Page 22 of Marry the Highland Villain (Breaking the Highland Rules #1)

CHAPTER 22

“Mornin’, Devon.” Conall stopped by the heavy marble stone bearing his brother’s name and the date of his birth and death. The wind chilled his shoulders without his heavy cloak, but he paid it no mind. “Apologies for nae comin’ to speak to ye recently. Life has been…”

He stopped and ran a hand through his hair, trying and failing to find the words to express exactly what life had been like these past two weeks.

“Och, so much has happened in the past fortnight,” he said, at last.” I suppose ye ken that if ye’re watchin’ from above, as the priests say ye are. But I had to come and speak to ye about it.”

He took a deep breath. “I met a lass. Brigid Blackwood, granddaughter of Laird Auchter, nay less. But she’s nae anything like her mother’s sire. Nae at all.”

Another breath, and then Conall crouched so that his brother’s name was at his eye level. “Holdenson sent her to me as repayment for yer death… nae that it could ever be repaid, as far as I’m concerned. I wanted to kill her until I realized that was exactly what he expected of me. Well, I didnae want to play into the man’s hands, so I married her instead. An… och, I love ye, Brother, and that will never change. But what I feel for her…”

He shook his head and leaned against the stone. “I look at her, and I see the man I’ve been in her eyes. Ye always said I had a short temper, Devon, but I didnae care about that until I saw the way she looked at me after I killed two men in front of her. She makes me see the best and the worst of myself. She makes me want to act on the former and mend the latter, and she makes me feel ashamed I didnae hear ye speak about the matter earlier. Because I didnae want to listen.”

He sighed. “Now, I wish I had. I wish that more than anything, Brother, because if I’d just listened to ye, ye might have lived. And yet, if ye’d lived, I might never have met Brigid—and I cannae imagine bein’ without her now. And I dinnae ken how I can live with feelin’ that way, kennin’ that I only have her in my life because I dinnae have ye. ’Tis a difficult matter, mournin’ ye and carin’ for her at the same time.”

For several minutes, Conall fell silent, leaning against his brother’s headstone and breathing in the cool morning air as the sun slowly rose higher in the sky, warming his skin with its rays. Gradually, the feelings of turmoil began to subside, and he felt a sort of peace wash over him, almost as if Devon was reaching out and offering a sort of benediction.

After a while, though, some sound he couldn’t quite identify broke the silence, making him rise to his feet in one smooth motion, instantly on guard. He thought it might be Oliver searching for him for some reason—since Devon’s death, Oliver had been nervous any time Conall was away from him and he did not know where he’d gone.

The figure that appeared was far less welcome, though, and Conall’s temper rose as the man he hated walked toward him, strolling along as if he had every right in the world to be there. Remembering the words he’d just spoken to his brother’s grave, he throttled his anger as best as he could, though he couldn’t help the snarl that filled his voice.

“Holdenson. Ye’re nae welcome here.”

Laird Auchter stopped in front of the gravestone, his eyes sweeping over it before coming to rest on Conall.

“I guessed ye might be here,” he said in a lazy, unhurried tone, which only served to make Conall even angrier.

How dare he disturb me here, of all places. Anyone would think the man was deliberately tryin’ to provoke me into breakin’ our truce, and, if I’m nae careful, he might very well succeed.

“I dinnae care what ye guessed,” he said tightly. “Get off my land.”

Laird Auchter laughed, a cold, cruel sound that echoed in the air and made Conall’s stomach clench with both rage and apprehension. “And what will ye do if I dinnae? We’re bound by a truce, an’ ye cannae attack me. Ye ken that as well as I do, MacKane.”

The truth of the man’s words left a bitter taste in Conall’s mouth, as if he’d swallowed bile.

“Fine,” he said, refusing to rise to the bait. “What is it ye want? State yer business, then be gone.”

“I wanted to see if my granddaughter had followed the suggestion I made. The order, rather.” Holdenson’s lip curled in derision. “It appears she didnae, which means I’ll have to take care of her after I’ve finished with ye.”

The cold, sour feeling intensified.

“What is that supposed to mean?” Conall asked, his hands curling into fists by his sides as he battled to control himself.

“It means I’ll have to see that she dies after I’ve killed ye,” the older man said with a careless shrug. “It was a simple enough order I gave. If she cannae obey it, she’ll have to die.” His ugly expression sharpened, cold and cruel.

