“M’lady, what troubles ye?” asked Nella as she walked through the village with Sophie. “Ye have been verra quiet.” She cast a fearful glance at Sophie’s throat. “Did the laird drink too much of your blood?”

      Sophie was abruptly pulled from her dark thoughts and stopped to gape at Nella. “Ye think the laird has been drinking my blood?”

      “Weel, there is that mark upon your neck.”

      Clasping her hand over the mark upon her neck, Sophie grimaced. “I hadnae thought it so obvious.” She sighed and told her maid about the confrontation between her and Alpin last night. “I assume ’tis something men like to do and, at that moment, it was quite, er, pleasant. I had thought I had hidden it.”

      Nella moved to adjust Sophie’s braid as well as the collars of her gown and cloak. “’Tis better now. Keep your cloak tied at the neck and it should remain hidden. Dinnae want too many catching a peek at it. If they ken ’tis a love bite, your reputation will be sorely marred, though I suspect most will think what I did.”

      “I fear so.” She frowned as she caught sight of a crowd of people at the far end of the road. “A meeting?”

      Two men ran past her and Nella, rushing to join the crowd. Sophie caught the word “murder” in their conversation and froze. This was the very last thing Alpin needed. Sophie was about to turn back toward the keep when one of the women in the crowd saw her, called to her, and drew everyone’s attention to her.

      “M’lady, ye must come see this,” Shona the cooper’s wife called. “This will make ye see the danger of staying within the walls of such a cursed place.”

      “I really dinnae want to see this,” Sophie murmured to Nella even as she started to walk toward Shona, Nella staying close to her side. “For them to cry murder means ’tis nay a clean death. No death is pleasant to witness, but murder can leave a verra untidy corpse.”

      “Ye fret o’er the oddest things,” Nella said as she nudged her way through the crowd. “Dead is dead. Aye?” Nella abruptly stopped and shuddered. “Oh, dear.”

      Sophie took a deep breath to steady herself, stepped around Nella, and looked down at what had once been a man. She felt her gorge rise and took several deep breaths to calm herself, her hand cupped over her nose and mouth to shield herself from the scent of death. Aware that the villagers were all watching her closely, she carefully studied the corpse. She knew what they believed, knew the accusations and questions that would soon be spoken aloud, and she searched out every clue she could find to be used to proclaim Alpin’s innocence.

      “’Tis Donald, the butcher’s eldest lad,” said Hugh the cooper. “Weel, nay a lad. A mon with a wife and bairns. The poor woman found him like this. Said he often came here to sleep if one of the bairns cried too much in the night. Since their wee laddie is cutting teeth, he was setting up a fair howl all night long. The laird must have been on the hunt, and poor Donald was easy game.”

      “The laird didnae do this,” Sophie said, her voice steady and firm.

      “But his throat was torn out.”

      “Nay, ’tis cut.” She crossed her arms and waited as Hugh crouched down to look more closely. “A verra clean cut it is, as weel. Swiftly done with a verra long, verra sharp knife.”

      Ian the butcher wiped the tears from his ruddy cheeks and looked closer. “Aye, she be right. I couldnae have done it neater myself. But that just means the laird used his sword.”

      For one brief moment, Sophie considered the fact that the laird had been awake and wandering about last night. Then she felt both guilty and ashamed. Alpin would never do this. Even if he turned into a beast, she had the sad feeling he would cut his own throat before he attacked some innocent. The trick would be in convincing these people who considered every MacCordy laird cursed, or a demon.

      “Did anyone see the laird last eve?” she asked. “I did—in the keep, barefoot, cross and bellowing, and with nary a drop of blood on him. Now, I ken what ye think the laird is, that ye think he feasted upon poor Donald last eve. Look ye at the ground beneath Donald’s neck. ’Tis soaked in his blood. If the laird did this, acting as the demon ye think he is, do ye truly think he would let all that blood go to waste?”

      “He gutted the lad,” said Hugh. “Mayhap the innards were what he craved this time.”

      Even as Sophie opened her mouth, Ian shook his head. “Nay. ’Tis another clean cut and I didnae see aught missing,” he added as he covered his son with a blanket someone handed him.

      “And that wound bled verra little,” Sophie said, “as did the wounds to his head and face. Do ye ken what that means, Master Ian?”

      “I think so. My poor lad was already dead and fair bled dry ere the other wounds were made. But why?”

      “To make all of ye think the laird did this.” Sophie patted the grieving Ian’s broad shoulder. “If the laird had come a-hunting, had become the beast of the night ye all claim he is, he would not have left such an intact body. He wouldnae have let all that blood sink into the dirt. Nay, if he had become the demon ye fear is within him, he would have torn this poor mon apart, drank the blood, and nay cared if ye caught him bathing in the gore. This was done by someone else, someone who crept upon Donald as he slept, for there is nary a sign of a struggle, cut his throat, and then desecrated the body to try to hide their crime. Nay, worse, to try to fix all blame upon the laird. Poor Donald made someone verra angry.”

      “She just tries to protect her lover,” spoke up a buxom young woman who suddenly appeared at Ian’s side. “He has already made her one of his slaves. Look ye at her neck! He has been feasting upon her!”

      Sophie felt herself blush deeply and clasped her hand over her neck. “Nay!”

      “Och, aye,” said Shona, and laughed softly. “Someone’s been feasting on the lass, true enough. ’Tis a love bite, Gemma, ye foolish cow. Now cease your nonsense and help your mon. He has a son to bury.”

      “I thought ye said it wouldnae show if I kept my cloak tied,” Sophie grumbled to Nella.

      “Weel, it would have, if ye didnae have such a wee skinny neck that pokes its way out of anything one tries to lash to it.”

      Sophie’s response to that insult was lost as her gaze became fixed upon Gemma. It took all of her willpower not to cry out in accusation, to remain calm. She knew who had killed Donald, although she could not yet even guess why.

      “Ian,” she called, drawing the man’s attention back to her, “until we ken who murdered your son and why, ’twould be wise to guard his widow and bairns.”

      She held his gaze and inwardly sighed with relief when he nodded. The brief look of fury that touched Gemma’s round face only confirmed Sophie’s suspicions. The problem was going to be