Highlander's Trials of Fire: A Steamy Scottish Historical Romance Novel

by Lydia Kendall

  “Wait!” Jonet cried out. “Ye mean it’s all been a lie, Freya? Yer friendship? Ye never cared about me at all?”

  “How could I when I could only see one person? And that one person has never once looked at me.”

  Jonet needed only a sliver of pity. She knew that was all she would get, and she prayed that would be enough. A sliver of remorse so that Freya could choose not to kill her. If it did not work, she was all out of options.

  She could taste the tangy fear in the back of her throat as she tried to give Freya a tender look.

  “Daenae ye remember when ye took me to this same loch to cheer me up after Henry died? And when I refused to get in, ye pushed me in, clothes and all?”

  Freya narrowed her eyes. “This willnae work, Jonet.”

  “And when I broke surface, I made it seem as if I was nae mad then lured ye to the bank so that I could pull ye in.”

  “If ye think that this story will make me want to kill ye any less then ye’re sorely mistaken.”

  Yet she kept going, her voice tinged with desperation. “Ye were so mad at me at first, but then we had so much fun. That was the only time I’ve ever seen ye relax and actually laugh. That’s when I realized that I’d found me best friend.”

  “I never thought of ye as me best friend, Jonet,” Freya snarled. Jonet’s story had not even nicked her defences. Jonet sagged hopelessly. “Ye were only one thing to me. The only person standin’ in me way of what I wanted.”

  “Then why dinnae ye kill me earlier?” Jonet demanded in a surge of defiance. “Why would ye wait until now, when I’m so happy?”

  “Because I thought that if I’d stayed patient, he would be mine. After all, I’ve already done so much for him that it would only make sense.”

  “Done so much for him? What did ye—”

  “Enough! I’ve wasted enough time. It’s time for ye to die.”

  Jonet held her breath and racked her brain for something to say, or to do. She looked around her, but the tiny pebbles scattered through the grass would not do anything for her. She was utterly defenceless and out of options.

  She could not simply accept her death. She could not believe that it would truly end like this when she was just within reach of true happiness. To die so shamefully, her body wasting away at the bottom of a loch… Jonet’s heart clenched at the very thought. Her eyes were now dry of tears, and she could not look away from Freya’s malicions grin.

  I’m sorry, Faither, Maither. I’m sorry, Matthew.

  Jonet closed her eyes. The acceptance would not come and so she tensed, waiting to hear the thwang of the arrow before it pierced her heart. It never came.

  Instead, she heard Freya cry out and when she opened her eyes, she saw that the bow and arrow was lying off to the side, next to a large stone that had not been there before.

  Then Jonet heard it. The sound of a horse approaching. It was so familiar, bringing her back to the time she had raced Matthw. She would never forget it, Temper’s hooves pounding murderously into the earth. Jonet hardly had any time to process his appearance. Nor the man that was sitting atop him, his face dark with anger.

  Neither did Freya. She tried to run, but she was too slow. Temper seemed to be driven by the force of his rider and Freya had no chance of escape before Matthew reached out and swung the large blunt stick he carried into her, throwing her onto her back.

  He might have to kill her. He fully planned to. The moment Matthew swung off Temper, hardly waiting for the horse to slow down fully before he dismounted, he charged after Freya, holding the stick high above his head. He saw nothing but red rage, pushing him to take care of the threat. The woman who had not only tried to kill the love of his life yet had spent years making her miserable.

  “Matthew, nay!”

  Jonet threw herself at him, using both hands to pull his arm down. He was right above Freya, watching as she tried to squirm away. She had landed badly on her leg, it seemed, and was clutching her arm to her body as she tried her best to scramble out of range. Had it not been for Jonet, he would have brought the stick right down on her head.

  “Matthew, stop!” Jonet forced her way in front of him, pushing on his chest. Her scent filled him, cleared the fury a bit. “Daenae hurt her.”

  “She was about to kill ye,” he bit out. Freya had stopped scrambling,and looked helplessly up at them both.

  “And now she cannae!” Jonet pressed. “See? Temper trambled her bow and she’s injured. She cannae get away. Nae unharmed the way she is.”

  She made sense. Matthew knew that. The sane part of his mind told him that as well, but the fierce protectiveness surging through him was too much to put aside.

  Jonet touched both his cheeks, forcing him to look at her. She gave him a reassuring smile and the anger came rushing out of him, quickly replaced by knee-buckling relief. The stick slipped from his hand and he wrapped his arms around her waist, crashing her against him.

  “Are ye sure ye’re all right?” he asked desperately. “She dinnae hurt ye, did she?”

  “Nay, I’m fine,” she grinned when he pulled away to look into her eyes. “Ye couldnae have come at a better time, though.”

  Unable to help himself, Mathew kissed her fiercely. The moment their lips touched, the worry and fear rushed out of him. He had hightailed it to the loch when he learned that Freya had taken her away. Fearing the worse, he had wished that his unease was misplaced. Yet he was happy he was there to stop anything bad from happening.

  Jonet pulled away and caressed his cheek. “If we keep this up, she’ll slip away.”

