Page 26 of The Highlander’s Hellion Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #1)

26

A s she walked through the castle, Alison did exactly what she told Malina she would do—she moved slowly.

She kept one hand on the wall at all times, leaning against it whenever she needed to stop and take a break. Thankfully, Duncan’s study was not far.

She rounded the corner, pausing just outside the door to steady herself. The effort it had taken to get there had depleted all her energy. She smoothed down her plaid skirt with unsteady hands and took a deep breath. When she felt she could continue, she pushed open the study door and walked in.

An unfamiliar man stood in the center of the room. He had been staring pensively at the books on the shelves and the art on the walls, but when the door creaked, he turned to face her.

He was smaller than her husband, but that was not saying much. His imposing form still occupied quite a bit of the space. One cheek had been scarred by smallpox, and his eyes were a vivid, icy blue.

He grinned, revealing crooked, stained teeth.

“Me Lady,” he greeted, bowing low and offering her an oily smile.

Alison shuddered. She did not know what it was about the man, but something about him had made the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. She instantly did not trust him.

“Good day, Mr.…?” she trailed off, walking forward and taking her place at her husband’s desk.

It took everything in her to sit straight, but she persevered. A sheen of sweat had broken out on her brow from the effort, and the tincture that Malina had given her earlier was still clouding her brain. Despite the tincture, the pain in her chest was a deep, constant ache that threatened to steal her breath.

“Me name is Johnson Blake,” the man said, that smarmy smile still fixed on his face. “I am Laird MacKimmon’s man-at-arms.”

“Ye’re his man-at-arms?” Alison questioned.

Now that she was seated, some of the pressure had eased from her wound, and she was finding it much easier to breathe.

“A man-at-arms doesnae typically deliver messages,” she continued. “Thus, it must be one of great importance.”

“Aye, that it is.”

Johnson did not look at her as he spoke. Instead, he turned and walked back toward the door. Alison tracked his every movement as her curiosity and dread amplified.

“It is of grave importance, I’m afraid,” he added.

His back was still turned to her, and, to her horror, he closed the door and turned the key in the lock. It slid home with a click, the sound reverberating in her bones.

Whatever this man was here for, it could not be good.

Alison cast a wild glance around the room, hoping beyond hope that her husband had a dagger, a quill, or anything that would help her defend herself if it came to it.

But there was nothing. Duncan’s desk was clear of all clutter—exactly the way he preferred it.

“I assume ye have news of the peace treaty?” she prompted, hoping that if she kept the man talking, she might be able to come up with a plan.

“Oh, aye,” Johnson said, turning to face her once more. A wicked grin turned up his lips, one that soured her stomach. “I have news, all right. News from Me Laird. Good news, I think ye’ll find.”

“Good news requires ye to lock the door?” Alison tried to keep her tone light, almost joking. She plastered what she hoped was an unbothered smile on her face, but he did not appear convinced.

“I didnae need to lock the door to deliver the news, Me Lady.” The smile on Johnson’s face dropped. “But I did need to lock it for everythin’ else.”

“What do ye mean?” Alison asked.

Although she tried to keep her voice strong and nonchalant, she was unsuccessful. It shook as she spoke, and the palms of her hands became sweaty. She lowered them to her lap, wiping them on the fabric of her skirt.

“Laird MacKimmon signed yer husband’s peace treaty,” Johnson said, walking closer to her as a strangled laugh escaped his lips.

Alison’s heart was pounding. She quickly pushed back the chair and struggled to stand up, but she had moved too quickly. Her fresh stitches pulled, and even through the haze of the tincture Malina had given her, she still felt the sharp pain.

She stifled a gasp, her eyes never once leaving Johnson.

“Is the signin’ of the peace treaty amusin’ to ye?” she probed.

Johnson took another step toward her, and Alison used the opportunity to take a step back. She matched him step for step, keeping the desk between them.

I just need to get on the other side of the desk. If I can, mayhap I can run for the door and he willnae be able to catch me.

“What’s funny is that yer Laird thinks there will ever be peace between our clans,” Johnson said, his voice high-pitched and manic.

“I thought ye said that Laird MacKimmon signed the peace treaty?”

Keep him talkin’. Keep him distracted.

Another unhinged laugh escaped Johnson’s lips.

“Och, he signed it. But that doesnae matter because ‘tis nae fair.”

“What’s nae fair, Johnson?” Alison had made it nearly halfway around the desk, always keeping the large hunk of wood between herself and the man before her.

She glanced at the door. It still seemed so incredibly far, and the ache in her chest was growing. She was not sure if that meant the tincture was wearing off, or if she had just strained so hard that she had torn a stitch. But whatever the reason, she knew she had to escape from the malevolent man before her.

“Do ye nae want peace? Do ye nae want an end to all the needless suffering and death?”

“Needless?” The humor had left his voice, his icy-blue eyes darkening as he leveled his gaze at her. “Ye think the deaths were needless?”

Quick as a flash, Johnson pulled something from his belt and pointed it at her. Alison’s blood ran cold.

The dagger shook in his hands, but he still held it, pointed directly at her. She swallowed, her mouth going dry with fear.

“Why would all those men need—” she began but was quickly interrupted.

“Because she’s dead!” Johnson all but yelled.

Alison closed her eyes, sending up a quick prayer that someone in the castle had heard him yell. She listened hard, hoping that at any moment, she would hear rushing footsteps.

But there was nothing. Only her rapidly beating heart and Johnson’s labored, frantic breathing.

“She is dead,” he said again, a little calmer than he was a moment ago. “And ‘tis yer husband’s fault. So, they all deserve to die.”

