by Aileen Adams
“I tell ye, nothing!”
“And where are they now? They allow ye to ride at night, alone?”
“They did not know I was coming here.”
“Not a woman among them?”
“Not a single woman among them.”
His hand shot out in a flash, far too quick for her to duck or lean away from its force. She had forgotten what it felt like to take a slap from him. Funny, that, since she had taken so many over the years. She reeled back, holding her throbbing cheek, tears welling in her eyes.
“Ye lying—,” he glowered, spittle flying from his mouth. “I know who ye traveled with and have known all along. A man who spotted ye in Crieff sent word that ye were riding with Rufus MacIntosh. And he sent ye here. Tell the truth!”
She did not cringe under the power of his roar in her face. She sat straight and tall, barely blinking, meeting his gaze. “He did not send me. I stole his horse and rode here on my own.”
“Liar!” he screamed, veins bulging in his neck.
He had lost his mind. There was no other explanation. While he had never been precisely steady, prone to sudden changes in mood, he had never shrieked like a woman when he did not like an answer she gave him.
It explained the filthy state of his clothing, his matted hair, normally almost too curly, possibly the feature about which he’d been the most vain. The slovenly state of the house, which already looked as though it needed a good scrubbing.
Malcolm and Fergus where nowhere to be seen. “Where are the others?” she asked of a sudden, listening for any sound of them.
He scoffed, pushing away from the table and going to the fire. “They left. Cowards. Ronald, too, though it was never a secret that he ought to wear a dress.”
“They left ye here? Alone?”
“Aye.” He leaned an arm against the mantle, staring into the fire, stirring it with a metal rod to bring it back to life. “They ran two days after he did. Swore the house was haunted by spirits, that they could not sleep a minute without a cold hand shaking them awake.”
They had all lost their minds, it seemed. Perhaps fear, perhaps guilt, perhaps knowing there was no returning from the evil deeds they’d done.
“Why did ye do this?” she whispered as she stood, taking a chance by crossing the small room and joining him by the hearth. “Ye had no need to. We did not need the land, so far from our home.”
He snorted. “If ye were not a woman, ye would understand without needing to ask.”
“Just the same, I would like to know now. Now that ye have driven away your brothers, after ye left your only sister to die. Why did ye take this land and claim it for your own?”
He appeared to give this thought, his forehead creasing and smoothing in turn. “Because I could,” he concluded. “Kenneth MacIntosh would not defend it, Elliot was too old, Rufus was fighting. It was close to Inverness, to trade in the harbor.”
“Ye were already close to the trade in Aberdeen.”
“I wanted both,” he spat, his eyes meeting hers. “Can ye not see? I wanted more. I still want more. If I canna buy it, I will take it. ‘Tis what a man does.”
“A man does not kill to get what he wants.”
“Ye are not a man,” he sneered. “Ye dinna know.”
“Ian.” She did not know how to say what she needed to say, but the message had changed. She had ridden out in the dead of night with the intention of pleading with her brother to back away and allow Rufus to reclaim what was his without violence. She could not bear to lose him.
Now, it was her brother whose life she was most concerned with. For he was in no shape to defend himself against four warriors, and, frankly, it would have been akin to kicking a wounded animal.
He had behaved terribly, unforgivably, and his mind was suffering as a result. Perhaps he had acquired an illness from one of his harlots, after all. Had she not questioned the way he managed to avoid such whispered-about diseases after all of his sporting with those painted women in the taverns and brothels? She’d heard of men losing their minds as well as their physical health, and he certainly did look unwell.
No matter the reason, he was alone, and ill, and to face Rufus would be the same as walking into an out-of-control inferno. He would have no chance of survival.
“Ian, ye need to forsake this notion,” she whispered. “Please, listen to me. He could be on his way. He’s coming to kill ye. Do ye not understand? Ye are all the man has thought about ever since he heard what ye had done. He has dreamed of this chance, and now he is on his way with men, and they intend to kill ye and take back the land.”
He straightened, his chin tilting up. “Let them try.”
“They will, and they will succeed. Ian, please. Ye must go. Surrender. I will speak to him for ye, tell him ye will not put up a fight.”
He raised his hand, and this time she ducked his swing. Why was she bothering herself with his welfare? She ought to leave and rejoice that the man she loved would live another day, that the two of them would be happy together.
No. Instead, she feared for the life of the brother she loathed, and each passing minute brought them one minute closer to his demise.
“Be gone with ye, ye devil!” he roared, lunging for her, catching her by the end of her plait and pulling her to him before throwing her against the wall. “Be gone and never let me see ye again!”
She slid to the floor, her head spinning, just as the sound of hooves met her ears. Many hooves. Many horses.
“They’re here,” she breathed, stumbling to her feet. “Ian, please. Ye need only leave with your hands plainly visible and give back the house and the lad. That is all he wants.”
“He wants to kill me. Ye said it yourself.” Ian looked upon her again, and this time there was no rage or bitterness in his gaze. “The man has thought of nothing but killing me since he heard what I’d done. Let him have his chance, then, as I will have my chance to defend myself.”
