by Ranae Rose
“Idiot!” he cried. “Give it back!”
Alexander ignored Alpin’s command, stepping back from his brother’s sprawled form as he opened the leather pouch and began to examine its contents. He tossed a flint and a few coins to the floor while Alpin stared indignantly. By the time Alpin had managed to rise from the floor, staggering only a little, Alexander had pulled out a small pouch. Isla’s stomach shrank as she watched him open it with a precarious mixture of caution and haste.
Something pale, powdery and familiar fell to the floor and formed a small pile—oatmeal. He must have taken it along for the journey to and from the village. Isla would have breathed a sigh of relief, but Alpin was slowly regaining his balance and had started towards Alexander. He froze in his tracks when Alexander pulled out a second, smaller pouch and held it aloft.
“What’s this?” he asked in a low voice, seeing Alpin’s reaction.
Alpin went even paler, and his hands shook against his tartan.
“I dinnae reckon these are tea leaves,” Alexander said, peering into the pouch. “Tell me, are they poison?”
A shadow passed across Alpin’s eyes, but it did nothing to alleviate the look of near panic he wore. “Poison?” he gave his best attempt at a sneer. “Don’t be a fool.”
“Ye deny it? After ye were alone in the kitchen and my wife’s dog has dropped dead from eating the broth that was meant for me?”
Alpin said nothing.
“Eat the leaves, then,” Alexander said. “If they really are harmless, prove it.”
Alpin’s eyes widened and he ran the tip of his tongue over the edge of one lip. “Maybe the pouch does hold poison. I dinnae ken. I havnae ever seen it before.”
“And I suppose ye have some explanation for how it came to be in your sporran?” Alexander asked derisively.
“It was the wench!” Alpin flung an accusing hand in Isla’s direction. “If your broth truly was poisoned, ‘twas her. She must hae slipped the rest of the poison into my sporran!”
Alexander reached his brother in one stride, seized him by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. “Ye dare accuse my wife?”
Alpin tried uselessly to squeeze a hand between their bodies, where his dirk was trapped, but they were pressed too tightly together.
“Ye wicked bastard!” Alexander breathed. He reached below and pulled his own dirk from his side in one smooth motion. “Tell me why I shouldnae kill ye here and now,” he said, pressing the tip of the blade beneath Alpin’s jaw.
A ruby drop of blood appeared, brilliant against Alpin’s pale neck. His mother whimpered, but Isla couldn’t spare her a glance, couldn’t tear her gaze from the horrible sight of the two brothers.
Even trapped as he was, Alpin managed to infuse his voice with scorn. “Do ye truly believe a Forbes could love ye?” he sneered, even as blood streamed down his throat and stained his shirt. “Ye truly are a fool. ‘Twas the wench that tried to kill ye, plain as day. Would ye murder me for her crime?”
The stream of blood that coursed down Alpin’s neck widened, and he stopped speaking, presumably because to continue would have been to endanger his own life.
“Ye always were a terrible liar.”
The tone of Alexander’s voice frightened Isla, and she winced, expecting to see Alpin’s throat opened in a bloody arc. Her shoulder was going numb beneath Mrs Mary’s grip.
“Stop this foolishness! Stop!” Coira tossed aside the coverlet and clambered from her bed, pale and frantic, clad in an embroidered nightgown that nearly swept the floor. She stumbled once, but hardly paused to gasp with pain. Pressing one hand against her ribs, she rushed to Alexander and placed the other on his arm. “Ye mustn’t, Alexander!”
“Surely ye dinnae believe the lies your son spouts?” Alexander asked coldly, never removing his gaze from Alpin’s eyes.
Coira gaped, looking as if she’d been struck. “I amnae saying your wife would harm ye. I dinnae believe she would! But please, ye must not kill him!”
Alexander didn’t respond, only held Alpin against the wall as firmly as ever, keeping the tip of his dirk buried in the flesh below his jaw. Coira’s death grip on his strong arm was useless.
“Please!” she cried, sobbing. “He’s my only son!”
