.”
Devon cleared his throat. “But ’tis nae what I need to tell ye.”
Ian felt dread flood through him. Was his brother about to confess? His face must have given his thoughts away because Devon tightened his mouth, the sullen look returning.
“I dinna do anything.”
“Devon,” Fiona said softly. “Remember what we talked about.” She turned to Ian. “Devon sent for me yesterday, shortly after Emily left to take a nap. We went for a long ride because he didn’t want anyone else to hear what he had to say.”
That explained his absence, but it didn’t necessarily excuse him. Ian nodded. “Go on then.”
Devon took a deep breath. “I think Broderick is behind all the attempts to injure Lady…Emily.”
Ian stared at him. “Why?”
“We all ken that Lady…Emily…looks like Isobel—”
“And is nothing like her!”
“Aye, but Emily is English and ye ken Broderick thinks Englishwomen are all whores.”
Ian drew his brows together. “Just because our stepmother was wanton, doesna mean all Englishwomen are.”
“Finish your thoughts,” Fiona urged Devon. “Tell them why Broderick thinks so.”
He took another deep breath. “The night Isobel was murdered, I was on my way to confront her about cheating on our father, but Broderick was at her door with a plate of marzipan—ye ken how Isobel loved it—so I hid. I saw him go in. I heard a laugh, then a stifled scream.” He paused. “Broderick never came out.”
Ian started, then his brow furrowed and his eyes narrowed. “The passageway. He escaped through the passageway. But why would he…” It took him another moment for the idea to register. “He was one of Isobel’s lovers?”
“I suspect so,” Devon answered. “I think he killed her because he was jealous of the other men she saw.”
“And ye never said anything?”
He shrugged. “I dinna like what Isobel was doing to our father.”
“But—”
“I ken I should have, but I was four and ten. At the time, I thought it justice.”
“And you think Broderick has tried to kill me because I remind him of Isobel?” Emily asked.
“I think it possible.” Devon hesitated. “Jamie mentioned it was Broderick who told him he’d seen the mares in the far pasture. Jamie thought it odd because the distillery is in the opposite direction, but he was more concerned about fetching the horses back.” Devon paused again. “Our uncle may be a bit mad.”
Ian’s mind raced. Now that he thought on it, Broderick had always been attentive to Isobel. The times his father had been called away to secretly take care of MacGregor business, Broderick had escorted Isobel where she’d wanted to go. He hadn’t paid much attention at the time, since it had seemed natural that Broderick would take care of his brother’s wife. But he’d also sat at Isobel’s other side on the dais for their meals. A seat that Emily now sat in, beside Ian. Was his uncle’s mind so twisted he thought Emily was Isobel?
Ian sat down on the settee beside the brazier and tugged Emily down beside him.
Other things were beginning to make sense now. The “nightmares” Emily had in the old part of the castle where the passageway was could have been real. Had Broderick actually entered her room with a knife and stood there watching her? Chills slithered down his spine.
The day Emily fell from the stairs… His uncle had been there talking with Everard from London. He would have had time to go back into the castle and loosen a board on the steps. It was Broderick who’d called Ian to the distillery because of a crack in a vat. Was that to make sure he wouldn’t be present when the whisky had been put into Emily’s tea to make her fall asleep when she needed to stay awake? The night that Emily had been poisoned, no one would have thought it suspicious to see their uncle with a glass of wine and marzipan, either.Marzipan. Ian felt a chill slide down his spine. Devon had just said that his uncle had brought marzipan to Isobel before she had been killed.