  “I have me eye on her.” He did. He was very aware of Freya, who had been silently inching away from them. She froze at his words.

  Matthew stepped away from Jonet and faced the woman on the ground. He had not known Freya well, but he did know that she was dear to Jonet. Now that the anger had cleared, he wanted to know the truth.

  “Were ye the one who killed Dougal?” he asked. “And the last two men who’d died here?”

  Freya said nothing. She was trembling, whether in fear, anger, or pain, he did not know. She glanced back and forth between him and Jonet, as if gauging whether this was a situation, she could scrape her way out of.

  Yet her resolve was breaking. A few more hits and it would shatter.

  “Ye are out of luck, Freya,” Jonet said, as if she too knew that. Her voice was cold. “If ye hope to have any mercy from us, ye will tell us all ye ken about these murders.”

  When Freya continued to stay silent, Matthew looked at Jonet.

  “Perhaps we should have yer Faither speak to her.”

  “Perhaps,” Jonet hummed. “He is certainly very adept at gettin’ information out of others.”

  Matthew saw in Jonet’s eyes that she was not as alright as she claimed to be. Though her words were every bit what you would expect from the daughter of a Laird, her eyes were soft, and broken. The betrayal had dug deep.

  “Nay!” Freya rasped. Tears shimmered in her eyes. “It wasnae me fault.”

  “Oh?” Matthew probed.

  “He was the one who made me do it. I thought… I thought that if I did as he asked, he would see that I was truly the one for him. That I would do anythin’ for him.”

  Matthew frowned. “Who are ye talkin’ about?”

  It was Jonet who answered, her voice a whisper. “Jonathan.”

  “He asked me to poison Mr. Anderson,” Freya was breaking completely now, the threads that had held her together unraveling. Tears ran like rivulets down her face. Her voice cracked when she continued. “He was the one who asked me to poison ye as well, Mr. McDulaigh.”

  “But why?” Matthew demanded to know, even though the reason was becoming clear as day. Jonet remained silent. “Why would he want to do all these things?”

  “Because he dinnae want Jonet to marry.” Freya sniffled. She was no longer trying to get away. She had clearly given up. “He wants to make sure that any man who dares to stand by her side is killed so that
nay one else will come. Miss Jonet would give up on the very thought of marryin’ and the Lairdship would be his.”

  “So, the arrow that had almost hit me on me way back from the village?”

  “That was Jonathan himself.”

  “And the bowl?” Jonet spoke up. “From the window?”

  To Matthew’s surprise, Freya lowered her gaze. “That was me. I would do anythin’ for him. Kill whoever I needed to kill if that meant I would one day have him for myself. I went to him one night, beause I thought he was intendin’ to toss me aside and… and I was right. He nay longer needed me. Once ye were gone, Mr. McDulaigh, he kent Jonet would be too broken to see anyone else. If he couldnae have her, then no one else could.”

  Freya’s tears had stopped streaming down her face, though they still stained her cheeks. She took a long, shuddering breath. “Dougal overheard us. He burst into the room and said that he would reveal all he’d heard to the Laird. Jonathan and I panicked, and well… I slipped poison into his wine when Jonathan lured him to sit.”

  “Then ye were the one to frame Jamilyn?” Jonet demanded. “Did ye put it in her head that she should leave?”

  Freya shook her head. “I dinnae, but I did get her to find the body, as I did with Mr. Anderson. She was the one who grew frightened and decided to run, and so I thought that it was only me good fate. Ye wouldnae even think to look at me as the culprit.”

  “And I will regret that for the rest of me life,” Jonet murmured. Anger trembled through her words and for a brief moment, Freya looked almost contrite.

  “I had nae choice but to do what I did,” Freya continued. “Ye will do so much for the person ye love.”

  That much Matthew could agree on. After all, he had just been willing to take revenge on Freya for the mere attempt on Jonet’s life. Right now, however, he was thinking much more clearly.

  “And Mr. Luther?” Matthew asked. “How did ye kill him?”

  “I dinnae. Jonathan took care of that himself as well. He lured him away, killed him, and threw his body into a loch.”

  “Now I ken where ye get yer inspiration,” Jonet murmured as she walked away, her face pale.

  Freya watched her go. Her body was lax, clearly accepting her fate.

  “What will ye do of me now?” she asked. “Will ye have me killed?”

  Matthew did not know what to say. That was not his sentence to pass, nor his place to say. He turned around to look at Jonet; she had wandered over to the bank of the loch and was staring out at the vastness. He wondered if she was thinking about Mr. Luther, wondering if he was somewhere at the bottom of this very loch.

  He turned back to face Freya and an arrow lodged itself in her side.

  She cried out, clutching her wound. Matthew whirled to see Jonathan was standing there, an ugly sneer on his lips.

  “Ye dare to betray me?” he hissed at Freya, who was gasping through her pain. “Ye willnae see the light of day again after this! I will kill ye all!”