“And what of my wife?” Alexander asked. “My child. Should I allow your son to murder me so that there willnae be anyone to protect them when he comes for them?”
Coira was sobbing too desperately to reply. Isla stared at the scene, frozen and transfixed in the doorway. Blood and tears flowed in abundance—only Alexander was dry. Slowly, he pulled his blade away from Alpin’s neck.
“I’ll spare ye for the sake of the women that watch, though ye dinnae deserve it. We’ll settle this once and for all before the day’s over. Meet me behind the house in one hour, and we shall duel. If ye manage to kill me, Benstrath is yours. Name the poison ye slipped into the broth if ye agree.”
A full-fledged sneer crept across Alpin’s face. “Foxglove.”
Alexander nodded slowly. “Pistols or swords—it’s your choice. Choose well.” He let go of Alpin’s shirt, allowing him to crumple to the floor.
* * * *
Once the bedroom door closed behind them, Isla was prepared to beg Alexander to call off the duel, to plead—anything to stop him. She wasn’t prepared for him to sweep her into his arms, to press his mouth fiercely against hers and lower her onto the bed.
“What are ye doin’?” she gasped, breaking free of the kiss as he lowered himself on top of her, nudging her thighs apart with a knee.
He shoved a hand beneath her skirts and felt his way up her thigh as he answered. “I intend to make love to ye one last time,” he said, dipping his fingers into the hollow between her hips. Her folds were damp—her body had begun to betray her as soon as he’d taken her into his arms.
“One last time?” she gasped. “Alexander, ye must—”
He slipped a finger inside her, cutting her off short. Her channel tightened around his touch, sending traitorous bolts of pleasure up through her belly. She struggled not to bear down on his hand, not to thrust herself against it. She failed.
“Ye mustnae duel Alpin,” she gasped through the haze of pleasure that was beginning to descend on her mind. “I cannae bear to lose ye!”
“I dinnae intend to lose,” Alexander said, his breath hot against her neck.
“Then what’s the meaning of this?” She arched her hips against his hand for emphasis, trying and failing to ignore the ecstasy the motion induced.
“Just in case,” he said, pulling his hand away and using it instead to push her skirts around her waist, baring her from the hips down. He raised his kilt in one quick motion, and the next moment was inside her.
“Alexander!” She arched against him again, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close as he stretched her. She’d intended to protest once more, but her arguments were lost in a blur of explosive sensation. He thrust into her, hard and deep, and his urgency was contagious. She kissed him back when he pressed his mouth against hers, and rocked her hips to his rhythm. He held her close. His breath and the low sounds he made in his throat were all she could hear.
Her nipples strained against her shift and bodice, tingling when his chest brushed them. Her breasts ached for his touch, but his hands were in her hair. Her skull prickled pleasantly beneath his palms, and a similar sensation lit up her entire body. Her inner muscles gripped his cock tightly, and each stroke brought her a little closer to coming. Within a few moments, she was clawing his back through his shirt and gasping, urging him not to stop or slow.
He did neither, though Isla didn’t think he really needed her encouragement. His own breathing was ragged and his muscles trembled faintly beneath her hands, giving the impression he might explode, or break, or—
“Ahhh!” He pushed his cock deep into her, straining his hips against hers. He’d filled all her depth, was stretching her as far as she could go. The sensation
of his hard cock buried so deeply in her flesh sent her over the edge. Her core tightened around him, gripping his thickness firmly, then giving way to waves of contractions that urged her to thrash against him, against the bed. He held her tightly between his arms and to his chest, flexing his hips hard against hers and pushing her past her climax in a few quick strokes. He groaned above her, and her core grew slicker as he came.
He remained inside her for a few moments after coming, breathing hard and sending tendrils of her hair flying against the pillows.
“I love ye Isla. Ye ken that, aye?”
She nodded, still gripping his back. With a conscious effort, she loosened her hold, pulling her nails from the dents she’d made in his clothing and flesh. “I’ve told ye before, I ken that ye love me.”
“Well, dinnae ever forget it,” he said, finally withdrawing and rising from the bed, smoothing his kilt over his lingering erection.
