Highland Sinner. Hannah Howell

was not actually blood related, but he did have a small skill at sensing emotion, at times almost scenting it in the air. It was not easy here where the air was so thick with the stench of blood, but Tormand closed his eyes and tried to reach out to the echoes of the feelings left behind by those who had been here before him. It was a trick one of his more gifted cousins had shown him and it did allow him to make the most use of his meager talent. The sharp tang of fear was no surprise, but once he pushed beyond that, Tormand sensed other things. Lingering in the air was the anger and hatred he had suspected was behind the mutilation. Those feelings were tainted with something he could only assume was madness.

      “Get anything?” asked Simon.

      Tormand opened his eyes, realizing that Simon had probably guessed that he had some little gift a long time ago. “Fear, anger, hatred. There is a coldness to the latter two. But, there is also something else. I think it is madness.”

      “Most certainly.”

      “Did ye find anything?” Tormand asked, as he followed Simon outside and took a deep breath in the hope of clearing the stench of death from his nose.

      “Nay more than that this is where the crime was committed. By the time Clara was carried out of here she was already dying.” Simon held out his hand. “I also found this.”

      Tormand frowned at the small hairpin Simon held. “Clara’s?”

      “Nay, this is a common bone one. Clara would never wear such a thing.” Simon put it in his pocket. “It could have belonged to a woman who once lived here, but I will keep it all the same.”

      “So we have failed.”

      “Aye and nay. We havenae found the killer, true enough, but I didnae expect to. Nay, that will take time.”

      “Another woman could die.”

      “I fear so, but there is naught we can do about that.”

      “We must just wait until it happens?”

      “We cannae set a guard on every woman in the town, Tormand. Nay, we just keep hunting, my friend. Hunting until we catch and cage this bastard.”

      And pray I dinnae hang first, Tormand silently added.

      Chapter 3

      Morainn struggled to ignore the way the shopkeeper crossed himself as she entered the small dim room where he displayed his wares. She was tempted to leave, to not gift him with her business, but she needed some of his sturdy barrels for the cider and mead she made and he was the only cooper in town. She would simply ignore him as she had ignored all the other townspeople who had moved away, crossed themselves, muttered prayers, or made a sign they foolishly thought could ward off evil as she had walked through town. It hurt, but she should be used to that pain, she told herself.

      And they were all hypocrites, anyway, she thought as some of her hurt began to spin itself into anger. They came to her quickly enough when they or someone they cared for was hurt or sick and the leech or midwife could do nothing to help. They also sought her out when they needed answers no one else could give them. If she was so evil that they could not even stand to be near her, what did that make them when they came begging at her door for help?

      She took a deep, slow breath to quell that anger. It only made her head ache and gained her nothing for the pain. The way the big-bellied cooper paled a little when Morainn looked into his small eyes told her that not all of her anger had been tucked away. The fool probably feared she was about to change him into a newt or something worse, she thought. If she possessed such magic she would not be so kind.

      Morainn was just concluding her business with the man when she felt a sharp coldness in the air and she knew it was not from a change in the weather. She quickly smothered the urge to sniff the air like some hound, thanked the man for his reluctant help, and stepped outside. Her barrels would be brought to her home on the morrow and she had no need to linger in the town that had so callously tossed her out years ago. Whatever tainted the air was not her concern, she firmly told herself as she started the long walk home.

      Just as she reached the edge of town where lived those with money enough to have a bit of land with their house, a man burst out of a fine home only yards away from her. Morainn could see that he was shaking, his face pale and sweat-soaked as he bellowed for a king’s man or the sheriff. She actually took a few steps toward him, thinking to help him, when her good sense abruptly returned. People did not appreciate her efforts to be kind.

      From the houses near to his and even from the more crowded center of town, people began to rush toward the man, drawn by his cries. Morainn hastily sought out a place where she could stand apart from the swiftly gathering crowd. She moved to the side of the man’s house and into the shade beneath a huge tree that was probably older than the man’s house.

      Although she knew she could slip around the back of the house and continue on her way home, it was more than curiosity that held her in place. Instinct told her that, for the moment, it might be best simply to remain one of the crowd. The cold she had felt at the cooper’s shop was much sharper here and she suddenly knew that someone had died violently. A little voice of caution in her head told her that slipping away home might look a little too much like fleeing to people who would soon be hunting for a killer.

      “My wife is dead!” cried the man. “Dead! Butchered in our bed!” He bent over and emptied his stomach, barely missing the fine boots of the two men who were rushing to his side.

      She had been right about the bitter taste of that cold, Morainn thought, although she would have preferred to be wrong. One of the two men who had run up to the grieving man’s side ran into the house only to run out a few minutes later looking as though he, too, would soon be emptying his belly. Many of the gathering crowd looked as though they dearly wanted to invade the house to see what could so upset two strong men. Morainn could not understand that sort of curiosity. If what was in that house was enough to make two strong men publicly vomit, what sane person would want to see it?

      A hush came over the crowd and Morainn watched as people shifted to allow two more men through its ranks. She recognized the tall, black-haired man as Sir Simon Innes, a king’s man rumored to be able to solve any puzzle. When her gaze settled on the man at his side, she nearly gasped aloud.

      It was the man from her visions. She could not see if he had mismatched eyes from where she stood, but she had no doubt at all that it was him. Everything else about him was just as she had dreamed, from his long, deep auburn hair to his graceful, broad-shouldered body. Morainn remained within the shadows, but shifted a little closer to the house hoping to catch a name for the man who haunted her dreams.

      “Sir Simon!” The distraught man grabbed Sir Simon by the arm. “Jesu, but I have need of a mon like ye. Isabella has been killed. She…she…” The man began to weep.

      “Try to calm yourself, Sir William,” said Simon, his voice holding a calm that even Morainn felt. “I will find the mon who did this. Ye have my word on that. But, now I must go and see what has happened for myself.”

      “’Tis a wretched sight,” muttered the man who had gone into the house after Sir William had told him what had happened. “I didnae e’en step inside the room. One look was enough.”

      “Nor did I,” said Sir William. “One look was all it took, all I could abide, and no one who sees Isabella can doubt that she is dead. That she has been brutally murdered. I truly didnae need to go farther than the threshold.” He suddenly became aware of the man standing by Simon’s side. “What is that rogue doing here?”

      “Sir Tormand Murray has helped me solve such puzzles before. I wish him to help me now so that I can be sure we put the noose around the right mon’s neck.”

      Morainn thought that was an odd way to speak of the help Sir Tormand might offer.

      “How do ye ken he didnae—”

      “Careful, Sir William,” Simon said in a voice so cold even Morainn shivered. “Dinnae toss out an insult ye can ne’er take back. Ye are