The Sins of the Sire: Dark Highland Passions, #1

by Emily Royal

  “Richard is nothing to do with you.”

  “And what of Elyssia?”

  Richard drew a sharp breath, but de Montford silenced him with a sharp word.

  “Speak not of her,” he snarled, “though I’ll thank you for reminding me of the debt I owe you. The debt for ruining her.”

  Tavish closed his eyes. Perhaps, buried among his hatred for the Highlanders, de Montford had a shred of decency in him if he wished to avenge her.

  “She’s alive?”

  “Aye,” the old man spat. “Alive but worthless. Who would have her after she spread her legs for Highlander scum?”

  Tavish jerked against the chains, de Montford’s hate-ridden words fuelling his own hatred. His heart burned with shame at the part he had played in her downfall. Did she deserve to suffer even more at her father’s hands?

  “Elyssia—”

  “Do not mention her name! Richard, silence him.”

  “Papa…”

  “I said silence him!” De Montford roared. “He destroyed her worth to me. You must secure payment from him. Show me you’re worthy of my name. Do it. Hold him down.”

  Hands held his wrist against the bench. A sharp prick on his palm was the only warning before a searing pain tore through his hand. The throbbing in his head echoed the hammering as they drove the nail through his palm.

  “This is for you, Lyssie,” a voice whispered, before the hammer struck the nail, again and again, penetrating bone and flesh, each blow sending firebolts through his limbs. The multi-layered circles of vengeance still turned, but one had been completed as Tavish paid for Elyssia’s torture.

  Dear God, what pain she must have endured! Tears stung his eyeballs, blurring the face of the young man who gritted his teeth, sweat dripping from his brow onto Tavish’s palm, as he brought the hammer down one last time. The salt intensified the sharp knives scraping the nerves in his hand.

  Tavish slumped back on the bench, his wrists and ankles burning where he had strained against the manacles.

  “Good, very good, Richard. I’ll make a man of you yet.”

  “May I go now, Papa?”

  “No,” de Montford replied. “The lesson is incomplete.”

  “Papa?”

  “Did you think I’d seek exactly the same payment from this animal for what he did? No! When my property is damaged, I’ll take one payment to redress the balance and a further payment for the trouble it has caused me.”

  “Haven’t my people paid you enough?” Tavish croaked, his throat dry with pain and thirst.

  De Montford laughed. “Defiant to the last, even though you know you’ll not leave here alive. My son shall collect further payment from you while I take my supper.”

  “And what would that be?”

  De Montford leant closer. “A finger. Nay, let us make it two. Two of my son’s choosing for me to feed to the pigs. Then two tomorrow night, and a further two each night until there are none left.”

  His sour breath caught in Tavish’s nostrils, sending a surge of nausea through his body.

  “And then we’ll cut off your hands. Each night I shall remove part of you to feed to my pigs until there is just enough left to scream for mercy. Then I shall pull out your teeth, one by one before I cut out your tongue to silence the screams.”

  He grasped the nail, twisting it until Tavish let out a moan of pain.

  “Do you know what I’ll do then, animal?”

  “I care not,” Tavish snarled, the metallic taste on his tongue where he had bitten it.

  “‘Tis a method Longshanks uses against traitors. I hear he has great plans for that whoreson Wallace when he catches him. But for now, I have you. I shall slice you open until your entrails spill out. Then I’ll set fire to them. You shall enjoy the smell of your body being roasted, and I’ll hold your beating heart in my hands until it beats no more, before I feed that, too, to my pigs.”

  “The devil would welcome you as his own, de Montford.”

  “Use words all you will, MacLean, for they’re the only weapons at your disposal.”

  He nodded to the guards. “See to it that my son carries out my wishes.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  His footsteps had not even faded before Richard’s face came into view again, the glint of a knife reflecting in his eyes. Eyes a vivid blue, so like his sister’s.

  “Richard…”

  “Silence!” the young man cried, his voice thick with emotion. Guilt, perhaps, but also despair. He blinked and cast his eyes down as he held the blade against Tavish’s hand. Whatever de Montford felt, his son lacked the same lust for torture.