“Wait!” Isla cried when he started towards the door. “I’m comin’ with ye!”
He peered over his shoulder at her, his expression softening as his eyes locked with hers. “Aye, I suppose ye must.”
She drifted behind him, noting the absence of Gavin’s body where she’d last seen it on the floor. Mrs Mary must have taken it away. Despair lurked in the corner of Isla’s mind, ready to assume control should the duel end in the worst way. It seemed there would soon be another empty body in the house. She could only pray that it wouldn’t be Alexander’s—that she wouldn’t run her fingers through his hair for the last time while washing it in preparation for burial. The image was too much. She backtracked to the bed and promptly vomited into the chamber pot.
“Ye dinnae have to watch, mo chride.” He gently touched the small of her back.
“I’d rather die than miss it.” Whatever happened, she had to be there.
Chapter Ten
Alpin cut a lonely figure against the damp heather. He stood straight beneath a grey sky, waiting on the designated duelling ground behind the estate house. With no lover to console and nothing in his heart besides the greed that had led him to agree to the match, he’d no doubt been waiting there for the better part of the last hour, despite the rain. He wore a sword at his hip, and Isla’s stomach lurched at the sight.
She wasn’t sure if she’d rather see them duel with pistols or blades. Both were menaces in and of themselves. Would she rather see a hole torn through her husband, or watch him be cut to ribbons? She tried desperately to banish the thoughts, to think only of his victory, but fear plagued her, causing her feet to feel as heavy as iron weights. She had to hurry to keep up with Alexander’s long stride.
Alexander had tied his hair back in preparation for the duel, but made no effort to ward off the rain. Any extra garment would have been a hindrance, and possibly the difference between life and death. As he strode towards his waiting brother in only his tartan and shirt, rain dripped from his nose, jaw and hair. He looked just as he had the day Isla had met him, save for the fact that his expression was hard and determined. If she managed to shove reality from her mind for long enough, she could see the lonely woods around them, hear the trickle of the spring and feel him entering her for the first time. She tried to draw as much comfort as she could from the memories, but they were a double-edged sword. Would she find herself doing the same over the coming nights—the coming years? The memories, and their child, would be all she had left of him if he lost the duel.
“Isla, dear!” Mrs Mary appeared at her side, huffing and puffing with the effort of catching up.
Isla had last seen her in the house, staring nervously out of the kitchen window.
“I sent young John out to check the crofters’ cottages,” she fretted, “but he hasnae returned. I’m afraid I dinnae ken what else would stop them, save their father!”
“There isnae anything ye can do to stop them, Mrs Mary.”
Isla spoke the truth. John would not return in time with Alexander and Alpin’s father, and they listened to no one else—not even Coira, who was trailing behind them now, wailing for the entire world to hear, begging them to call off the duel.
Isla did pity the woman, though her sympathies were all but overwhelmed by her fear for Alexander. It seemed Coira hadn’t had any part in her son’s scheme after all. She hadn’t tried to accuse Isla, hadn’t even tried to claim that Alpin was innocent. She’d only begged for Alexander to spare his life. She continued to do so with every step, pleading as she ignored what must have been considerable pain to hurry through the rain.
“Here, Isla.” They stopped when they were close enough to see the blue of Alpin’s eyes, so like his brother’s in colour but in no other aspect. His gaze was as cold and biting as the rain. Isla shivered when it passed over her, settling eventually on Alexander, who’d tossed the pistol he’d brought far aside in the grass and drawn his sword instead. He held the blade to the edge of his kilt and cut a long, narrow strand of tartan away. It hung limp in his fist, dampened by the rain. Isla stood still as he raised it, pulled a section of wet hair out of her eyes and tied it securely with the makeshift ribbon.
“Now ye can see properly,” he said, “though I willnae blame ye if ye look away.”
“Never.”
A hint of a smile touched his lips. “I thought ye’d say as much. Anyway, ye look bonny.” He touched his lips to hers in the lightest of kisses. The urgency that had overtaken him—both of them—in the bedroom was gone, replaced by a smooth calmness that scared Isla.
