Ella had not seen Cain in the bailey. He had said yesterday that they would still marry. Surely, he would have cancelled the ceremony if he had changed his mind and not trick her into walking down to his absence before his people. The worry added to the tightness that had moved up to Ella’s chest.

“Where is Cain now?” she asked.

“He is with his brothers, washing and trying to look less like a barbarian and more like a respectable husband,” Merida said.

There was a knock at the door.

“Good,” Merida said, turning. “Now to see to your hair. Viola Finlay makes the loveliest weavings.”

“Viola?” Ella whispered as the door swung in and the busty woman who had kissed Cain at Midsummer walked inside. She was wearing a crisp plaid dress, and her brown hair flowed around her in gentle curls. She smiled and gave a little curtsy. “Milady.”

Merida flapped her hand to bring Ella into a chair. “Her hair is thick with a natural curl. See what ye can fashion with these summer roses. I have stripped them of their thorns.”

“I…” Ella said and hesitated. “I think Cain prefers my hair down.”

“Pish,” Hannah said, gently pinching Ella’s cheeks. Was she as pale as she felt? “He can have it down all he wants after the ceremony, but ye will be the queen of the day, Ella, with your hair up high. Maybe with some curls cascading down from the top.”

Ella sat in the chair, which was instantly engulfed by the layers of linen and silk. Viola came up behind her. “I spoke with your steward from Dunrobin,” she said near her ear, making Ella turn to her. “He gave me this to give ye.” She set a small cloth bag tied tightly on Ella’s lap. All three ladies looked at it there, but Ella wasn’t foolish enough to open it before them.

“Excuse me,” she said, and raised to walk behind the privacy screen before Merida could stop her. She worked the knots out quickly, pulling a small bottle and note from the bag. Kenneth’s handwriting scrawled across the bit of paper.

For Cain.

Ella’s face and hands went numb, her breath turning to stone lodged in her chest. She didn’t need to open the bottle to know it was poison: foxglove, arsenic, nightshade, or some other toxic tincture. Her stomach twisted so hard she nearly heaved. Crumpling the note, she tossed it toward the privy box and set the bottle down on the floor beside it. Taking a shallow breath, she walked back out and sat down again under curious stares.