Page 34 of Wed to the Highlander (Impromptu Brides #2)

Duncan strode into the hall, fury rolling off him in waves. The gathered clansmen turned, wary, as he crossed the room in long, purposeful strides.

Lachlan sat at the long table, laughing at something one of the men had said, a tankard of ale in hand.

Duncan didn’t speak. He grabbed his brother by the collar and hauled him off the bench, slamming him hard against the stone wall. The tankard clattered to the floor.

“It was you,” Duncan growled, voice low and lethal. “All this time.”

His brother blinked, feigning confusion. “What in God’s name are you on about?”

“I have the journal,” Duncan said.

Lachlan’s face darkened. “You’ve been listening to women’s gossip.”

“I also have the map. The notes. I know about the poisoned tea. The tunnels. I know how the stable fire started as well as the peat blaze in the dead of winter. There’s a diagram of the grain silo with instructions on how to spoil the lot of it and starve the livestock. I know everything.”

The hall fell silent.

Duncan slammed him hard again. “You used Isla. Manipulated her madness. You nearly killed Maggie. You risked Jamie’s life before he was even born.”

A murmur of shock rippled through the gathered crowd.

“You let her soften you. Worse, she stood between me and what was mine,” Lachlan spat. “Angus’ inheritance, the clan’s loyalty.”

“You’re a MacPherson,” Duncan said, voice rising. “You betrayed your own blood.”

“How dare you talk of blood when yours is diluted, Lord Rothbury. You always thought yourself better than the rest of us. The laird with two faces. One for the English, one for the clan.”

Duncan’s voice was low, but it carried. “I gave you a place. Trusted you. You were my second.”

“And you divided your loyalties,” Lachlan spat. “No true Scot would marry into English softness. No true laird would let his heart rule his head.”

Duncan’s jaw clenched. “Where was your loyalty when you left families hungry? When you destroyed their livelihood. When you manipulated a disturbed woman into doing your dirty work? Is that the kind of man who deserves to lead the MacPhersons?”

The murmurs turned to shouts, the ripple now a wave.

“Banish him!” came the cry.

“That’s too good for him,” called another. “String him up.”

“What would Grand-da Angus do, Brother?” Duncan asked, very close to a hiss.

They both knew that over a century prior, Angus had defied the courts and the crown during war and mounted a traitor’s decapitated head on a pike outside the gate.

“You would no’! I’m yer kin!” Lachlan said, nostrils flaring.

“’Tis what you deserve,” Duncan growled.

Lachlan shoved him with both hands square in the chest. Duncan rocked on his heels but stood his ground then pushed back.

The crowd circled as the two men grappled. Duncan landed a blow to his brother’s ribs then another to his jaw. Lachlan swung wildly, clipping the laird’s chin.

Fists thudded, blood flew, and there was a crunch of bone at least once. But the man betrayed was stronger, faster, and burning with righteous fury. Duncan drove his smaller opponent to the ground, pinning him with a knee to the chest.

“You endangered our people,” he snarled in his half-brother’s face. “You betrayed your kin. All for wealth and power.”

MacLeish stepped forward, flanked by two of their stoutest men. “I’ve sent for the sheriff.”

With a look of disgust for his brother, and one last hard shove, Duncan rose, chest heaving. “Take him away.”

Lachlan barked a bitter laugh. “See? Soft! That’s what the old men of the clan say. A laird with no stomach for hard truths.”

“No,” Duncan said, voice cold and certain. “I’ve become a husband. A father. A laird who puts the best interests of the clan first, not his pockets. And a better man than you’ll ever be. Get him out of here,” he said to his steward. “I canna stand tae look at him.”

“Happy to, laird. I’ve asked that mucking out the sty wait. The traitor can keep the pigs company and be nice an’ ripe when the law arrives.”

The two strapping young men hauled Lachlan to his feet and toward the door. Ian MacPherson spat at his boots as he passed. Allistair, who was pushing eighty and had seen almost everything life could dish out, made an unflattering comment in Gaelic, then decreed, “Ye’re no MacPherson. No’ anymore.”

Agnes stood near the hearth, tears streaking down her face. She looked at her son—bruised, bloodied, defiant—and turned her back. Standing beside her was Angus, Lachlan and Fiona’s oldest child. “Say it is nae true, Da,” he whispered, red-faced and shaking.

Only then did his shoulders sag.

Duncan didn’t speak again. He watched with a hole the size of a dagger in his heart as they took Lachlan away. When the door slammed shut behind them, it echoed through the keep like the final fall of a gavel.