  Matthew rushed forward, just as Jonathan let another arrow loose. He let out a hiss of pain when the arrow lodged itself in his abdomen, staggering forward. Jonathan was nocking his bow, preparing to shoot again. The world slowed around him, and Matthew acted, not hearing when Jonet cried out, not seeing when Freya again began to scramble out of the way.

  Hand on his wound, Matthew rushed to the side, feeling the whip of wind when the arrow zipped by his face. Jonathan gritted his teeth, reaching for another arrow, but Matthew charged after him, knocking him to the ground. He broke the arrow in his arm, not feeling a lick of pain. Adrenaline was coursing through his veins, channelling the anger and his need for survival.

  “Matthew!” Jonet cried out.

  Matthew could not respond. He only prayed that she would not go near them as they thrashed on the ground. Jonathan had the upper hand. He took advantage of Matthew’s wound, pressing his finger against the piece of arrow still protruding from his side and rolling Matthew onto his back.

  “If I cannae have her, then why should ye?” Jonathan hissed. “Why should anyone?”

  He was not the same man he had known. The man who had warm eyes and quiet laugh; who had managed to make his presence known while saying so few words. This was the man who Freya described, the man capable of murder, with madness shining in his eyes.

  Matthew did not answer. He couldn’t. Blood had coated his hands; his heart was racing as he struggled to fight off the hands that were closing around his throat.

  “Ye think ye two will have yer happy life, do ye?” Jonathan gave him an evil smile, his hands tightening. “Nae if ye are at the bottom of that loch.”

  Matthew jammed his hand into Jonathan’s elbow and took advantage of his lossened grip to punch him in the throat. Someone cried out, probably Freya. He shoved Jonathan off him, but he recovered quickly.

  The years of training he had put into becoming a war chieftain weighed heavily during their tussle. Matthew struggled to get the upper hand. He saw flashes of the world around him, of Freya watching helplessly from her spot on the ground and Jonet… Jonet was nowhere to be found.

  Jonathan managed to get his hands around Matthew’s neck again. Matthew rammed his bloody fist into Jonathan’s ear until the other man cursed and pulled his arm back for a punch. Matthew moved quicker, nicking him in the nose and throwing him off him.

  “Matthew!”

  It was Jonet, but she was close. Much too close to the fight for his comfort. He looked up for a second to see that she was standing by the loch again, tossing something at him. He caught it before he knew what it was.

  Jonathan swung his leg out and sent Matthew crashing to the ground, knocking the wind out his chest. He clutched the rock Jonet had thrown at him in his hand, the same rock he had thrown at Freya. Jonathan did not seem aware of it.

  Jonathan kept going for his throat, clearly the only way he would be able to kill Matthew without a weapon. Matthew gasped for air, his arms pinned under Jonathan’s legs, waiting for his opening.

  “She will never love ye,” Matthew rasped.

  Jonathan’s eyes went black with hate. “She doesnae have to. As long as she isnae with anyone else. I will fight for her.”

  “Ye forget one thing, Jonathan,” Matthew murmured. Jonathan narrowed his eyes, not having to ask his question aloud. Even though there was little air left in his lungs, his vision blurring, Matthew smiled. “She can fight for herself.”

  Jonet swung. The stick she had retrieved collided into the side of Jonathan’s head with enough force to throw him off Matthew. Arms now free, Matthew crawled on top of him and rammed the stone into his head. New blood coated his hands, mixing with the one that poured from his wound. He did not stop. He kept slamming the stone down over and over until there was no way Jonathan would move again.

  Matthew got to his feet. Freya was whimpering, crying. Jonet rushed to his side just in time to catch him before he sank to his knees.

  “Matthew.” She patted his face, her tone worried. “Stay with me.”

  “Is he…”

  “Aye, he’s nay longer alive.”

  “And Freya?”

  “She isnae going anywhere.”

  Matthew nodded. His head was heavy. He was losing too much blood, the pain storming his entire body. Vaguely, he noticed that Jonet had lowered him to the ground. She swam before his vision.

  “Daenae die on me, Matthew,” she begged, her voice thick. “Ye cannae leave me now.”

  “I promise I willnae,” he murmured, raising a bloody hand to her cheek. “How can I when ye’re finally free of yer past?”

  She was crying. Cradling him and talking, but he could not hear anything else she said. His eyes drifted shut and for a moment, he wondered if he would be able to keep his promise to her.

  Chapter 29

  For the next week, Jonet spent her time in only one spot. By Matthew’s bed. She held his hand, she murmured to him, she cried softly into her shawl, not wanting to risk him hearing, but she did not mov
e. She slept there and, when she could manage it, she ate there as well.

  He still did not open his eyes.

  No one would speak to her. If they did, Jonet refused to hear them. She did not take her eyes from his face, remembering that moment she thought she had lost him. When his eyes had drifted closed and his blood warmed her hands... There had been so much blood. She could hardly see anything else, could not see the handsome face she had fallen in love with.

  The face that had been twisted with anger when he had charged after Freya. The one who had been filled with determination as he fought Jonathan. The one that had pride fluttering over its features the moment the fight was over and Jonet had tossed her stick aside. She could not believe he had smiled in that moment, even though he was covered in his own blood.