  Setting his mouth into a straight line, Richard took Tavish’s wrist in one hand before leaning forward, the action driving the blade through Tavish’s fingers.

  Tavish screamed, jerking his hand against the nail, sending fresh arrows of agony through his body. The pounding in his head turned into a roar until an explosion brought forth darkness and respite from the pain.

  * * *

  Tavish opened his eyes. He was still secured to the bench, and his hand burned as if on fire. The smallest two fingers of his left hand were missing, leaving bloody stumps which still oozed when he moved, dark red droplets glistening in the torchlight.

  His head pulsed with pain to a deep rhythm which grew louder.

  Footsteps, a key turning, the creak of hinges.

  They had returned.

  A hand supported the back of his head and lifted it up. A small bowl was placed against his lips and tipped up until water trickled into his mouth. He swallowed, relishing the sweet relief from the burning in his throat. A cough erupted from his chest, and a gentle hand wiped his brow.

  “Who are you?”

  The visitor moved into the light. Close up, the resemblance was even more striking. The shape of his eyes, the little creases at the corner of his mouth, brought forth memories of another—memories both sweet and bitter.

  “You look just like her.”

  Richard set the bowl aside.

  “We’re twins.”

  “Where is she?”

  Richard shook his head. “You’ve no right to ask. She saved your life, and you repaid her with rape and torture!”

  “Repaid her? What of her own actions? She gave the order for my sister to be violated. I only sought justice.”

  “Justice!” Richard spat, his face contorted in disgust. “Lyssie had no choice. Papa threatened Alice in front of her. If Lyssie had not ordered the men to violate your sister, then Alice was to be given to them—to be raped by every man in Papa’s service before he slit her throat.”

  His voice broke into a sob.

  “To see Alice threatened… it broke her. To my shame, though I love Alice, I could never defy Papa as Lyssie did to protect her. Lyssie was always the strongest of the three of us, yet as a woman, she held no power.”

  “She had the power of choice. She could have refused…”

  “…and have Alice torn to pieces? I’m sorry for your sister, but would you have sacrificed her for a stranger?”

  Richard spoke the truth, hateful though it may be.

  “Did you never wonder how your sister returned to you, MacLean?”

  “No.”

  “Elyssia risked her life to engineer her escape—gave her money, food, and clothing. She suffered such guilt. She told me that one day she would pay for what she saw as her greatest sin. And she has paid, has she not, you Scottish bastard? Even now, she’s still paying.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Papa sold her to become another man’s whore.”

  “No! Elyssia…”

  “Aye,” Richard snarled. “She’s gone.”

  “What of Alice? Is she here?”

  “Alice has married,” Richard said. “Her husband took her away almost a month ago. He agreed to marry Alice on condition he took Lyssie as his concubine.”

  “No…”

  “Lyssie’s living in an outbuilding until her child i
s born. Kept hidden lest her presence brings disgrace on the estate.”

  “Have you seen her?”

  “Only once, for a few minutes, before they turned me away.” Richard’s voice cracked. “Do you know what sickened me most? It was what she said about you, MacLean. Even now, when she can sink no further, she would not hear a word against you. She begged me to leave, lest my presence rouse his anger and he harm Alice.”

  “Whose anger?”

  “Edward Morland, Lord Allendyne. Alice’s husband.”

  “Allendyne! I thought he had died.” Tavish cried. “Dear God, have mercy if she’s in his hands.”

  “‘Tis all your doing, MacLean.” Hatred shook in Richard’s voice. “You know you’re going to die here, don’t you?”

  “Aye.”

  “Then tell me the truth. Did you ever care for her?”

  “Aye, I did,” Tavish replied. “I do. God help me, I love her! You cannot begin to know how I hate myself for what I’ve done to her. I deserve what punishment you see fit and will not even ask you for a swift death. But once you have avenged her by killing me, I beg you to take her away from him. If I cannot protect her, then you must.”

