Page 24 of The Highlander’s Hellion Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #1)

24

“ F aster!” Duncan roared, kicking his heels into his steed’s flanks.

“They cannae go any faster!” Arthur’s voice rose over the sound of the wind hammering in Duncan’s ears.

Duncan turned his head to glare at his friend. The horses whinnied loudly, struggling to keep up the breakneck speed he had set. Their manes billowed wildly behind them, and tears stung Duncan’s eyes as they raced toward their destination. But still, his friend glared at him.

Reluctantly, Duncan tugged on the reins, slowing the pace slightly.

Both steeds panted, and when Duncan glanced at Arthur’s horse, he noticed foam forming at the edges of its lips.

“We willnae arrive faster if they keel over,” Arthur griped, an edge to his voice that Duncan rarely heard.

More than any of his friends, Arthur had always had a soft spot for animals. And it was apparent now as his good eye darted between his stallion and Duncan’s.

And even though he didn’t want to, Duncan could understand his friend’s logic.

He nodded his head toward the east. “There’s a stream nae far in that small bank of trees,” he explained. “We can stop and let them drink.”

Arthur’s lips pressed into a thin line, but he nodded. They both tugged on their beasts’ reins gently, leading them in the direction that Duncan had just indicated.

“What will ye do when ye get there?” Arthur asked, filling the silence as their horses drank deeply.

“I will kill him with me bare hands.”

To emphasize his point, Duncan tightened his grip on the reins hard enough that his knuckles turned white.

Arthur’s eye flashed with disapproval. “Dinnae do anythin’ rash,” he warned.

But Duncan did not want to hear it. He turned his head, tuning out any advice that his friend was about to give him.

Once the beasts had drunk their fill, he kicked his heels again, guiding the beast back into a canter beside Arthur’s.

The pair rode in silence, the rolling hills and lush greenery of the Highlands flying past them as they made their way toward their destination.

The scenery turned familiar, and Duncan’s heart began pounding a new. It had been more than half a day of tracking, but eventually, they had been able to pick up clear tracks. And now, as Duncan stared around him, he knew exactly where they would lead.

Sure enough, as they crested the next hill, MacKimmon Castle came into view.

“I’ll kill him,” Duncan growled again, his words carrying on the wind to a still-glowering Arthur.

His friend didn’t stop him though. He didn’t say a word of disapproval as Duncan nudged his horse into a gallop once more. Duncan glanced at his side, finding Arthur doing the same.

God would hear his heartfelt pledge and know that he did not care if what he was about to do would damn him forever. If the sins of his past had not already sealed his fate, he would gladly face damnation and be cast into the eternal fires of Hell if it meant he could take revenge on whoever tried to touch what’s his. Whoever tried to hurt Alison would suffer. He would make sure of it.

It did not take long before they reached the castle. Duncan scanned the ramparts, seeing guards with crossbows trained on both his and Arthur’s chests.

“Halt!”

“Halt!”

“Halt!”

There was a thrum followed by a thud as an arrow embedded itself into the ground next to him. Duncan tugged hard on his horse’s reins, causing the beast to rear on its hind legs. Its whinny of protest rent the air, just as another thrum sounded and another arrow struck the earth.

“Ye dare to shoot at me!” he bellowed, his voice thunderous and mighty. “Ye dare to shoot at me after tryin’ to kill me wife!”

A clap of thunder sounded overhead, echoing his anger for all the world.

“Where is yer Laird?” he roared, his vocal cords straining from the force of hurling the demand.

“Who is askin’?” one of the guards yelled back.

“The man whose wife yer Laird just tried to kill.”

Even from a distance, Duncan could see the confusion on the guards’ faces. They exchanged glances and whispered amongst themselves, occasionally glancing at him.

He threw a glance over his shoulder, immediately spotting Arthur waiting about ten feet back.

As they’d been riding, when Duncan had had a few clearer moments, they’d discussed how they would handle the confrontation, should it come to pass.

Arthur gave him a nod, a silent acknowledgment that he understood what his role was while they were there. And that, despite his friend’s many protests and thirst for bloodshed, was what Duncan would stick to.

He turned his gaze back to the wall, finding one of the guards whispering into another’s ear. White-hot fury rushed through him. He would not tolerate being whispered about and mocked after someone had tried to kill one of his own. Never again.