“Ye have my love, and I ken that I have yours, too. I’ll do my best to see it doesnae go to waste.”
Alexander’s kiss had warmed her lips, but the rain struck and quickly cooled them as he walked away.
“Alpin,” Alexander said in a clear voice that carried through the rain, “ye’ve harmed my wife and done your best to murder me. I’ve come to make ye pay for your crimes.”
Alpin responded with a characteristic sneer. “Ye’ve not seen my best, brother. I hope ye’ve said your goodbyes to the wench, for you’ll soon die.”
Isla’s heart seemed to stop, then flutter, as if it didn’t remember how to beat anymore. Coira was wailing harder than ever, and Isla felt like joining her. Her mouth fell open in a silent scream as the brothers held their blades aloft and prepared to enter mortal combat.
Alpin swung first, but his stroke was overeager. Alexander parried easily. The clash of metal on metal gave Isla’s heart the encouragement it needed to begin beating frantically again. Blood rushed in her ears as she watched, punctuated by singing blades and driving rain. Alexander and Alpin seemed a fair match, but would that have been different if Alexander hadn’t been ill? Surely his fever was hindering him. He should be lying in bed, not blocking a sword stroke aimed at his neck! Panic surged through her veins, and her breathing grew shallow. The world span before her, the two brothers blurring into a dancing mass of dark tartan and flashing blades. For a moment, she couldn’t tell which was which, and didn’t know whether to rejoice or cry when a blade sliced through flesh and sent drops of blood to mingle with those of the rain.
“Stay strong, dear! He may falter if he sees ye go down.” Mrs Mary spoke quietly but fervently into Isla’s ear and gripped her arm with surprising strength.
Thus supported and encouraged, Isla managed to stand tall again and her vision cleared. She could watch the brothers now with sickening clarity, could see that Alexander had sustained a gash across one biceps. His injured arm wasn’t his sword arm, but his sleeve was rapidly turning crimson. Isla’s knees wobbled.
Another hand gripped her free arm—Coira’s. Her grip was firm, despite her injured rib. Isla didn’t dare to pause to thank her, or to tear her gaze from Alexander again. As she watched, he lunged at Alpin, thrusting his blade at his ribs.
Alpin arched his back like a cat and dodged, escaping what might otherwise have been a devastating blow. Alexander whirled after him, not missing a beat. He was graceful and clearly skilled. So was Alpin, though it was painful to ad
mit. Under less deadly circumstances, Isla might have found them beautiful to watch, especially Alexander. As it was, she’d never felt worse—not even when Hamish had been slaughtered, though she’d by no means forgotten the event or the feeling. It played over and over in her mind now, reminding her that Alexander might be only moments away from the same fate. Would she kneel by his body as she had Hamish’s and watch his blood flow into the water that glazed the rain-soaked earth?
No! She forced herself not to imagine it, but to focus instead on the moment at hand and pray for his victory.
Alpin aimed a bold strike at Alexander’s head, forcing him to dodge. He slipped on the slick ground, lurching forward and narrowly avoiding falling on his own sword. Alpin lunged for him, eyes and blade flashing maliciously. Alexander rose, throwing his blade over his head to save himself.
Alpin brought his blade clashing down on his brother’s with deadly force, and Alexander’s arms trembled beneath the blow. Alpin’s blade forced Alexander’s down and glanced off his shoulder. Blood welled up immediately, blossoming crimson on his shirt, and began to streak over his front and back.
Isla moaned, but Mrs Mary and Coira held her steady. Had it not been for them, she would have fallen to her knees and begged God to spare Alexander. With their support, she made do with standing.
Alexander rose and stood again, though his shoulders sagged—even the one that hadn’t been injured. He staggered slightly. Clearly, fever and blood loss were catching up with him. Isla pleaded for mercy as the rain beat down harder than ever.
Emboldened, Alpin aimed his blade at Alexander’s neck and swung with all his might.
Alexander just barely managed to dodge the blow. Alpin’s blade sliced through air and rain, the force of his swing pulling him slightly off balance. Alexander countered with surprising speed, drawing his blade up and across Alpin’s chest.