Page 117 of Taming the Highland Misfits

“So that it won’t suffer,” he explained. “Shall we eat it?”

“Here?” Freya was incredulous. “Raw?”

He shook his head, laughing. “No. We will roast it over a fire,” he answered. “Go and get some wood and I will show you.”

Freya went to pick up some dead branches and twigs, then brought them back to Alex, who struck his knife on a stone to make a spark and start a fire.

A short while later, he had gutted the fish, then threaded it through a long twig and held it over the blaze. He turned it this way and that till it was cooked, then he cut it into two pieces with his knife when it was cool enough to touch, and held it out on the palm of his hand and gave it to her.

Cautiously, Freya took a bite. “This is the most delicious thing I have ever tasted!” she said delightedly. “Oh, we must come and do this again!” She swallowed a mouthful of ale and leaned forward to kiss him. “Is there anything else you can teach me?” she asked wickedly.

“Oh, yes,” he replied huskily. “Many things.”

Freya giggled. “You are so wicked,” she said, rubbing her hand over his stubbly face. He had not had a shave for three days, since had been kept so busy lately.

“But that is why you love me, is it not?” he asked mischievously.

Freya did not answer, but pulled him in for a scorching kiss.

* * *

He remembered that day two years ago as if it were yesterday, but a lot of water had passed under the bridge since then. Both he and Freya had matured, and Gerald Patterson had begun to insert himself into their lives, so slowly and stealthily that he was a part of their lives before anyone realised it.

Alex sipped his ale slowly as he ate his food, letting memories wash over him peacefully, picking out the good ones and discarding the bad.

There was one matter that still bothered him, however. Gerald Patterson had no conscience, and Alex was terrified that he might carry out his threat to kill Freya–for she would never agree to do his bidding–as soon as he was executed. He knew that Bearnard could always be relied upon to protect her, and the Laird would never willingly let any harm come to his daughter. However, Aidan was a weak man who would always follow in Gerald Patterson’s footsteps, and Patterson was not only intelligent, but also cunning and cruel.

He would think nothing of killing Freya, although Alex wondered if he always meant what he said or he was merely listening to the sound of his own voice, but he assumed the former; Gerald Patterson was callous to the bone. Alex hated him, hated the way he had ensnared Aidan and the way he was doing the same to Laird Murdaugh, who had not yet realised how he was being manipulated.

He thought back to the day he had returned from the MacNeills, how Patterson had threatened him and Freya, yet he, Alex, had done nothing. If he had been any kind of a man, he would have told Freya everything and eloped with her. They could have been quickly married in one of the small churches in any of the surrounding villages and presented the family with a fait accompli later. If only he could go back in time and do what he should have done in the first place! Gerald Patterson would have had nothing to hold over his head then; he reflected sadly that there was no vision more keen than hindsight.

Still, it was too late for regrets now, but his last wish was to see Freya one more time. He had not seen her for days, and he was starving for her; surely her father would not be so cruel as to keep her away from him at a time like this?

He looked up at the small window high above his head and noticed that the black starry sky had begun to lighten and assume a pinkish tinge. Dawn had arrived.

Alex was surprised to find himself not frightened, but calm. It was a strange feeling. He was not shaking in terror, screaming for help or howling with anger, but he wondered if the fear would set in when he saw the noose.

He would soon find out, he realised. Just then, he heard the sound of half-a-dozen pairs of hob-nailed boots coming towards him; he stood up, squared his shoulders and thrust his chest out. He was not going to go to his death looking like a coward, but would try to meet his maker with as much dignity as he could muster.

He recognised every one of the men who had come to fetch him. They were six of his best, and the ones with whom he worked most closely. That was well known, and there was no doubt that this was why they had been chosen. They looked at him sheepishly, none of them willing to meet his eyes squarely. No one said a word; no one had to, since Alex co-operated without a murmur.

The whole operation was carried out quickly and efficiently. Alex had his hands tied behind him, and the men walked in front of and behind him.

It seemed surreal to Alex, as if the whole event was happening to someone else. In a few moments he would be dead, and because he could not quite believe it, he had no fear. He had no idea what awaited him on the other side, or whether he would be able to look back and see the world of the living, but he would soon know.

They emerged onto a staircase that led up to a little dark space with a small door, which opened to reveal the atrium, a broad flat area that led to the main entrance of the castle.

Outside was the courtyard, in the far corner of which were the stables, and for the first time it really dawned on him what was about to happen. There, on a specially built platform stood a tall, thick post, from which jutted another short beam of wood. Attached to it was a loop of thick rope–a noose–the instrument of his death.

Alex looked around frantically for Freya, but she was nowhere to be found. However, there were plenty of other people standing around the scaffold, some there out of morbid curiosity, and some to pray for him. Whatever their motive, their eyes were all fixed on him.

He was still scanning the faces around him looking for Freya, and he was beginning to panic. He desperately wanted to see her beautiful face in the last few moments before the rope went around his neck.

Suddenly, he noticed the last face he ever wanted to see in the crowd; Gerald Patterson, grinning from ear to ear. Alex wondered briefly where Aidan was, then resumed his search for Freya, desperately scanning the faces looking up at him. She was nowhere in sight.

At that moment, Laird Murdaugh appeared in front of the onlookers. He climbed the steps to the gallows and took out a piece of paper on which the charges against Alex were written.

Facing him, he began to read. “Alex MacNeill, the charges against you are as follows–” He got no further, however, for at that moment there was a sudden shout and an abrupt disturbance at the back of the crowd, and Alex looked on in disbelief as Freya burst out of the mass of people.