Bonnie of Evidence by Maddy Hunter Page A

chieftain, hoping ta secure the peace, but the son used the girl like no honorable man should use a wife, so she ran away, only ta be tracked down and punished like no new bride should ever be punished.”
    A chill crawled up the back of my neck. “What happened to her?”
    “Her husband bound her ta a rock at low tide and left her. When the tide rose, she drowned.”
    My mouth fell open. “He killed her?”
    “Highlanders have never been known fer their temperate responses ta imagined wrongs.”
    “But to kill her? For running away?”
    “At least she died in one piece.”
    My eyelids flapped up like broken window shades. “Excuse me?”
    “The preferred method of punishment at the time was ta have the offender drawn and quartered.”
    Euw !
    “’Tis said Hamish’s grief knew no bounds, his wrath no limits. He gathered a raiding party ta avenge the girl’s death, but they were cut down on the road by the husband’s clan, and Hamish stabbed in the heart with his own dirk. The whole raiding party was slaughtered but fer one man, who made it back ta the compound, and lived long enough ta give witness ta whit he’d seen. When the Maccoulls showed up ta bury their dead, they found Hamish’s claymore by his side, but his dirk had gone missing, and was never seen again.”
    “Until now?” I asked in a tentative voice.
    Morna opened the book, causing the spine to crackle as if it hadn’t been opened in centuries. She turned to the last page. “The dirk disappeared, but the Maccoulls hoped not forever.” She trailed her finger below the spidery text and read aloud. “‘Remember well the look of the blade, fer it will come back into our hands one day, when they who dared steal it realize, too late, that their villainy sealed their doom. Those who ignore the admonition will pay with their blood.’”
    “Admonition. Is he talking about the inscription on the handle?”
    Morna nodded, reciting the words from memory. “‘A quick and terrible death ta any foe who would possess what is mine.’”
    “So, Hamish carved the inscription onto his dirk as a kind of ‘sit up and take notice’ warning to potential thieves? Like what we do today when we stick a sign in our front window, announcing the name of the security system we’ve just installed?”
    “Hamish Maccoull meant the words as more than a warning, Mrs. Miceli.” Morna Dalrymple eyed the dagger as if it had just grown a viper’s fangs. “He meant them as a curse.”

EIGHT
    “ S AY WHAT?”
    “The dirk,” Morna repeated. “It’s cursed.”
    I waited a beat, fighting back a grin. “You actually believe that?”
    Her expression grew stony. “Are ye saying ye don’t? Why do ye think Hamish Maccoull was the most feared chieftain in all the highlands?”
    I’d seen Braveheart . I knew exactly why people were afraid of these primitive types. “Scary face paint?”
    “He had the eye.” She tapped her finger high on her cheekbone. “He could as easily kill ye with a look as with his claymore, and fer added effect, he’d throw in a curse.” She suddenly wiped her hands down the sides of her robe, as if to cleanse her palms of toxic contamination. “You’ll want ta return this ta the place ye found it.”
    “Drive all the way back to Braemar? We can’t do that. We have to head north tomorrow.”
    She skewered me with a wary look. “If ye want ta avoid more death,” she said, pronouncing the words with exaggerated slowness, “ye’ll do as I tell ye.”
    “ More death?” I frowned at what she was implying. “Are you suggesting that Isobel’s passing can be blamed on the dirk?”
    “Was she the one who found it?”
    “Well, yah. But—”
    “Is she dead?”
    “Yah. But—”
    “Pull yer head outta the sand, girl. She died because she stole Hamish Maccoull’s dagger. It was his curse that killed her.”
    I lowered an eyelid and stared at her through the slit. “I thought she died because a legion of demons flew out of her mouth and