  “You love her?”

  “Aye.”

  “Yet you brought her such harm.” Richard’s voice was laced with disgust.

  “What of you, de Montford? Where were you when your father sold her like a whore? Do you know what Allendyne is capable of? He takes relish in grinding others in the dirt—the Highlanders in his captivity; the servants who do his bidding; and the women he lusts after.”

  Richard shook his head. “How can you know that?”

  “I saw him with my own eyes. I was his prisoner until your sister freed me. He treated her with brutality and contempt. And you let her fall into his hands again.”

  “I wasn’t here when Papa gave her to him.”

  “Why did you not release her when you saw her?”

  Richard closed his eyes. “She refused to leave without Alice.”

  “Then you’re a fool to listen to the words of a woman. A real man would have taken her away whether she protested or no.”

  “But Papa…”

  Fear glistened in Richard’s eyes, so unlike the strength which had burned from Elyssia’s gaze. Yet now she lay helpless, in Allendyne’s power.

  “You may have the body of a man, de Montford, yet you have the heart of a mouse.”

  “I can do nothing. My men are loyal to Papa.”

  “I would not lie down so readily and let her suffer!”

  “Aye,” Richard sighed. “I saw it in your eyes when you defied Papa. She needs you to fight for her.”

  “Then help me.”

  Richard paused, as if in thought, then nodded. “That’s what I came to do.” He held up a key. “Lyssie freed your sister. It’s only right I perform the same service for you.”

  The faint clink of metal echoed in the cell as Richard unlocked the manacles. A shard of pain shot through Tavish’s hand where his fingers had been severed.

  “Forgive me, MacLean. I had no choice.”

  “It matters not,” Tavish replied. “I can more easily miss the two smallest fingers on my left hand than any other.”

  “That is why I chose them.”

  Tavish let Richard lead him to the door, but his body had weakened during his captivity, and he stumbled at the threshold. The journey to the outer door took too long. Rather than the exercise freeing his limbs, Tavish’s muscles began to cramp and seize.

  “I cannot go much further.”

  “You have to.” Richard’s voice, heightened with fear, began to waver. “I must return to my chamber before Papa discovers I’m gone.”

  “He already has.”

  A deep voice resonated through the doorway. Robert de Montford stepped into the torchlight.

  “Take that animal back to his cell, Richard. I’ll deal with you later.”

  “Papa…”

  “Now!” de Montford roared. “Do you wish to make me even more ashamed of you?”

  Richard flinched but held his ground. His father drew a dagger and lunged towards him. The young man stood, frozen to the spot. Summoning his remaining strength, Tavish reached towards de Montford’s wrist. Arrogant to the last, the old man hadn’t expected resistance. Neither from the son who cowed before him nor the prisoner he’d tortured to the brink of death.

  Gripping the old man’s wrist, Tavish twisted his arm until de Montford’s dagger faced back towards him. Using his full bodyweight, Tavish lunged forward until de Montford lost his balance and fell to the floor. Tavish landed on top of him, his weight driving the dagger into de Montford’s chest.

  De Montford grunted as Tavish twisted the dagger and warm, red liquid spread across the older man’s tunic.

  “What a pity a Highlander animal is more of a man than my weakling son.”

  “I’m no animal. I’m a man seeking justice for what you have done.”

  “You seek to kill me for what I did to your sister.”

  “No, de Montford. My sister’s death has been paid for a thousand-fold in suffering. I take pleasure in killing you now, not for my sister but for what you did to your daughter. It is in her name I seek vengeance.”

  “You’re a fool. My daughter is a whore. She’s nothing.”

  “No,” Tavish said. “She is everything.”

  De Montford coughed again, and Tavish sliced the dagger across the older man’s throat. Warm red gushed from his neck before slowing to a trickle.

  “Curse you, MacLean… and Richard! I’ll see you both in hell.”

  “No, Papa.” Richard’s quiet voice grew stronger. “By ridding the world of your hatred, MacLean has earned his place in heaven. My only regret is that I did not do it myself. But we will live on and be happy.”