If MacKimmon did not want peace, then he would have war.

Duncan was done waiting.

“MacKimmon!” he bellowed. “MacKimmon, come out and face me, ye coward!”

“Pipe down!” one of the guards yelled.

Duncan turned his horse around so he could face him. “Pipe down?” he echoed. “Ye want me to be quiet? Ye want me to shut me mouth when it was yer Laird who buried a dagger in me wife’s chest?”

The only answer was the sound of the gate opening.

Duncan’s eyes flicked to the gate, and he spotted the man standing on the other side of it, his auburn hair shining despite the clouds overhead.

MacKimmon stared at him, his whole body tense and braced for a fight. “What is all this?” he bellowed from across the space. “Why do ye come here and accuse me of somethin’ I didnae do.”

Rage coiled like a viper in Duncan’s belly. He did not have time to think before he threw his legs over the side of the saddle. His boots thudded thunderously as they met the earth, and he sprinted toward the now-raised gate.

“What do ye mean, ye didnae do it?” he growled menacingly, once he was close enough for MacKimmon to hear. “Do ye hear me? I’ll kill ye with me bare hands for what ye’ve done to me wife.”

The nervous guards kept their arrows trained on him while glancing uncertainly at one another as he rapidly approached.

MacKimmon raised his hand, signaling to his guards not to fire. “Drop yer weapons,” he ordered. “We are in a time of peace.”

The guards did as they were told just as Duncan reached the gate and stepped through it. There was a part of him that marveled at their proximity, at the fact that he had now stepped onto soil that belonged to the man who had been his sworn enemy for the last five years.

Even a week earlier, if Duncan had been this close to him, he would have wrung his neck. He wanted so badly to wrap his hands around the man’s throat and squeeze until his eyes bulged from their sockets and the life drained from his body.

Duncan stepped closer to him, so close that all he would need to do was reach out his hands and wrap them around the man’s throat before the guards could nock an arrow.

“Me wife,” he growled, staring at him. “Why did ye stab me wife again, ye coward?”

MacKimmon’s red eyebrows knitted together in confusion. “Someone stabbed yer wife?”

“Ye did it,” Duncan spat out, his white-knuckled fists clenched at his sides. “I tried to offer ye peace after all these years of fightin’, after all this death, and ye repaid me by tryin’ to kill me wife! Again!”

MacKimmon shook his head. “I didnae stab yer wife.”

The words barely registered in Duncan’s mind.

“Did ye do it because of what happened to Lucy? Because yer sister died while she was married to me? I wasnae the one who hurt her. I’ve tried tellin’ ye time and again. And now ye’ve tried to murder another woman. Ye’re a gutless, spineless, coward of a man.”

MacKimmon’s eyes darkened at Duncan’s insults. He stepped closer, close enough that their chests were nearly touching.

Duncan was slightly taller than MacKimmon, but even so, the man found a way to look down his nose at him.

“I didnae stab yer wife,” he hissed again, the apples of his cheeks turning red with anger. “Why would I do such a thing when I signed yer damned peace treaty. I thought ye’d come to negotiate terms, but if I’d thought ye’d be hurlin’ accusations at me, I would have had me guards shoot ye.”

“Have them shoot me now,” Duncan snapped, his hand inching toward the dagger that he kept strapped to his belt. “Before I get the chance to slice yer throat.”

“Let me get this straight,” MacKimmon continued, his breathing becoming ragged from the effort of restraining himself. “Ye ride all this way to me castle to accuse me of stabbin’ yer wife and me own sister, and then ye tell me that ye’re goin’ to slice me throat?”

“Is that nae what ye’d do if someone tried to kill yer wife?”

Duncan’s chest was heaving, his hatred for the man so hot that he felt like it might burn him alive, like it might ignite his veins and consume him. He wanted to pummel the man, wanted to hit him and keep hitting him until his blood painted every bit of gravel red.

“I’m goin’ to ask ye again,” MacKimmon hissed, his body vibrating with barely controlled anger. “Why would I stab yer wife if I just signed yer peace treaty? Ye think I would risk another war and more of me men dyin’ when we’d only just gotten a little bit of rest?”

Duncan blinked, the man’s words only just now registering. He looked around him, taking in the courtyard.

