Page 3 of The Laird’s Unwanted Wife (Legacy of Highland Lairds #5)
He pulled at his horse’s reins, avoiding the stumbling crash of a mere boy having been stabbed gruesomely in the chest. His gaze snapped to the perpetrator—a man far older than his victim—and his sword immediately fell from his hands.
“L—Laird MacLiddel …” The words barely got out from his trembling lips before the man scrambled wildly back into the chaos, trying desperately to avoid the ceaseless glare from Gerald.
He, meanwhile, gestured for his men to form a perimeter around the larger mobs, sending Rory to be their point man.
Then, with a sharp inhale, he issued a command that carried well over the rioting kinfolk.
“Cease this display of madness at once!”
Guards and rioters alike froze where they stood, some becoming acutely aware of the mounted warriors slowly encircling them.
Weapons, both makeshift and proper, clattered to the ground as panic rose amidst now tear-streaming faces.
Some kinfolk even went as far as to drop to their knees, hands clasped and heads bent over in pseudo-prayer.
“Laird MacLiddel!” One of the guards went forward to greet him as the others maintained their positions. “Thank God ye’re here! This uprising has been going on for days. We daenae have the numbers advantage anymore, but with yer men here to assist?—”
“I’m nae here to offer me hand,” Gerald corrected the guard. “This is yer own mess to solve.”
A tense silence rippled across the crowd, and the guard visibly paled. “B—But, did ye nae come here to?—”
“I came to collect evidence from yer deceased laird’s study,” Gerald clarified. “To take to the other lairds while we decide the fate of the deceased laird’s land.”
Violent murmurs began to rise from the crowd, and the guard’s voice picked up a note of panic. “We … we willnae survive this for much longer, me Laird.”
“Then it is up to yer council to solve the matter.”
“B—But Marcus was yer ally!”
“I daenae ally meself with the likes of snakes!” Gerald snapped, his horse snorting dangerously as they reared back, threatening to smash the beast’s front hooves against the guard’s chest. He quickly stumbled away, crashing to the ground as he looked upon the Laird of MacLiddel with horror.
Good. It seemed he got his message across quite clearly. This mess was not his to handle.
“I’ll keep the men in formation until yer return,” Rory said, directing his attention out to the crowd as he added loudly, “And anyone who dares to inflict this animalistic violence upon clan MacLiddel will be met with swift retribution! Ye may consider yourselves in yer rights, but we willnae tolerate yer uncivility.”
As Gerald dismounted and stepped through the crowd, he offered Rory a slight nod of encouragement. The man-at-arms’ expression hardly changed, remaining stone cold and entirely focused on the task at hand.
“Shame he cannae remain as such once we enter our territory,” Gerald mused under his breath as he entered the castle.
It looked just as torn apart, with banners torn and furniture completely smashed to bits.
He stepped across splinters and scraps of cloth, briefly lingering at the mound of wood that once must have been the main table for feasts and celebrations.
Memories of laughter and music briefly drifted into Gerald’s mind, but he quickly pushed them down.
This wasn’t the time for kind recollection.
Marcus Hughes was a traitor. A snake. And there wasn’t a memory in his head that would ever change that.
“If anything, it puts into question what was real, and what wasnae.” The thought hadn’t become real until Gerald had spoken it aloud, and with a slight twist in his stomach, the Laird of MacLiddel continued on his way.
Eventually, he came across the door he’d been searching for—Marcus’ old study.
Surprisingly, the door was still locked, its surface scratched and damaged from the previous lootings amidst the castle.
Grasping the knob, Gerald shoved his shoulder against it, hearing metal snap beneath the sudden force as the door swung open.
The interior had been left untouched, books still slid neatly into shelves, while his desk was positively immaculate.
Gerald crossed the room, his hand shuffling a few papers across the desk as he glanced at the words.
Letters to smaller clans about joining forces after the planned collapse of MacDonnell’s territory, brief notes about the rivalry between clans Marsden and MacKimmon.
Gerald’s eyes then fixated on a series of hand-drawn maps plastered around the walls, detailing the various territories and topography of the Highlands.
He drew closer, tracing his finger across a furiously circled plot he recognized almost immediately.
It had been a border skirmish on Marcus’ land, a fight where MacLiddel had offered their full support.
“The fight where me brither …” Gerald snarled, tearing the map from the wall to shreds as anger bloomed hot in his chest.
It had all been a lie. A ruse from the start.
Gerald drew his sword from his scabbard, determined to cut everything down within the study. Or, he would have, had the panicked squeal of a child not caused him pause.