by Emma Prince
A disturbing thought flitted through his mind as he waited. The mad rage he’d felt when that bastard in the woods had hurt her was not an isolated incident.
He could tell himself that he was only being so protective of Ailsa because his mission hinged upon using her as bait. Yet the possessive fire that had blazed to life within him at these men’s mere gazes upon her did not square.
The heat of their kiss flashed through him, and he had to grit his teeth against the provocative memory. Aye, he wanted her all for himself, and he couldn’t brook even the thought of another looking at her suggestively.
Thankfully, the moment passed, and with it, that disconcerting line of thought. Something seemed to shift in the atmosphere within the alehouse. The noise resumed, the remaining men dropped their gazes, and Domnall’s shoulders unknotted.
“If Murray dares show his face here again, tell him to meet me at Tullibardine in eight days’ time,” he said, angling his head ever so slightly toward the men.
One picked up the dice, but all the players waited until Domnall had turned to go before resuming their game of hazard.
As he squeezed through the crowd, pulling Ailsa close after him, the barmaid caught his arm.
“I’m glad ye are going after Murray,” she said, lowering her brows. “Last time he was here, he was rough with one of our lasses. Mildred was black and blue for a fortnight, and she still cries sometimes in the wee hours when we’ve retired to our rooms.”
“He willnae bother anyone here again,” Domnall promised, his voice low and tight.
He glanced back at Ailsa as he continued toward the door. Her face was ashen with shock at all she’d heard.
Even after they’d escaped the cloying heat and noise of the alehouse, she remained quiet. True night had fallen while they’d been within, and the air was sharp with cold.
As they passed, he flipped the lad a second coin, as promised. The boy eagerly caught it.
“Thank ye, milord.”
“Dinnae squander it like those fools inside,” he replied. “If ye are mindful, that should see ye and anyone else ye look after fed for several months.”
“Aye, milord. Thank ye again, milord.”
As the lad darted off into the shadows, Domnall guided Ailsa back to his horse and lifted her into the saddle, then settled in behind her.
Judging from her rigid spine and her tight-lipped silence, he’d accomplished what he’d set out to do in bringing her here. She had some sense of the true nature of her brother now—though she didn’t even know the half of what he’d done.
Now all that remained to be seen was how she would react.
Chapter Thirteen
Ailsa silently cursed herself for the world’s greatest fool as they rode through the night.
How could she understand so little about her own brother? And why had she been so innately trusting of his goodness all these years?
And Domnall…
He was supposed to be a monster, a liar, yet much of what he’d claimed had been proven true. What was more, in helping the lad outside the alehouse, he’d shown more kindness in a moment’s passing than she’d ever witnessed in Andrew. Had she been wrong about everything, then?
To calm her chaotic mind, she went over all she’d learned that evening.
Andrew had outstanding debts at that crude alehouse. Domnall had claimed her brother had run from more such debts at taverns and gambling halls all across Scotland. She would never have believed him before, but if Andrew could be loathed for owing money at one such establishment, why not more?
And even worse, he had apparently laid violent hands on a server woman, if that barmaid was to be trusted. And why would she lie? She had naught to gain from smearing Andrew’s name. The barmaid already knew he wouldn’t bother to pay a woman for her silence—after all, he wasn’t paying anyone, despite racking up substantial debts.
As she’d absorbed all this, a new realization had struck Ailsa like a kick to the gut. She had been chewing on it ever since, coming at it from every angle to find an explanation that didn’t cast her brother as a villain. But she always ended with the same conclusion.
Her churning thoughts were interrupted when Domnall reined his horse to a halt. She looked around, seeing her surroundings for the first time since leaving the alehouse.
They must have ridden into the foothills surrounding Tyndrum, for they stood perched in steep terrain, surrounded by rocky outcroppings and sparse pine trees. Heavy clouds moved in from the west, and the scent of impending rain hung in the night air. The moon was only partially obscured, though, casting deep shadows across the uneven surfaces of the surrounding rocks.