“What do ye mean, ‘tis me husband’s fault?” She furrowed her brow in confusion as she risked another furtive step around the desk.

“Lucy,” he said.

The sound of Duncan’s first wife’s name struck Alison like a blow.

She gasped, and as she did so, a sharp pain radiated from her wound. She tightened her grip on the desk and paused to get her bearings.

Glancing at the door again, she realized that her time had run out. She was on the other side of the desk, but Johnson had not moved or inched around it like she had hoped he would.

He still stood on the opposite side of the desk, but it would not take him long to catch up with her. No, the element of surprise was the only weapon she had.

“What does this have to do with Lucy?” Alison asked, in a desperate attempt to keep him talking.

She needed more time to be able to draw a few more breaths and steady herself for what was to come.

I cannae get this wrong. I have to be ready and fast.

“It has everythin’ to do with Lucy,” Johnson hissed, the dagger shaking in his hand.

“Ye said ye’re Laird MacKimmon’s man-at-arms, aye? So ye kenned her?”

“Aye.” Johnson let out another mirthless laugh and jerked his head in a nod. “I kenned her. We grew up together. I lov…”

Alison made her move, pushing herself away from the desk with every ounce of might she possessed and bolting toward the door. With each step, the wound in her chest screamed louder.

She felt the stitches straining, pulling at her skin as she swung her arms. The door grew closer as her vision grew blurry.

She was almost there. She could do it. She could?—

His hand grabbed her hair and yanked her back. Alison let out a strangled cry and staggered backward.

Her arms flailed to the sides, and she tried to catch herself, but she was not fast enough. She fell, the back of her head hitting the wooden floor hard. The sheer force of the impact knocked the wind out of her.

The darkness that had been lurking at the edges of her vision now clouded it entirely. She blinked rapidly, trying with all her might to remain conscious while she fought to breathe.

“Ye dinnae get to run!” Johnson screamed.

That was surely loud enough for someone to hear.

She had to keep believing that if she could hang on for a few more moments, someone would come.

Slowly, the darkness in her vision began to recede as the shooting pain in her chest chased it away.

“What makes ye so special?” Johnson growled, using his grip on her hair to drag her about.

He threw one leg over her waist, straddling her as he pressed the dagger against her throat.

Alison stilled, her mind frozen with fear. A part of her wanted to laugh, no matter how inappropriate the response would have been. It had only been days since she last had a dagger pressed against her throat. She never would have guessed that she would find herself in the same predicament so soon.

Johnson pressed the dagger harder against the side of her throat, and she felt the all-too-familiar pain of the blade cutting her skin. The stone floor dug into her back, and she squirmed, pressing herself against it in an attempt to put more space between herself and the tip of the blade.

“Why do ye think ye deserve to live, when she had to die?” Johnson’s voice was low and full of pain.

Despite the gravity of the situation, Alison felt a pang of pity.

“Ye loved her,” she said simply.

Although it was not a question, the crazed man nodded all the same.

“I loved her me whole life,” he explained. “But yer Laird ”—he hurled the word at her as if it were an insult—“took her from me. He took her and corrupted her!”

Keep him talkin’. I have to keep him talkin’.

“How did he corrupt her?” Alison prompted.

Johnson’s Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed, seeming to struggle for a modicum of control over the emotion that was threatening to overtake him.

“He married her. That was enough. And then, she had his bairn. The daughter that should have been mine!”

Rosie. He’s talkin’ about Rosie.

Anger flared within Alison at the mention of her daughter. This man, who was straddling her, would deprive Rosie of another mother if he had his way. He was set on killing her, but she would not allow Rosie to go through that pain again. She would not allow Duncan to go through the pain of losing another wife.

“And what do ye plan to do?” she asked, menace leaching into her tone. “Ye plan to stab me? Plan to finish the job that someone else started?”

“What someone else started?” Johnson snorted. “Are ye really that daft?”

The tip of the blade left her throat, and he leaned in closer. Their faces were mere inches apart. His rank, warm breath fanned her face, and she turned her head to the side in disgust, gasping for fresh air.

“‘Twas me who stabbed ye this mornin’, lassie,” he hissed, his lips next to her ear. “So, I’ll finish what I started meself. And then, once ye’re dead, I’ll dispatch yer husband, too. It’ll serve him right after what he made me do to Lucy.”

Terror seized Alison as his confession sank in.

“Ye’re the one who killed…” she began but did not get the chance to finish.

She felt the pressure of Johnson’s hands wrapped around her throat as he began to strangle her. She clawed at his hands and wrenched at his fingers as the pressure increased.

Her airways constricted, and she tried to gasp, but no air came in. The seconds seemed to slow down as the darkness bloomed and encompassed her. She knew she was dying.

Her strength slowly waned as she continued to slap his face, claw at his hands, and try and peel his rigid fingers from her neck, fighting as hard as she could to wrench herself away from him. Visions of Rosie and Malina, and images of herself and Duncan, of what they could have been, flashed through her mind.

The darkness continued to rush in, and just as she thought she could bear it no longer, that it was finally the moment when life would leave her, a resounding crash filled the room.

Johnson, caught off guard by the sudden noise, loosened his grip on her throat. Alison took advantage of every second she could, dragging desperately needed air into her lungs. Her throat and chest burned, and her mind was grey and sluggish.

Johnson cried out in surprise, and then suddenly his weight was gone. He had been knocked sideways by something she could not see as her vision fought to refocus.

“Ye’re a dead man,” a familiar voice echoed through her haze. And for the first time that day, her hope was refreshed.

Her husband had come home, after all.