“Och, ye are nothing but a fool,” she spat, helpless and hopeless. No more a fool than she was for caring whether the wretch lived or died, but that was the damnably twisted mess of it.
“Ian MacFarland!” Rufus shouted. “Gather your things and prepare to leave my house, or prepare to draw your last breath!”
While her heart leapt with joy at the sound of his voice, it lodged itself in her throat when she realized her brother was preparing himself to fight. He checked to ensure his sword and dirk were both at the ready, a perverse smile on his face.
“Allow me to speak to him, at least! I can speak on your behalf!” she hissed.
He snickered, looking at her once he’d finished checking his weapons. “Why would ye do that? Ye hate me, and I have never much cared for ye. Not that it was your fault, lass. Ye were simply a lass and not much worthy of my attention. Perhaps I was wrong. I hope ye can think better of me when I’m gone.”
“Do not do this,” she moaned, watching as he strode across the room and flung open the door to face down his foe.
“Rufus!” she screamed from inside. “He is alone! Rufus!”
“Be silent, woman!” Ian withdrew his dirk and leveled it at her, the tip hovering just over her breastbone. “Dinna think I will not run ye through simply because ye happen to be my sister, for ye know that isn’t so.”
“Dinna think of harming her!” Rufus bellowed, his voice louder now. Closer. She wished she could see him.
“And what will ye do if I do more than think about it?” Ian taunted. “I could run her through like a doe on a spit, ready for roasting, before ye even reached the threshold.”
“I warn ye,” Rufus called out.
“Take another step, and I will.” Ian motioned for her to join him in the doorway. “Do ye know she came here to argue for ye? And then begged me to give myself up? I dinna know which side she is on, truth be told.”
“He has a pistol,” she whispered, tears filling her eyes, causing him to swim before her. “He can shoot ye. Dinna do this.”
&nb
sp; “Will he shoot me, then?” Ian whispered, smiling, before taking her wrist in his free hand and jerking her closer, leaving the dirk close to her chest. “Do ye mean that much to him, sister? If I were to pierce your heart with this blade, would he strike me down?”
She struggled to speak over the chattering of her teeth. They clicked together as though she were freezing to death, though she knew in the back of her panic-stricken mind that it was sheer terror which made them behave so. “Aye. Ye know he would.”
“But he would watch me kill ye first. He would see ye draw your final breath. And that would bring me one last bit of satisfaction.” He held her close, turning to Rufus.
She looked out at him, standing on the path leading from the road. Behind him were Clyde, Alec, Tyrone, and Drew, sword in hand.
But this was Rufus’s fight, and they stood back to allow him to take care of it on his own.
“Dinna come closer,” he warned, holding her by the arm. “I will run her through, I swear it.”
“I know ye would do it,” Rufus murmured. “I would believe ye to be capable of anything. Ye would kill your sister merely to strike at me, for ye know I shall strike ye down before this night is over.”
“Aye, MacIntosh. That is the truth of it.” Ian sneered, chuckling under his breath. “Do ye think she’ll scream the way your mother did?”
“Ian…” Davina wept.
The point of the blade hovered in front of her heart, pricking at the tunic she wore. It would soon draw blood.
Rufus kept calm. “She will not scream, for ye will not harm her. She will not die tonight.”
“We shall see.”
It happened so quickly after that.
The first shot, loud and cracking the air, sent Ian jerking backward as the ball struck his shoulder. He released Davina, who darted away from him, a scream in her throat.
The second shot, from the second pistol Rufus carried, struck Ian in the center of his chest. Just where he had planned to strike her.
He dropped to the ground, eyes staring up at the starry sky. Blood instantly soaked through his tunic, pooling there, dripping to the stone path.
“Ian!” she gasped, crawling to him on hand and knee.
He gasped for breath, his hands covering his chest as though they could hold in the blood pouring from him.
“It hurts.” His blood-covered hand reached for hers, squeezing when he found it.
“I know. It will not hurt ye for much longer.” Why was she crying? Tears rolled down her cheeks, splashing when they hit the pool of blood which had once been her brother’s chest.
“Dying…” His eyes were wide, fear-filled, searching hers. He reminded her of the lad he must have been, a lad she had never known. He had been too old by the time she was born, already hardened and difficult and coarse.
He’d grown into an even harder man, even coarser. Yet he was still her brother. She’d never put much faith in blood ties before then, but watching him die—watching him receive the wound which would kill him in a few moments more—had driven home that pure, basic bond which went deeper than any surface rivalries or hatreds.
“Go,” she whispered, stroking his matted hair, wishing his life might have at least ended better. But he had made his choices and had died the way he chose to die. “Go, and be at peace now.”
He opened his mouth, blood bubbling between his lips as he did, and whatever he’d been about to say was lost forever when he exhaled one last time. His eyes dimmed, his body relaxed.
He was dead.
And Rufus was holding her, rocking her in his arms as she wept in relief, in grief, in confusion over feeling both at once.
28
The MacFarlands had at least taken pains to bury his parents. Rufus supposed it was the best he could ask for. It had been many months, and there was no chance of him digging them out and placing them elsewhere. He would never desecrate them that way.