Domnall dismounted but left her in the saddle. Taking up the reins carefully, he led them straight into one of the shadows. Belatedly, Ailsa realized they were approaching the mouth of a cave.
He lifted her down then, setting her gingerly on her feet. He tied the horse in a copse of pines that blocked the cave’s entrance, then took her by the arm and helped her pick her way inside.
At first, the cave seemed black as pitch. Slowly, her eyed adjusted and the weak moonlight at the cave’s mouth allowed her to make out her footing.
The cave was mayhap ten feet deep, with a sloping rock ceiling that grew shallower at the back. The wind must have blown in a few dead leaves and twigs, which had collected in the corners. Considering the circumstances, it was the perfect shelter from the coming storm.
“Rest,” Domnall said, then disappeared out the cave’s mouth. Too tired to do aught else, Ailsa sank down on the cold stone.
Domnall returned a few moments later with his saddlebags slung over one shoulder and his arms full of downed wood for a fire.
Without a word, he set about laying and lighting the fire, building it up until the cave glowed a cheery orange. Yet the light and heat didn’t seem to reach inside Ailsa’s icy chest.
The silence stretched, broken only by the crackling of the fire. It wasn’t until the first heavy raindrops began to fall outside that Ailsa spoke.
“I’ve realized something.”
From where he crouched beside the fire, Domnall’s head snapped up. “Oh?”
Ailsa stared into the dancing flames. “The reason you found me at Stalcaire Tower… My brother sent me there six months past.”
“Ye never told me why,” Domnall prodded gently.
“It was a punishment. I refused to marry the man of his choosing.”
At that, Domnall visibly stiffened. His jaw locked and the hand that rested on his knee squeezed into a fist. “And who was this man?”
“Lord Gormond de Laney,” she replied flatly. “An English nobleman with holdings in Cumbria—a man three times my age. My parents had died only a fortnight before when Andrew commanded me to marry Lord de Laney.”
Her throat tightened as she continued. “I knew I was to marry a man of my family’s choosing. But I’d always assumed…” She swallowed. “I always thought it would be my parents, who were attentive toward my wishes, who would pick my husband. They hoped for not only an advantageous but also a happy union for me—like theirs.”
“But yer brother chose this…this Lord de Laney.”
She nodded, her gaze still vacantly held by the fire. Yet inside, a maelstrom of emotion tangled her in knots.
“About a sennight after my parents’ passing, Andrew came to Tullibardine. He’d been away for many years, though I never knew what he was about. The first thing he did when he arrived was order our steward, Simmons, to bring him all the ledgers my father had left, ledgers detailing the estate’s assets, expenses, incomes—all he was to inherit.”
At the time, she’d assumed that Andrew’s actions were guided by a sense of responsibility to the family’s estate. Silly, trusting girl.
“I remember not long after he’d closed himself in the solar, he threw several goblets against the door, and his curses could be heard even through the stone walls. Apparently, he was none too pleased with what he found in t
he ledgers.”
She let a breath go. What a naïve fool she’d been. “And then a sennight later, Lord de Laney arrived.”
Domnall’s face darkened with a fierce scowl. He had apparently already comprehended what had taken her this long to see.
“He was selling me,” she whispered. “Selling me off like some sow at the marketplace, to a vile, licentious man who would have treated me no different than a broodmare—no different than his property.”
A low curse rasped from Domnall’s lips.
“De Laney was wealthy,” Ailsa continued. “No doubt he offered to pay Andrew handsomely for my hand. Which would have allowed Andrew to pay off his debts. Or—nay,” she said, shaking her head. “I am being too naïve again. He wouldn’t have paid his debts. He would have used the money to continue gambling, instead.”
Domnall nodded slowly. “Ye see the truth about yer brother now—or at least some of it.”
