Highland Sinner. Hannah Howell

Tormand hated the defensive note that entered his voice, but forced himself to ignore it. “Yet, I cannae shake the feeling that Clara was killed because of me, because she had once been my lover. It seems vain to think it—”

      “Nay. Ye were set there to be blamed for it and thus it must have something to do with you.” Simon rested his forearms on the table and stared into his tankard of ale. “Her husband didnae do it and he would have been a good suspect to look to. I ken where he was, ye see, and I ken he couldnae have come home, slaughtered Clara, and then returned to his mistress’s house near to ten miles away. As to torturing her for information? Weel, the mon certainly has enemies and many competitors who might think a wife would ken something about her husband’s business, something that would make it easier to crush him. But, I doubt Clara would have held fast to any knowledge she had beyond the first threat to her face. After that would have come a swift death, a stab to the heart or a slash across the throat. And in neither instance would ye have been dragged into the matter.” He looked at Tormand. “Aye, I think this is about you. The question is why?”

      “And who.”

      “Once we ken the why we can begin to look for the who.”

      Tormand felt sick. No woman deserved to die as Clara had simply because she had once shared his bed, or he hers. What sort of enemy was it that crept around slaughtering innocents in order to reach the one he truly wished to harm? It made no sense to Tormand. If a man wanted him dead but was too cowardly to do it himself, he could simply hire some other men to do his killing for him. Sadly, there were a lot that would take the job. If the plan was to blacken his name beyond fixing before he died, Tormand was certain that that too could be done without slaughtering a woman. This murder put his enemy at the risk of being caught and hanged, the very fate the man apparently wanted Tormand to suffer. But, then, what had been done to Clara carried the strong taint of madness and who could ever make sense of that?

      “My sins come back to haunt me now,” Tormand muttered.

      “Ye believe ye have sinned, do ye?” asked Simon, a faint smile curling his mouth.

      “Gluttony be a sin,” said Walter.

      “Thank ye, Walter,” drawled Tormand. “I believe I am aware of that.” He grimaced. “Aye, I have heard it said often enough from my mother, my sisters, my aunts, and near every other female in my clan.”

      “And, I suspicion, a few of the men.” Simon smiled more broadly when Tormand scowled at him. “Weel, ye truly have been a wee bit, er, gluttonous.”

      “I like frolicking about atween the sheets with a warm woman. What mon doesnae?”

      “Most men at least attempt to be somewhat, weel, prudent? Fastidious? Particular in their choices?”

      “All the lasses I have bedded have been bonnie and clean.” Mostly, he added to himself.

      “Your problem has always been too many choices, too much offered too freely.”

      “Aye,” agreed Walter. “The lasses do flock to the rogue.”

      “And the rogue accepts most of that flock all too readily,” said Simon.

      “I thought ye were my friend, Simon.” Tormand felt an odd mix of hurt and insult.

      Simon laughed softly. “Och, I am that, more fool me, but that doesnae mean I must blindly approve of all ye do. Aye, and mayhap I feel the touch of envy now and then. Tell me, Tormand, did ye like Clara even a little bit?”

      Tormand sighed. “Nay, but the lusting blinded me for a wee while. She was verra skilled.”

      “I am nay surprised. As I said, she was but newly turned thirteen when she began her lessons in the art. Oh, I confess that I am nay so verra particular at times, but I do prefer to at least ken the lass I lie down with, to enjoy a wee bit more than her soft skin and womanly heat.”

      It occurred to Tormand that he could not think of all that many of his lovers who met even Simon’s mild standards. He refused to think that he really was what his cousin Maura had once called him—a stallion too stupid to charge coin for his stud services. After all, as far as he knew he had sired no bastards and was not that the sole purpose of a stud? Unfortunately, the longer he considered the matter, the more he began to fear that he had become as mindlessly greedy as Simon implied. Over the last few years it appeared that his qualifications for a bedmate were little more than that she be attractive, relatively clean, and willing. Mostly willing. It was such an unsettling conclusion that he was actually glad to turn his thoughts back to the matter of Clara’s brutal murder.

      “Did ye find nothing that pointed the finger of guilt at someone besides me?” he asked Simon, ignoring the flash of amusement in Simon’s eyes that told him Simon was well aware of his attempt to turn the subject away from his love life.

      “Nay,” replied Simon. “There was naught but your ring to show that anyone had been in that room with Clara. That and, of course, the simple fact that Clara could not have tied herself to that bed and then cut herself to pieces. Her servants heard and saw nothing.”

      “How can that be? Clara would have shattered her fine windows with her screams at the first glimpse of a knife.”

      “True, but I believe she was gagged. I saw the signs of it in what was left of her face.”

      Tormand forced himself to recall carefully all that he had seen. “Aye, she had to have been. And, I begin to wonder if she was actually tortured elsewhere. Considering all the damage done to her I should have woken up lying in a pool of her blood. There was a lot and I do have the feeling she died in that bed, but now I feel sure it was not where all of that cutting was done.”

      Simon nodded. “I believe the same. Even with a gag on her, someone should have heard something. It was evident that she violently fought against the bindings on her wrists and ankles. The bed would also have resounded with the struggles she made and yet her servants had not even thought she was home.”

      “Then her killer knew how to slip in and out of her house without being seen.”

      “Aye, which means they knew her, e’en if not weel.” Simon grimaced. “Considering all the many lovers Clara had, I doubt all the secret ways into her home were e’er really that secret. The servants would never have considered any noises coming from her bedchamber worthy of concern save for some bloodcurdling screams. So, they truly heard nothing as they claim. I shall return to Clara’s home and see if I can find any blood trail that will confirm that she was brought in after she was tortured.” He took another long drink of ale. “In a little while. I sent word to her husband and would rather not be there when he first sees what is left of his wife. He didnae love her and she didnae love him, but he did appreciate her beauty.”

      “I didnae love her, either, but the sight of her body fair to made me sick.”

      “And Ranald doesnae have the spine to hold fast as ye did. That isnae why I wish to avoid the mon for a wee while, however. Once he recovers, he will act the great, important laird and demand I find out who killed her. He will also spit out a lot of useless information, as weel as a few threats about what will happen to me if I dinnae find Clara’s killer. He always makes me wish to shake the arrogance out of him and, mayhap, take some of the bonnie out of his face.”

      Tormand smiled briefly, but the seriousness of the situation severely dampened his usual ready sense of humor. It was good that Simon had so quickly accepted his innocence, if only because it revealed that his friend had not fully believed in his guilt despite his rage. It was not good that Simon had not found any clue save what was left for him to find. That meant they had no trail to follow to find the murderer. It left Clara’s killer free to kill again. If Tormand was right in thinking he was the real target, the killer would not be gaining what he sought this time. It was very possible that the man would kill again and could well continue to do so until Tormand was hanged.

      Pouring himself some more ale, Tormand seriously considered getting blind drunk. It was a temptation he had to ignore and swore to himself that this would be his last drink for quite