  A cough erupted from the old man’s throat, and scarlet droplets splattered on Tavish’s face before a deep sigh followed and his chest deflated.

  Robert de Montford was dead. The path of vengeance had come to an end. Tavish had reached his destination.

  Chapter 24

  Summer had ended. Leaves littered the ground, a brown mass with accents of red and gold almost glowing in the crisp, cold sunlight. The terrain grew familiar, and Tavish recognised landmarks from his childhood. They were approaching Glenblane.

  He had been travelling almost a month with his companions—Richard, Lord de Montford now his father was dead, and his manservant. The old man, Edwin, had taken care of Tavish, tending to his wounds and binding his injured hand. Edwin had marvelled at the resemblance between Tavish and his sister, the young girl he’d once helped Elyssia to free.

  Rather than dwell on the account of Flora’s death, Tavish had spoken to him of the joy Flora had brought into his life, how she used to sing and dance in the forests near her home when she thought nobody was watching, how she had tended to the sick. The time had come to put past miseries behind him, to break free from the shackles of pain and revenge, to look to the future and let her rest in peace. Flora was now reunited with Ewan, her one true love. She would want the same for Tavish—want him to find love and be happy.

  Elyssia. She belonged to him and none other. Hatred rose in his chest for Edward Morland, the man who held her in his power. But what made Tavish any different to him? What gave him a greater authority over her?

  She’s mine. That is all the authority I need.

  She carried his child in her belly, and he was going to claim her.

  And he had Richard’s support. Elyssia’s brother had demanded he accompany Tavish to the Highlands. Even in the short space of a fortnight, the young man had begun to show signs of being a soldier, the traces of leadership bleeding into his words and actions. Now the shadow cast by his father had lifted, he was able to bathe in the light and become a man.

  A shrill whistle in the distance carried across the air. That familiar sound—two short bursts followed by a longer note.

  Duncan.

  Th
ree men on horseback came into view, the leader flanked by two others.

  “Tav!”

  What a sweet sight he was; Tavish had thought he’d never see him again.

  “Ye gods, Tav, I thought you were dead! I’ve not heard news of you for almost two months.”

  “I’m alive, as you see.”

  Duncan’s gaze fell upon Tavish’s companions. The man to his left he dismissed with a nod. His expression hardened as he stared at the other man and he gripped the hilt of his sword.

  “You ride with an Englishman?”

  “This is Richard de Montford.”

  Duncan’s eyes widened before he nodded and relaxed his stance.

  “You look just like her. What are you doing with my friend?”

  “MacLean has promised to free my sister. Lord Allendyne has her.”

  Duncan let out a hiss. “The man who tortured you, Tav?”

  Tavish nodded. “I want her back, Duncan.”

  “Then I’ll help you. It’s time the two of you were reunited.”

  * * *

  “There it is!” Richard’s soft cry from the head of the party brought Tavish back from his thoughts. The top of a tower stood above the trees. They had reached Allendyne.

  Winter was upon them, its icy hand grasping the landscape and freezing the bones. They had been riding hard, riding through the night in their haste to reach Allendyne’s estate.

  Tavish ignored the fatigue in his body. He had rested at Glenblane while Duncan mustered a small riding party. His men had not protested at the prospect of Elyssia’s return, but Callum and Margaret had argued against it.

  His childhood sweetheart had raised her voice in anger, the pitch grating at his senses before she had burst into tears, clinging to him and declaring her love. Callum had followed suit, using her words in his argument against the Englishwoman, that she was better left to her own kind.

  For the first time in his life, he had begun to doubt Margaret. He still loved her—he had to—but what lay beneath her purity of voice and gentle manner? What caused her eyes to harden, so they glittered with hatred, if only momentarily?

  Elyssia’s return would pain her. It would be fairer to Margaret to let someone else marry her; someone who would treat her as she deserved to be treated, who would not subject her to the inevitable hurt she would suffer at Tavish’s hands.