“My daughter was a disgrace to her bloodline, marryin’ a pirate,” he continued, his eyes cold. “And ’tis clear to me now that her daughters are nay better. When I first learned of their existence, I had thought perhaps they could be of use to me. But now that I ken better, I’ll have to see the lot of them eradicated.”

Conall’s hand clenched on the hilt of his sword.

“Ye want Brigid dead?” he said incredulously. “When ye were the one who sent her to me?”

“I expected her to kill ye, or be killed by ye,” Holdenson snorted. “I should have realized she was goin’ to be a disappointment, but I didnae think she’d stoop so far as to marry a man like ye.”

Conoll’s sword felt cool and reassuring under his fingers. He held onto it as if it were a lifeline as the other man spoke.

It was exactly as he’d suspected, then. Auchter cared nothing for his granddaughter; she was nothing but a pawn to him, to be used and then disposed of. When he’d sent her to Conall, he’d been sending her to her death, and when Conall had failed to oblige him in that respect and had married her instead, Auchter had been forced to find another way to be rid of them both.

“’Twas my choice how to claim the blood price,” Conall pointed out, even though he knew his words were futile. There was no reasoning with a man like Eric Holdenson. “And ye dinnae care about her, so dinnae pretend that ye do.”

“But I will pretend to care.” Holdenson smiled coldly and drew his blade, which glinted ominously in the morning sunlight, the sound of it ringing like a death knell in the air. “Ye see, when I kill ye, and the Highland Gathering calls me to account for it—if they do—I will tell them I did it to save my granddaughter from the fate of bein’ shackled to ye. That ye died, but nae afore ye violated her. I’ll tell them that she hated bein’ married to ye and that she died of the shame.”

The words cut deep, even though Conall knew they weren’t true. He couldn’t focus on that now, though. He drew a breath as the heat of his anger cooled and settled into icy, focused fury.

Holdenson would regret coming here. Conall would make sure of that.

Conall’s sword hissed as he drew it and dropped into a crouch.

“Threaten me, and I wouldnae care,” he said. “But ye should never have threatened Brigid’s life.”

Holdenson scoffed. “As if ye care any more about her than I do. Nae that it matters. Nay one will care when ye’re both dead, as ye will be soon.”

The last word was accompanied by the scrape of Holdenson’s boot, and Conall ducked as the older Laird kicked dirt up into his face. Most of it missed him, but the dust made his eyes sting and water.

He saw the blurry form of his opponent lunge at him and brought his sword up to block the blow. The worst of it rang off his blade, but the tip cut his arm, and Conall cursed and jumped backward to put some distance between them, berating himself for having let his guard down long enough for the other man to cut him.

Focus. I must focus.

His eyes were clearing now, and he drew his dagger with his other hand. He and Holdenson circled each other, both wary, their guards up. The older man’s expression was cruel and confident—a confidence that Conall considered strangely misplaced, given the disparity between them in age and strength.

Does he really think he’s a match for me? Or does he have somethin’ else planned? It wouldnae be beyond him to set up an ambush.

Holdenson attacked again. Conall parried, wincing as blood dripped down his arm from the earlier wound. It was not a deep cut, but the blood from it flowed freely, making his grip on his sword slippery. He used his dagger to cut a piece of his sash and quickly wrapped it around his hand to absorb the blood and steady his grip.

Holdenson lunged. Conall dodged, parried, countered with the dagger, and scored a cut on his opponent’s upper arm. The older man kicked him hard in response, shoving him away and slashing out with his sword. It cut Conall’s shoulder, but not too deep. Not deep enough to make him drop the dagger.

The two Lairds danced back and forth for several moments, exchanging blows. The wounds burned as sweat entered them and cloth chafed the torn skin, but Conall stayed focused on Holdenson, watching his every move. No guards had come to rescue the older Laird, and Conall began to think there wouldn’t be any second wave of attackers.

Perhaps Holdenson had been arrogant enough to come alone. He seemed to believe, even now, that Conall wouldn’t kill him—not with the truce in effect.

Truce or no truce, though, Eric Holdenson was on his lands, and Conall had the wounds to prove that the fight hadn’t been one-sided. Between that and the threats the man had made to Brigid, Conall had every reason to kill him.

A shift in Eric’s breathing pulled Conall’s attention back to his opponent. His knife had gone deeper than he’d thought, and Laird Auchter’s arm was dripping a steady stream of blood. The older man’s breathing was harsh, his face pale, with sweat beading on his brow.

Eric Holdenson was healthy and fit, but he was older than Conall. Older and slower, and not as used to fighting his own battles, without a team of warriors ready to leap in and take over when he needed them. That was most likely one reason why he’d tried to get Brigid to kill Conall.

