Page 13 of The Laird’s Guardian Angel (Highland Lairds #3)

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T he moment his mount's nostrils crossed into England, Sir Edgar of Bromley breathed not just a sigh of relief but more like a gasp of life.

In fact, he was so bloody happy to have finally made it back to his native country that he leaped off his mount, fell to his knees, and kissed the earth. Scotland and all the heathens who lived there could go rot. England was forever.

He kissed and kissed until a piece of grass fastened to his lips, and he sputtered to let it loose. Meanwhile, his men sat their horses, looking down at him with mixtures of both shame and curiosity. Their leader was quite an odd one.

Well, he didn't care. They were safe because of him.

Another week with the twit and her mother and all their heads would be rotting over some Scottish fire, he was certain of it.

He'd done his duty by king and country and seen to it that plans were put into motion that no one could stop.

Back on his horse, they rode the rest of the way to Bromley Manor, where he'd lived with Lady Mary and her child for nearly two decades. Her death was not a sin he'd have to answer to at the gates of heaven. After all, the king was chosen by God, and if he told his subjects to do something, then certainly it was with the Lord's blessing.

And it didn't hurt that he was paid handsomely.

'Twas a fact that Edgar had gone quite broke keeping up with the demands of his lady wife. Only, she had never been his wife in truth, had she? He'd only learned the fact recently, which had helped him carry out his king's orders.

Edgar marched into his house, slumped into a chair, and ordered an ale from his housekeeper.

The great hall looked bleak. Too quiet. Too many shadows.

Even the scent of her lingered as if she'd only just passed through the room.

Guilt riddled him, not only for what he'd had to do to Mary but for what he'd done to Calliope as well. She would hate him, no doubt. Not that he should really care. But a minuscule corner of his brain disliked knowing she would resent him forever. And he deserved it, after all.

He killed her mother. Though he wouldn't say, he was a murderer. Soldiers weren't murderers. They were honorable men who carried out their duties—doling out death—in the name of king and country.

Still, in practically tossing Calliope across the border, he'd alienated her, and likely signed her death warrant. Aye, he'd as good as killed the girl he considered to be a daughter. If the wicked heathens didn't do it, surely the life she'd lead there would. Scotland was a harsh country, and the six years she'd lived there as a child were not likely to have prepared her for real living.

And Edgar wasn't all to blame for this. Ramsey was also not innocent. As soon as his daughter was delivered, she would be married off, putting into motion the next order on the king's edict, in exchange for a handsome sum. In fact, Edgar had passed the man on the road who was to deliver the marriage order himself. No doubt, the vows had already been exchanged, and Ramsey would be counting his wealth. Because how could Ramsey refuse?

When it came down to it, everything was about the coin. Everything. Even loyalty.

Edgar took a long swallow of his ale, staring at the locked coffer that sat center on his mantlepiece. For too long, it had been empty. By this time tomorrow, the envoy would arrive from King Edward's court to take Edgar's report and leave him with a coffer that was so heavy he'd need assistance carrying it around.

He'd not want for coin for a long time. Maybe not ever again.

And he could take a true wife to his bed.

So why did he suddenly feel the urge to toss himself from the ramparts?