Highland Wrath

by Madeline Martin

  Her pulse sped at the thought. After almost seventeen years, her family would be able to rest in peace with their murderers punished. Now fully awake and her eyes adjusted to the light, she sat up to look out the window. The sun shone through the feathered wisps of clouds and only a light drizzle fell upon whatever town it was they had slept in.

  She leapt from her bed and dressed with trembling hands. Fatigue from a poor night of sleep and a heady mix of nerves left her insides quivering. She drew in a long, slow breath and then exhaled. Of all days, today was most important, especially with such powerful emotions at play. She needed to maintain control.

  By the time she’d splashed cold water from the basin onto her face and twisted her hair back, her hands no longer shook. A quick touch of the warm plaid by the hearth confirmed it was near dry. After her fast had been broken, it’d be ready for another bout of travel.

  She exited into the hallway and found a door open to the far right. Was it Ian’s room?

  The nervous pounding of her pulse resumed. She needed to face him only a while longer, just these last few hours, and then she would be done with him forever.

  A brown-haired woman backed out of the open door with a throaty giggle. She looked at Sylvi and immediately straightened. The wench from the night before. Only now her hair was mussed and one naked breast peeked above her corset.

  She flushed and shoved at her flesh, tucking the bright pink nipple from sight.

  Sylvi’s stomach swirled, but she tamped down the nausea. It was better if Ian moved on.

  If only she could stop the wrenching squeeze every time her heart beat.

  A man’s arm appeared in the doorway and wrapped around the woman’s waist, pulling her back inside. The woman laughed and pulled away. He stepped forward, naked, with a crop of red hair so wild and tousled, one couldn’t tell where his beard met his hair.

  Not Ian.

  Sylvi breathed out with a relief she shouldn’t feel.

  The woman laughed and pointed at Sylvi. The man waved and swatted the woman on the rump before letting her leave.

  “Men, eh?” the wench said as she passed with a wink.

  “Indeed,” Sylvi murmured in reply.

  She waited until the woman had swept down the stairs before going to each of the rooms and knocking to rouse her army. Hopefully they’d slept better than she, for today they would battle.

  My Lady did not answer. She’d always risen early, but perhaps age was beginning to show itself. “I’ll come back in five minutes,” Sylvi said through the closed door. No reply came from the other side.

  Percy opened her door immediately, a wide smile on her face. She clasped Sylvi’s hand in her warm ones. “Today is the day, Sylvi.” Tears shone in her eyes. “I’m so happy you will finally have your heart set at peace.” Then she threw her arms around Sylvi. The sweet scent of violets—of Percy—surrounded Sylvi and lent a comfort to her soul that threatened to bring tears to her own eyes.

  Sylvi squeezed the other girl and quickly released her lest she fall prey to soft emotions.

  Liv’s door opened before Sylvi could knock on it. She nodded once at Sylvi. “I’m ready.”

  The three of them went to Isabel’s room, but their knocks were unanswered. Sylvi suppressed a sigh of irritation. Isabel typically did what she wanted, including her obvious indulgence with the man downstairs the prior evening.

  Sylvi had not stopped her, of course. No one was in danger if Isabel’s identity was discovered, save Isabel herself. If she wanted to put herself at risk, Sylvi would not intervene beyond the warnings she’d already issued.

  “Five minutes,” Sylvi said through the door. No reply from her either. Liv slid a knowing look to Sylvi. One that she did not acknowledge. She would not have her forces divided on the day of the fight.

  Next was Ian’s room. Sylvi’s heartbeat came a little faster. She could not get from her mind the sickening horror she’d felt when she thought the serving wench had come from his room.

  She may not be capable of love, but Ian still held a hard grip on her emotions. She shouldn’t let him have that effect on her.

  It was an easy thought, at least before he pulled open his door and met her with a handsome smile. As if the betrayal had never happened, as if Liv and Percy were not there beside her. As if everything had remained the same and he was greeting her with the intimate comfort they’d shared.

  Her heart dipped low into her lower stomach, and her gaze drifted toward his mouth, his lips pink beneath the darkness of his beard. Soft and full. Warm.