Renewed confidence sent energy through Conall’s veins. He tightened his grip on his knife, then feinted with his sword in a half-hearted lunge that left much of Auchter’s chest open to an attack.

The older Laird took the bait and attacked, lashing out in a move that would have put his sword in Conall’s heart if Conall hadn’t anticipated it and planned to counter it. He leaped back, pivoted out of the way of the sword, then brought his own up to counter the swing that followed.

At the same time, his elbow slammed Auchter’s other arm aside, and he plunged his dagger deep into Auchter’s side, driving it in at an upward angle that all but gutted him, with enough force that two ribs cracked and snapped under the assault.

Eric Holdenson, the Laird of Clan Auchter, coughed, choking on his own blood as his sword fell from his nerveless hand. His hand scrabbled weakly at Conall’s arm, a silent plea for mercy, begging to be spared. But it was far too late, even if Conall had been inclined to mercy.

Holdenson had threatened him. What’s more, he’d threatened his wife, tried to have him killed through treachery, and attacked him at his younger brother’s grave. Conall was in no mood for mercy. He shoved the older man off his blade, then down the hillside, away from the stone, so no more blood would stain Devon’s final resting place.

Holdenson crashed to a heap at the bottom of the hill, bright red blood seeping into his clothing as the light slowly went out of his eyes.

Conall stared down at the lifeless form, the malevolent expression still stamped on the older man’s face even in death. Then, he wiped his blades on the grass and sheathed them, a scowl on his face as he thought over all that had happened.

The old man had claimed he’d given Brigid orders to kill Conall. But Brigid hadn’t known her grandfather, Conall was sure of that. He may only have known her for two weeks, but he knew her ignorance had not been feigned. Not that first night, nor when Eric Holdenson had come to his gates two days ago. So, when would she have received such a command?

Then, another thought occurred to him, one that made him curse and hurry back toward MacKane Castle, leaving Aucher’s body where it had fallen.

Holdenson had come alone to their confrontation. Perhaps it was arrogance that had led him to do so, but it was also possible that he’d sent his men—and more troops if he’d managed to sneak them onto MacKane lands—to attack the castle while its Laird was distracted. Or even to sneak inside and try to kill certain people.

People like Oliver, Brigid, and Brigid’s sisters. He might have even sent assassins and spies to kill anyone and everyone who might claim control over Clan MacKane, either on the assumption that he would win the fight with Conall or that his soldiers would take vengeance on the clan if he died in the attempt.

Conall swore out loud and broke into a run, his wounds burning and his jaw clenched as he raced for home, hoping to arrive in time to prevent whatever final plan his enemy had set in motion.

Back at the castle, Brigid had been taken to a cell where she sat slumped against the wall, her mind endlessly going over all that had transpired since she awoke that morning, and trying desperately to reassure herself that there would be an explanation for all of it.

‘Twill be all right. I dinnae ken what’s happenin’ outside this cell right now, or where Conall went this mornin’, but I ken I didnae harm him, and he’ll ken it as well. That means that as soon as he returns, all will be well.

And at least my sisters are safely away, in the meantime. Valerie said they had Father’s men watchin’ over them, so they’ll nae be in danger.

But the thoughts were cold comfort, and dwelling on them did nothing to ease the torture her mind seemed intent on subjecting her to. It was no help at all that the cell was very bleak, and very small—smaller even than her childhood room. It was also dank and cold, and Brigid sat shivering on the small straw pallet that had been provided for her, staring at the walls and trying not to think about what had happened to her sisters or Conall.

Not thinking of Conall and her sisters, however, only brought to mind questions about her fate. What would happen to her if Conall did not return? She had no hope of convincing Oliver that she’d never intended to use the monkshood essence he’d found. And if she tried to explain, she was certain he’d only hear that she’d been conspiring to harm Conall—never mind that only Laird Auchter had been planning such things.

Oliver would never believe her, and she wished with all her heart that she’d knocked the vial of poison aside as soon as Auchter had given it to her, that she’d shattered it on the stone or tossed it into the fire. Anything other than sticking it in her pocket, as she had done. She’d intended to be rid of it at the first opportunity. But that opportunity had never seemed to arise, and before long, she’d forgotten all about it.

Why was I so stupid?