“How could I be such a fool?” she mumbled. “How could I have known so little of him? And not seen what was right in front of me? I am the world’s most gullible, dull-witted—”
“Nay,” Domnall cut in harshly. He rose from the fire and crouched before her, pinning her with a severe look. “Ye trusted yer brother, as ye ought to have. That makes ye good-hearted, and there is naught to be ashamed of in that.”
“Good-hearted, mayhap, but also blind to the truth,” she said, dropping her gaze to where her hands lay clenched in her lap.
He released a frustrated exhalation, reaching toward her. He busied himself with tucking her cloak more securely around her, avoiding her eyes. With him this close, his hands brushing over her, Ailsa’s stomach did a little flip.
“I find it admirable to still have faith in this world, to see good in people. Never disparage yerself for that, lass. It is better than being cold and jaded. As I am.”
His glacial blue eyes slowly lifted to hers. She was struck to find an unexpected softness in them.
“What did he do to you?” she blurted without thinking.
Like the setting of the sun, all the warmth and light vanished from his gaze, and he turned frigid and grim once more. He sat back on his heels, his hands dropping from her cloak.
“Ye dinnae wish to ken.”
“Aye, I do,” she countered, refusing to release him from their stare. “You said in the alehouse that he didn’t owe you coin. What is it then?”
“Ailsa,” he said, his voice heavy with warning. “I told ye, ye are better off no’ hearing it.”
Her brows dropped. “Not knowing aught, being sheltered and shielded from the truth—that is what got me into this mess. Nay, I want to understand. Tell me. Why are you hunting my brother? Why are you so intent on killing him?”
Domnall searched her with those cool, penetrating eyes for a long moment, his lips pursed as he deliberated.
“It isnae for innocent ears,” he said, then sighed. “But it is true—ye have a right to hear this.”
His gaze drifted to the mouth of the cave, where rain now fell in dark sheets. A muscle ticked in his jaw as his eyes grew distant. She held her breath as he started to speak.
Chapter Fourteen
“Ye ken we are in the middle of a war, aye?” Domnall began.
Ailsa’s bonny, expectant features faltered. “Aye, well…that is, I am generally aware…”
She truly had been sheltered, likely first by her parents, who seemed to have given her a comfortable if cloistered upbringing, and then by her isolated exile at Stalcaire Tower. Domnall would have to start at the beginning.
“Edward Balliol has been trying to assert a claim to the Scottish throne for some time now,” he said. “He believes his father, John Balliol, was passed over when Robert the Bruce named himself King. Edward has been living abroad, first in France and then England, plotting how to retake the crown. The Bruce’s passing three years ago gave him the opening he was waiting for.”
She nodded, eager to show that she did know something of recent political maneuverings. “But the Bruce’s son David was meant to inherit the throne.”
“Indeed, but David is a wee bairn of eight years. With none but the Guardians of Scotland—of which there have already been four—to serve as regents until he reaches his majority, David’s position has been weak. Balliol saw his opportunity. As did Edward III of England.”
Ailsa frowned. “What does the English King have to do with Scotland’s affairs?”
Domnall couldn’t help but smile faintly. “An excellent question. King Edward, like his father, and his father before that, has longed to bring Scotland to heel under his rulership. It has been his royal line’s greatest goal—and its greatest shortcoming thus far. Edward saw a way to gain control of Scotland—through Balliol, who has happily agreed to be England’s puppet, so long as he can play at King in the process.”
“My father supported the Bruce against Longshanks, and then Edward II,” she murmured. “It seems that this strife will never end.”
“Which is why many Scots have stood against Balliol’s claim to the throne. It is little more than an English takeover. A few Scots have sided with Balliol—mostly Lowlanders,” he said, lifting a brow at her. To his surprise and pleasure, she had the gall to roll her eyes at him.
“Balliol promised to return the lands that had been taken from English supporters under the Bruce,” he continued. “They are called the Disinherited, and like Balliol, they believe they are owed wealth and power by dint of birth, despite being traitors to their own country.”