  She flicked her stare from him. “It’s time.”

  He stepped out into the hall, but she didn’t stay with him. She couldn’t, not when being so close to him allowed his scent to tease over her memories and recall too much she’d rather forget. Suddenly Isabel sleeping in gritted at her nerves all the more.

  Sylvi made her way back down to Isabel’s room and knocked once more. No answer. Again.

  “Isabel, if you don’t open this door, I will.” The warning in her tone would be unmistakable—even to Isabel.

  The door still did not open.

  Sylvi slipped the pin from her hair and used it to pick the lock. It clicked open. Sylvi opened the door and stepped inside.

  The room was empty. The blanket on the bed was unrumpled, and none of Isabel’s bags sat within. Sylvi looked behind her to where Percy and Liv took it all in at the same time, concern furrowing their brows.

  “Did either of you see her come up here last night?” Sylvi asked.

  They both shook their heads. And if they hadn’t seen anything, surely no one had heard either with how damn loud it’d been.

  Sylvi uttered a curse.

  Of all days for Isabel to decide to find a male suitor and disappear.

  She heaved a sigh. “You ladies stay here and see if you can find any hints of her even having come into the room or where she might have gone. I’m going to go wake My Lady.”

  A sudden wall of dread smacked into her. Sylvi shook it off and made her way to My Lady’s room. Isabel’s disappearance left a disconcerted edge cutting through her. Nothing more.

  Sylvi knocked gently on My Lady’s door.

  No answer.

  Her heart started to pound. “My Lady?”

  Still no answer.

  “I’m going to open your door.” Sylvi pulled the pin from her hair once more but found it unnecessary. The door was unlocked.

  She pushed the door open, and the sight that met her eyes dragged her to her knees.

  Chapter 17

  A hollow thud came from somewhere nearby, followed by a low, moaning cry. Ian turned toward Liv and Percy. They all met each other’s gaze, and together they ran from Isabel’s room to Lady Camille’s.

  The sound became louder.

  Ian was the first to arrive. His heart jerked into his throat, and he stopped in the doorway.

  In the center of the room, Lady Camille lay on her stomach, the white of her night-rail soaked a brilliant red with blood. It pooled around her in such an amount, the unseen wound could only be fatal. Her hands were bound awkwardly behind her back, her fingers tipped with blue.

  Sylvi curled over her protectively, as if she could prevent what had already been done. A low moan came from her, so hollow and painful, it pulled at Ian’s heart.

  “Sylvi.” He said her name softly.

  Percy had begun to sob beside him. “Please go to her,” she whispered.

  Ian made his way into the room and found two men lying face up, one with a patch of blood over his heart, the other with a dagger jutting from his neck. A chair had been smashed to pieces, and the small table by the bed had been overturned with a splintered ewer beneath it. Clearly there had been a struggle.

  “Sylvi,” Ian said again.

  Her shoulders curled around Lady Camille’s body. “Leave us.” Her voice was emotionless and flat.

  “Sylvi, I’m here for ye.” He to
uched her back, and she bowed her head low over the body.

  “Min mor,” Sylvi murmured. “Min mor.”

  Ian knelt beside Sylvi. His knee sank into the blood, cold and congealing. Lady Camille had died some time ago. He pushed back a thread of hair from Sylvi’s face. Her cheek was smeared with blood, and it had soaked into her clothing.

  “Just like my mother.” Sylvi looked up at him. Her eyes were dry, but her throat rasped with emotion. She leaned back and revealed Lady Camille’s pale face, her vacantly staring eyes, and the gaping hole where her throat had been slit so savagely, it had cut her neck almost completely in half.

  “Just like my mother, and my father, and my sisters, and Einar. Sweet baby Einar.” Sylvi shook her head, her own gaze distant on a horror Ian could not see but could guess well enough.

  Sylvi caressed her former mentor’s white cheek, smearing the thick blood there. “She did all this for me. She wouldn’t be here if it weren’t for me.”