Even as she berated herself, Brigid knew it was not mere stupidity that had made her act the way she had. For one, she hadn’t wanted any more unpleasantness at her wedding celebrations than Auchter had already caused with his unwelcome appearance at the feast. With no idea what the man who claimed to be her grandfather might do, she simply wanted to be rid of him in the easiest and fastest manner possible. That done, she’d been distracted—first by the dancing and then by Conall—and she’d forgotten all about the poison he’d handed her.

Oliver, of course, would never believe her, no matter how often she insisted that it was all a misunderstanding—a matter of momentary forgetfulness on her part, rather than some sinister plan. Even Emily, who was far kinder and more reasonable in general, might assume the worst of her. People so often did.

And what of Conall? She had no idea where he was or what he was doing. Sooner or later, though, he’d reappear—and she had no doubt Oliver would rush to him with tales of his new wife’s supposed treachery.

Would Conall believe his brother? Would he kill her the same way he’d killed the two guards who’d dared to harm her? Would he even give her a chance to explain herself, or would he simply assume that she intended to follow Laird Auchter’s plan?

And if he did allow her to explain herself, would he believe her words, or would he assume she was lying to save herself? And what would he do if he believed she was trying to deceive him?

Of course, that was assuming he returned. Brigid hated to think such things, but he had been absent from their marriage bed when she awoke. If it wasn’t clan business that had taken him away, then she had no idea what it could be, and now that she had nothing to do but think, she couldn’t help but worry that it might be part of some other sinister plan set in motion.

As for Laird Auchter, Brigid still knew little of him, but one thing she did know was that the way he’d spoken to her the night before had left her feeling as if she’d been spoken to by a snake—a hungry, venomous one. She could well believe that he might give her poison while planning some other ‘accident’ or incident to kill Conall. She could just as easily believe that she might be punished for his crimes while he claimed innocence.

The thought that Conall’s absence might be due to some treachery on Laird Auchter’s part terrified her, and not only because it would endanger her life as well.

There were also her sisters to consider in all of this. What would happen to them if she were right and this was all part of some plot? If she were convicted and executed for Conall’s injury or death, or for supposedly betraying him, what would happen to Lily, Megan, and Valerie? Conall might not be vengeful enough to attack them outright, but Oliver might well declare a feud against her sisters if Conall were hurt or killed by Laird Auchter’s machinations.

Oliver had already made it clear that he thought that she and her family were no better than their mother’s relations, after all. What if he were to act on that belief?

If Conall or his brother, or even Clan Auchter, decided to declare war on the Blackwood sisters, then none of them would live to tell the tale. She knew Valerie would do her best to rouse the retired and still loyal members of their father’s old crew, but even if she were to succeed, it wouldn’t be enough. And they’d not even have that much protection if it came down to fighting. Pirates, even loyal ones, were usually too practical to face such odds.

A door creaked, and Brigid immediately clambered to her feet, her aching limbs screaming in protest, already stiff from sitting on the cold, damp floor.

A moment later, Oliver appeared, his face set in a familiar cold scowl of fury.

“I’ll ask ye one last time,” he said in a tone that made her blood run cold. “Where is my brother?”

“I dinnae ken,” Brigid replied, shrinking back against the wall of the cell.

“What did ye do to him?”

“I didnae do anything!” She fought back tears and clenched her hands into her skirts. “I didnae harm him. Why should I?”

“Because ye’re Laird Auchter’s blood.”

“And that means nothing to me,” she protested. “I only met him for the first time last night, when he came to the wedding feast.”

“And why would I believe that, when I found poison in yer pockets?” Oliver’s sneer deepened as he spat out the words.

“I told ye,” Brigid replied, her tone pleading. “Laird Auchter gave it to me, and I forgot about it. I meant to dispose of it or see whether Emily had a use for monkshood—my sister Lily told me that plants like this can be used to make medicine too.”

“Ye must think I’m as daft as a newborn to tell me a story like that.” Oliver’s lip curled. “I dinnae ken what ye did, or how, but ye’ll nae be leavin’ that cell until I’ve found my brother. And if he’s nae hale and healthy, I’ll see to it that ye die as soon as he does.”

Brigid swallowed and tried to quash the fear that threatened to crush her. She had no doubt that Oliver would keep his promise, and enjoy acting on it. She shivered, and not just from the cold, clammy air.

Far above, something slammed loudly, the sound reverberating through the stone. Oliver’s head whipped around, his shoulders stiffening as his hand fell automatically to the hilt of his sword.

Brigid slid back, her shoulders pressed against the wall of her cell as the door to the dungeons crashed open with a bang like thunder trapped indoors.