Plaid to the Bone by Mia Marlowe Page A

swish of kid soles on stone crept into Farquhar’s ear as well. Someone was coming. Farquhar stole into the dungeon and scuttled to hide behind the iron maiden in the corner. From that vantage point, he had a clear view of both the stairwell and MacRath.
    Lady Bonniebroch appeared in the spot he’d just vacated. He read fear on her lovely features, but then she squared her shoulders and schooled her expression into a bland mask.
    “’Tis settled, MacRath,” she said in a loud voice as she began walking toward him with her hand in her pocket.
    Morgan turned, not the least surprised to see her. “Show me his blood on the blade.”
    “I left the dirk where it lies,” she said. “How else will anyone connect the deed with Mr. Shaw?”
    “How indeed? I only ask because I’m sensitive to metals, you see, and I perceive there is a blade on your person.”
    “Oh, you must mean this,” she said as she continued to advance toward him. She reached into her bodice and drew a slim four-inch dirk from the busk. “Only for protection. A lady can never be too careful.”
    “Neither can a magus.”
    MacRath extended his hand toward her and sparks flew from his fingertips as he quickly intoned an obscure Latin phrase. The blade was ripped from Lady Bonniebroch’s hand and flew, turning end over end in the air. It finally stuck fast to the ornate iron filigree that framed the long looking glass. Then her skirt jerked toward the glass as well, until the hand in her pocket was pinned between her body and the ornate frame.
    A giant lodestone. That explained the faint hum Farquhar had heard when he stood before the mirror for the first time.
    “Ye’ve a second knife, milady.” MacRath made a “tsking” sound. “Ye havena been entirely truthful with me. That will cost ye.”
    He made a sign in the air before his body, his fingertips leaving a shower of golden shimmers to form a charm. Lady Bonniebroch cried out as her body was jerked by an unseen hand. It flipped her around till her spine was held flat against the mirror, her arms pinioned at the wrists against the iron filigree as if she’d been manacled. She struggled and the looking glass swayed on its chains, but she remained stuck fast.
    “Let me go!”
    MacRath shook his head. “I’m no’ holding ye. ’Tis your oath as does that. Ye swore on your own blood and now the iron in that blood has bound ye to the mirror’s frame.” He patted her cheek. “I have a few preparations to make before midnight, but I’ll come back to ye directly. Should ye wish to scream, please feel free. No one but me will hear ye, but I assure ye, I’ll enjoy it enough for a multitude.”
    He turned and walked back toward his altar, chanting a bastardized version of the “Dies Irae,” the dirge of final judgment.
    Farquhar seized his moment. He crept back to the stairwell and dashed up the dark stone steps.
     
    A scream caught at the back of her throat. Cait bit her lip until she tasted blood, but she wouldn’t give Morgan the satisfaction of hearing her fear. She’d sworn a foolish oath and now she’d pay for her folly.
    Why had she thought she could sneak up on a sorcerer and dispatch him with a dirk as if he were as insensible as that practice sack of meal?
    She hadn’t been thinking clearly. She only knew she couldn’t kill Adam. And she couldn’t let her father pay for her unwillingness to live up to her evil bargain.
    The mirror’s hold on her grew by the moment. It was as if a fist squeezed Cait’s heart and she struggled to draw a breath. Choking clouds of incense rose from Morgan’s altar. Her vision tunneled briefly, but then she pushed herself up on her toes and was able to gulp a lungful of the bitter air.
    Tears streamed down her cheeks. She wept for the days of loving she’d miss with Adam. She wept for their unborn children. She wept for her all too short life.
    Then Morgan’s head lifted, cocked like a hunting hound who hears his master’s whistled command.