“But those who would defend Scotland and David’s right to the throne won’t let that happen, isn’t that right?” she said, fixing him with a hopeful look.
Domnall’s jaw clenched so hard that his next words barely slipped out through his locked teeth. “It already has.”
Ailsa’s soft gasp echoed against the cave’s stone walls. Feeling her disbelieving stare burning into him, Domnall fought to regain enough control to continue.
“A month past, there was a battle at Dupplin Moor,” he said, his voice stretched thin. “Those loyal to David gathered to make a stand against Balliol and his English supporters. We outnumbered Balliol’s men four to one. We had the upper hand in our position. We held the higher ground on the north side of the River Earn. We should have won handily.”
Domnall had to swallow against the tightness in his throat before continuing. “Mayhap we were too arrogant. Under the Bruce, we had become used to beating the English on our own soil. Mayhap we thought ourselves invulnerable. We were wrong.”
“What happened?” Ailsa whispered.
“Balliol’s army attacked at night, while we slept. They slaughtered us by the thousands. Men didnae have time to reach for their swords, let alone put on their trews and boots.”
That horrifying, blood-soaked night hit Domnall with full force, as if it had only been yesterday. The shrieks of the dying echoed in his ears. The scent of blood and piss and terror filled his nose. His stomach turned to liquid metal, as it had that night.
“Our whole army became a heap of the slain,” he murmured, his gaze vacant with memory. “The bodies piled so deep that they reached the height of a spear. Balliol’s men surrounded us, thrusting their swords and spears into the masses so that almost none survived.”
“But you did,” she said, her voice shaking with horror.
“Aye, I was one of the lucky few. Someone from Balliol’s army took me for a leader. I and a few others were taken prisoner—to be made examples of. We were locked in Scone’s dungeon while above, Balliol crowned himself King of Scotland. Then we were taken out to be hanged and left for the ravens, a warning to anyone who would stand against the Pretender King.”
His gaze flicked to her, to find her eyes wide and her lips parted in shock. He hated to upset her, but she’d wanted to hear the truth.
“It seemed fate was feeling playful that day, for a few other Highland loyalists and I managed to escape the noose,” he said, snorting mirthlessly at that
particular twist of destiny.
He sobered, fixing her with a fierce stare. “And I vowed that I wouldnae rest until Andrew Murray was dead for what he’d done. That I’d use every breath of this second chance at life—whether granted by God or the Devil—to hunt him down and exact vengeance upon him.”
“But…why?” she said, recoiling as if she were already afraid of the answer. “What did my brother do?”
“That night, when Balliol’s army attacked the loyalists,” he murmured, “they should never have made it across the river. We had camped where the water was deep, so that Balliol wouldnae be able to cross and our archers could take advantage of our position on higher ground come morning. If they hadnae crossed, they never would have been able to set upon us with such deadly success. The only reason they managed it was because of yer brother.”
“W-what?”
“He was among the loyalists,” Domnall ground out. “We took him for one of our own. But he turned traitor. He slipped away in the dead of night and planted a stake farther down the river to mark the spot where Balliol’s army could ford and surround us.”
Her hand flew to her mouth as her breath left her. He took no pleasure in hurting her this way, making her see the blackness of her brother’s soul, yet this was what she’d asked to know.
“Why?” she whispered through her fingers. “Why would he do such a thing?”
“I can only assume it was because of his debts, and his thirst for more coin,” he replied flatly. “Balliol must have promised him wealth or lands for his help—or both. I didnae ken that he had such an insatiable appetite for dice when I first learned of his treachery, but when I went hunting for him, his motives became clear.”
“I…forgive me, but…how did you come to learn these were Andrew’s actions?” she asked hesitantly. “How can you be sure it was him? I know now that he is not the honorable man I thought he was,” she hurried on, “but…could he truly be so evil?”
Even before he could answer, her brows knit as she gave him an apologetic look. “I do not mean to cast doubt on all you’ve said, but—”