  “She knew what she was getting into, Sylvi. Ye canna blame yerself.”

  “She died helping me, and the last words we had were not kind.” Sylvi pursed her lips, and Ian realized she was keeping back her tears. “We would never have stopped if it were not for her. After all this time, she still had so much to teach me. So much more I’ll never learn.”

  Heavy footsteps and the rattling of pans sounded from below the room. People were starting to rouse.

  “We need to get her out of here, aye?” he said.

  Sylvi closed her eyes for a moment before opening them once more, revealing a glossy sheen of tears. “We have to bury her.”

  “Aye, we’ll bury her, my angel.” He carefully eased her away from Lady Camille and put his arms around her to lend her his support, his strength. He knew how desperately she needed it.

  She allowed herself to be pulled to a standing position. Percy and Liv stood in the doorway, silent and wide eyed. Ian gave them a reassuring nod, and Percy’s shoulders relaxed.

  Sylvi said nothing for a moment, casting her gaze on the death in the room, her clothing glistening with it. “We will leave the others. Liv, bring me any identifying information from them and ensure they have nothing on them to signify who they are or where they’ve come from. Let them be found alone and unnamed.”

  Liv nodded.

  “Percy, ask after Isabel.” Sylvi pulled in a deep, pained breath. “I fear she may be in grave danger.”

  •••

  The world had slipped away from underfoot. Or so it seemed to Sylvi.

  She stared into the gaping hole cut into the soft, rain-swollen earth, where My Lady lay. All white skin and bright red blood. Such a vivid contrast to the darkness in which she rested.

  Sylvi hoped this was what My Lady would have wanted, though she could almost hear the purr of My Lady’s pragmatic voice in her head. If I’m dead, what would I care what happens to my body?

  Because Sylvi cared.

  Because Sylvi had loved her with the optimistic affection she’d held for her father when he’d been alive. My Lady had been a mentor, a caretaker, a reason to live.

  “It’s time,” Ian said softly.

  He had insisted on staying by her side while Liv and Percy went inside to gather their belongings and question the staff about Isabel.

  He held the shovel out to Sylvi. She let her hands curl around the cold wood, wet from the persistent rain. Her clothes were streaked with a runny mix of mud and gore, but she did not care.

  “She saved me.” Sylvi regarded the body of her mentor once more, knowing she needed to bury her, but unable to bring herself to go through the movements to do so. Her heart squeezed at the thought of putting so much dirt atop her, blotting her out of existence.

  Burying was so final.

  Forever.

  Ian’s arm came around her, respectfully distant, yet comforting enough for Sylvi to wish he would break through the boundaries she’d erected and curl her into the protection of his strength.

  “I was a shell of a person after my family died,” she said. “I had no purpose. I ate when I couldn’t stand the gnaw of hunger anymore, I skulked in the shadows of the streets wishing death would find me and reunite me with my family.”

  Rainwater ran over his head, slicking Ian’s dark hair to his skull and dripping from his nose. Yet he remained silent and at her side.

  “Death never found me,” Sylvi said. “But My Lady did. Or rather I found her. I heard a shuffle in an alleyway and ran toward it. What I found was My Lady fighting another man.” Sylvi’s heart swelled with the memory. “She wore a yellow dress, so bright in the dinginess of the alley, so elegant, like something fine ladies would wear. But she was a warrior. So beautiful, so graceful.”

  A knot tightened in her throat, but she swallowed it away. She would not cry. My Lady would not have wanted her tears.

  “I knew the man—he was the one who had been taking children from the streets.” She grimaced. “He fought like a cornered cat, and she like a lioness. This man was a nightmare, and she defeated him with such ferocity.”

  Sylvi closed her eyes to clear away the sting of impending tears. “She gave me something I never thought to have again. She gave me hope.”

  When she opened her eyes again, she saw My Lady resting in the dirt. Her face was wet with the soft rain, as if glossy with a sheen of sweat, her empty stare closed forever.

  Forever.

  It was time.

  “I love you, My Lady,” she said quietly. “For everything you taught me, and all you gave back.”