There were armed guards, yes, but no more than what he would expect for a well-fortified castle. There were no signs of MacKimmon readying for another war. Aside from the crates that looked like they were in the middle of being unpacked, little looked out of place.

“If ye didnae do it,” Duncan said, turning his attention back to MacKimmon, “then ye sent one of yer men to do it.”

MacKimmon shook his head. He took a step back, seeming to have finally gotten control of himself. “Again,” he said, “why would I risk that when we’ve only just gotten a respite? Would it nae have made more sense to just nae sign yer peace treaty and to keep the war goin’? What purpose would hurtin’ a lass serve?”

Now it was Duncan’s turn to shake his head.

“Ye havenae signed the peace treaty,” he growled.

His anger was not as loud or as violent as it had been mere moments ago. But it was still there, bubbling below the surface and waiting to be unleashed.

“I have,” MacKimmon insisted, his expression earnest. “I signed it, and me man-at-arms left with it late last night.”

“We followed the tracks from the inn where me wife was stabbed to yer gate!” Duncan yelled, his frustration and fear getting the better of him.

“Aye, and which way did those tracks lead?” MacKimmon bellowed.

That brought Duncan up short. He considered the tracks he’d followed. And yes, while it had been clear as day that they linked MacKimmon Castle and the inn, they had not led from the inn to the castle, but from the castle to the inn.

“Ye signed the peace treaty?” Duncan asked, some of his anger getting replaced by confusion.

MacKimmon nodded.

Duncan had expected to receive it without delay, but it had not arrived. After Alison was stabbed and he discovered the tracks that had led him to MacKimmon’s doorstep, he surmised that the attack on his wife had been a message that his peace offer had been rejected.

But MacKimmon was saying the opposite. His peace offer had been accepted.

“I didnae receive the signed peace treaty,” Duncan grunted.

“I just told ye, me man-at-arms rode out with it late last night,” MacKimmon explained, his tone calm and even. “I’m tired of the fightin’. Tired of the death. Me men are tired, and they want to see their wives without the specter of war hangin’ over their heads for the rest of their days. So, aye, I signed the damned peace treaty.”

Duncan shook his head. “There was nay messenger.”

“He should have arrived at yer castle late this mornin’. Ye likely missed him on yer way here.”

His mind began to race, filled with thoughts that were too quick for him to sift through and process.

Was it possible that MacKimmon was lying?

Duncan swept his eyes over the man. MacKimmon’s shoulders were squared, ready to defend himself, and Duncan detected tension in the lines of his face.

But he ordered his guards nae to attack.

That fact brought Duncan up short. This was someone he had been at war with for five years. Five years .

Surely, if MacKimmon had rejected the peace offer and his assertion had been a ruse, he would have ordered his men to shoot. Duncan had ridden up with only one man to guard him. And menacing though Arthur was, the two of them would not be able to take on several armed guards who had a height advantage. They had been nothing more than sitting ducks. And yet they had not fired.

He’s tellin’ the truth.

But if MacKimmon was being honest, then who stabbed Alison?

“Laird Marsden,” MacKimmon started.

But Duncan did not want to listen to him anymore. There was too much going on in his mind. Too many thoughts begging to be heard at once.

He turned on his heel. Gravel crunched beneath his feet as he stomped back to his horse. Arthur was waiting patiently, holding the reins of his horse. He held them out to Duncan, who snatched them a second before swinging himself up into the saddle. He said nothing as he kicked his heels and guided his horse away from his enemy’s castle.

But was MacKimmon still his enemy?

Everything felt upside down. The world as he knew it had irreversibly changed before the sun had even had a chance to fully set.

“MacKimmon claimed he signed the peace treaty,” Duncan explained to Arthur. “Said he sent it with his man-at-arms late last night.”

“Why would he sign the peace treaty if he was just goin’ to stab yer wife?” Arthur’s question echoed the one Duncan had hurled at MacKimmon.

“He claims it wasnae him.”

“But if it wasnae MacKimmon,” Arthur asked, his voice laced with the same confusion that filled every ounce of Duncan’s being, “then who did it? If it wasnae MacKimmon, how did both of yer wives end up stabbed?”

For that, Duncan had no answer. So, he remained quiet, leaving the howling wind to answer his friend.