They rested in a grave beneath a gnarled birch which grew beside the vegetable garden his mother had lovingly tended for as long as he could remember. It seemed as fitting a place as any, as she had devoted so much of her life to it.
He cleaned the leaves and weeds from around the earthen mound which had begun to flatten with time, then left a handful of thistles for them before stepping back, hands folded before him. It had been a long time since he’d prayed, and he had fallen out of practice.
The day had dawned dark, clouds piling up overhead, their gray color telling of the rain they wished to unleash upon the earth. He looked up at them, then back down at the graves which held what were once his parents. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was not here to protect ye. I did not come here to see ye until now. But I am here, and I put things to right again. As right as they can be.”
He looked up and around himself. “Now, I dinna quite know what to do. This is our land, and I dinna wish to give it up. Would ye have me take Kenneth’s place? Perhaps this is the way it was always meant to be, as he never seemed better suited to it than I was. If he wanted it for himself, he would have stayed. Would he not?”
It still made little sense, no matter how many times he turned it over in his head.
What would become of him now? What would become of the land, his land? He was still uncertain. The notion of tying himself down to a life which had never held charm for him brought a pit to his stomach. Could he truly be a farmer? Or even a tradesman, doing his business in nearby Inverness?
Or was he better suited to the life to which he’d become accustomed? Riding, rootless, aimless, selling his sword as Alec and Tyrone did? As Clyde did, now that he had no family?
Perhaps he ought to sail for the New World as his brother had, then find him and knock some sense into his head. Berate him for having run away when, truly, it was resentment which swelled in his chest when Kenneth came to mind. Resentment at the freedom to sail away, to leave the past behind. To leave Rufus to clean up the mess.
In the distance, someone approach, walking alone, a small figure before emerald-green hills, beneath a sky of gray. Auburn hair fanned out behind her as a gust of storm-driven wind picked it up. She had been quiet throughout the day, pale and listless. Mourning.
He had decided along with the others—Drew included—that it was not worth searching for the other two brothers. “They could be anywhere,” Drew had reasoned once they’d scoured the kitchen, the two bedrooms. Davina had helped with that, working silently, methodically, never holding anyone’s gaze for long.
“Aye, and a man’s life is only so long,” Alec had reasoned. “I dinna know, but I would like to get on with mine and leave them to their sins. They both knew better than to stay here, to wait for their death. They might well have sailed for other shores, as Ronald did.”
If Davina had an opinion on this, she would not say. He’d known better than to ask.
She would like to know he held no further ill will toward either of them. His ill will had dissolved the moment he’d fired the second shot and felled his foe. When he’d watched the man die so pitifully, he who had once been a formidable fighter, known throughout the countryside.
He had taken his last breaths a broken man, all but weeping. Using his sister as a shield, threatening to kill her just for the satisfaction of striking one final blow against his foe.
They had burned his body, then buried the ashes. He would not have the man rotting in land belonging to the MacIntoshes—somehow, he got the sense that this would be the final victory, a tenancy no one could break.
He’d settled for ashes, and had stood upwind of the fire that he might not smell the worst of the man as he burned. Davina had been far away, walking on her own, and was just now returning.
He’d feared she never would. That she could not bear the sight of him. That she regretted ever wishing for her brother’s death and somehow held herself accountable for it.
Now, she walked toward him, wrapped in a cloak, her face unreadable. She reached him as the first few raindrops fell, taking
shelter beneath the birch’s branches. When she leaned in, closer to him, he held her to him and rejoiced silently that she still wanted him at all.
After watching her mourn, weeping over Ian’s body, he’d thought for certain she would hate him for having fired the shot that killed her brother.
“This is a lovely place for them,” she whispered, her head against his chest. “It will be even better when the autumn comes, and the leaves change color.”
“Aye, that it will,” he whispered, his lips against her hair. “How are ye, lass? What can I do for ye?”
“Hold me for a bit.” Her voice trembled. “Just hold me, please.”
“For as long as ye like. For the rest of my life, if I can.”
“I would like that, though I do believe it will rain in earnest soon, and we ought to go inside before it does.”
He chuckled. “I didna mean in this very spot, lass. What of the snow when it comes? But I do intend to hold ye for as long as ye will allow me to.”
“I do like the sound of the rest of our lives.”
“Ye do? After everything?”
She sighed, as he’d known she would, but it was not unhappy. Troubled, perhaps. “What happened could not be stopped. Ian would not allow it to stop. I tried, truly. I begged.”
“Aye, and I see what ye got in repayment.” Both sides of her face were bruised, swollen, from where Ian had struck her, thrown her to the wall. Had Rufus known of this, he would not have allowed the man such a quick death.
“He insisted, however. I believe he wished to die. Perhaps it was for the best that he die that way, instead of rotting in that house, dying in his own filth. Out of his mind. Ye did him a kindness.”
“And ye can forgive me for it?”
“There is nothing to forgive.” She shook her head as she looked at him. “Nothing at all. I want us. For the rest of our lives.”
Her hands were blessedly warm and gentle on the sides of his face, and he closed his eyes in gratitude. Perhaps that was a prayer, his silent words of gratitude. “That is how it shall be, then,” he decided.