  She gripped the handle of the shovel in her hands and hefted the first spadeful of dirt into the hole. It spattered over the center of My Lady’s dressing gown like a defilement. Sylvi winced, but forced herself to fill her shovel once more.

  The first one would be the hardest. It would get easier.

  Only it didn’t. No matter how hard she tried to focus on only the task itself or the burn of her muscles, she could not get My Lady’s slowly disappearing body out of her mind—out of her heart.

  Percy and Liv emerged beside them.

  “I know her name,” Liv said in a solemn voice and held out a book to Sylvi. “Do you want to know it?”

  Sylvi stared down at the leather-bound book, fat with parchment, and shook her head. “No.”

  “It was her journal from what I can tell. Take it,” Liv said. “I think she would want you to have it.”

  Ian took the shovel from Sylvi’s numb hands, and she accepted the book from Liv. The leather was already slick with the drizzle of rain. Sylvi quickly tucked it into her bag, the one Percy had treated with wax to keep the contents within dry.

  Perhaps the journal ought to be buried with My Lady, her secrets disappearing with her body. But Sylvi could not bring herself to toss that part of My Lady into the grave.

  Sylvi hadn’t had the presence of mind that fateful day to take any personal effects from her childhood home to remind her of her family. She would not make the same mistake again.

  They buried My Lady’s clothes with her but kept her weapons along with the book. Ian aided with a shovel borrowed from the stable. He’d been able to work far faster than Sylvi—not due to physical strength, but emotional fortitude. It was easier to labor with a lighter heart.

  Within several minutes, My Lady was gone.

  Forever.

  Sylvi stared at the plot of churned wet earth, unable to drag her gaze away. “What news of Isabel?”

  “The innkeeper said she left with one of the men,” Liv said. “He didn’t indicate there was any trouble.”

  Sylvi gritted her teeth. “That doesn’t mean there wasn’t any.”

  “Liv, show her,” Percy said softly.

  “The men upstairs had nothing on them but this.” Liv held out her hand to reveal a coin with its surface scratched to reveal the bland metal beneath. “They had several coins on them, but only two peeled back.”

  One would have
been a coincidence, but two was enough to tell her who it was who had killed My Lady.

  Reginald’s men.

  Sylvi regarded the three remaining in her party. Who would have told? Was it one among them?

  Percy wouldn’t have done it, she still couldn’t bring herself to lift the hood of her cloak in public. Liv had always been loyal. Then there was Ian. The man she had loved and lost. The man she had rejected.

  He’d lied once before to save his own neck. What would stop him from lying again?

  It was too late for inquisitions, not with the fight on the horizon. She would keep her eye on Ian, to ensure he did not turn on them. For if he was indeed with Reginald, he would not admit it to her, no matter how she asked.

  And if he was not, she could not risk him going into battle rattled by her accusation.

  Sylvi clutched the bag holding My Lady’s book to her chest. “We must save Isabel while we still can.” She looked pointedly at Ian. “Perhaps they knew we were coming.”

  Chapter 18

  Ian had not missed the pointed accusation in Sylvi’s tone, nor the weight of her careful gaze. She didn’t trust him.

  The four of them had returned the shovel to the stable and took their horses, leaving Lady Camille’s. It wasn’t needed and would at least compensate the innkeeper for the two bodies they’d have to dispose of on the second floor. Surely not the first time bodies remained for disposal in an inn.

  The short time from the grave to the stable had brought a shift in Sylvi’s mood. From the somber, reverent woman who had stared with red-rimmed eyes into the grave of a friend to a woman set on vengeance.

  Liv had found a map at the back of Lady Camille’s book indicating where Reginald and his men were. She led the way, with Sylvi following closely at her heels. Blood and dirt streaked Sylvi’s body and face, turning her beauty into something like that of a nightmare.

  His avenging angel in her full glory.

  The four of them rode as hard as the soft ground would allow. The rain did not abate through the course of their journey. While it never poured upon them, it misted and spit, slowly soaking them. But they were well rested and had food enough to fill their bellies for the morning. At least to make it through a battle.