Chapter 13
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Jeane rattled around the castle like a ghost. Fergus was off interrogating potential attackers who had been caught trying to get onto the castle grounds.
Which was good because Jeane was avoiding him. She didn’t know how to talk to him, how to tell him…
Tell him what, exactly?
Jeane was confused herself about what she was feeling. She knew that she wanted him, but was she ready for marriage and all that entailed? Hadn’t she been fighting her whole life against that?
But Fergus was different from Lord Fraser and all the other suitors that Jeane had seen come and go.
Jeane trailed by Lottie’s room, and she peered inside. Lottie was sitting on the edge of the bed, braiding flowers into her hair.
Jeane smiled and knocked on the open door.
Lottie looked up, startled, but then she smiled. “Come in, Liliana.”
Jeane had to stop herself from wincing. She hated having to lie to Lottie, especially now that they’d become friends, but she had to keep this secret.
She stepped inside and stood in front of Lottie. “I like yer hair.”
“Thank ye,” Lottie said, finishing up the last braid. “I thought Aiden might come by, but nothin’ yet.”
Jeane could hear the disappointment in the young girl’s voice.
“Ye still havenae told him how ye feel?” Jeane put a hand on her hip, exasperated.
“He doesnae want me,” Lottie mourned.
“What do ye mean? He comes to visit every day. He cares for you, Lottie.”
“Maybe,” Lottie muttered. “But he doesnae say it. I want him to tell me he loves me, to confess to me.”
“Is that the only way ye will tell him ye feel the same way?”
“Aye,” Lottie said with a sly grin.
“I suppose it’s good that ye ken what ye want,” Jeane said with a chuckle.
Jeane knew it would be difficult to get Aiden to confess to Lottie. He was convinced that Fergus wouldn’t accept the courtship. But all Jeane had seen was Fergus supporting the relationship.
She supposed Aiden knew Fergus better than she did, though. He was fiercely protective of Lottie.
“And what do ye want, Liliana?” Lottie asked, jerking Jeane out of her thoughts.
Jeane looked at her for a long moment. “I want to be free.”
“Free? Arenae ye free already?”
“Not in the way I’d like to be,” Jeane murmured, reaching out to touch one of Lottie’s light brown braids.
Lottie frowned. “Well, ye can be free here. My brother is a grouch but he’s a good man. He pays ye well, aye?”
Jeane nodded slowly.
It isnae money I’m worried about.
It was what he expected of her. Did he expect to marry her and for her to be the dutiful little wife? Just like her father wanted?
But maybe it would be different with Fergus.
Jeane didn’t know what to think. She was confused, and she didn’t want to think about it anymore.
“Ye weren’t free back home?” Lottie asked quietly.
“Not as such, nae,” Jeane answered vaguely.
Lottie patted the bed next to her. “Sit. Tell me. It isnae like I have anythin’ else to do.”
Jeane smiled, sitting down next to Lottie. She supposed it wouldn’t hurt to talk to Lottie, at least a little. She felt as if she were carrying this secret on her shoulders, like it was a burden.
Maybe this would ease it.
“At first, he let me have friends. Beatrice, Agnes. Lovely lasses who I had a lot in common with. But then he decided they were bad influences—particularly Agnes. She’s a spinster, ye ken.
He said they were putting ideas in my head.
So he forced me to cut contact with them.
Avoid their visits. He tore up their letters. ” Jeane let out a long breath.
Lottie’s eyes were wide as she stared at Jeane.
“Yer father… he isnae a good man, aye?”
Jeane hesitated. Even though her father was cold and hard, she wanted to see the good in him. But over the years, she realized there was none left, if there ever had been.
“Aye,” Jeane said quietly.
“I didnae ken my father,” Lottie said softly. “But Fergus tells me he was a good man. A good father. Carried me around on his shoulders all the time.”
Jeane smiled. “That’s good, Lottie. I’m glad that yer brother gave ye that memory.”
Lottie started to cough, and Jeane beat on her back until Lottie spit up mucus into a handkerchief. Jeane looked at the sputum with healer’s eyes. It was nearly clear. Lottie’s lungs were getting better.
“I’ll give ye a draught for that cough, but it may put ye to sleep.”
Lottie sighed. “Aiden isnae comin’ by anyway. I braided flowers into my hair for nothin’.”
“Not for nothin’,” Jeane insisted. “It’s nice to look pretty, isnae it??
“I suppose so,” Lottie said with a little smile.
She settled back into bed and drank the draught Jeane gave her.
She drifted off within a few moments, and Jeane watched her chest rise and fall, listening for a wheeze. There was only a slight one, and it encouraged Jeane.
She wanted the lass to be healthy. She knew how much Fergus loved her. And plus, Jeane was starting to love her, too. It was hard not to, as bright and sweet as Lottie was.
She didn’t blame Aiden for falling in love with her.
If only her love life was as young and uncomplicated as theirs.
Fergus made his way to the dungeon with vigor, his wounds finally healed enough that he felt confident he wouldn’t rip out the stitches. In fact. Jeane was due to take them out, but Fergus hadn’t seen her in days.
And he hated that he missed her terribly.
She didn’t want him. Had rejected him nearly outright, but he still wanted her. Ached for her.
So he was looking forward to interrogating one of the Leary clan in his dungeon.
It would take his mind off Jeane if nothing else would.
And so far, nothing else had.
The guards parted as Fergus approached, and he stepped into the dungeon, staring straight into the first cell.
A man in a tattered tunic sat on the floor, shoulders slumped, head hanging down. Blood spattered his face and throat from a broken nose.
Fergus had ordered his men to take the would-be attackers alive, but he hadn’t specified unhurt.
Good, Fergus thought.
He had no sympathy for anyone affiliated with Fife Leary.
Fergus nodded to one of the guards, and the guard automatically unlocked the door.
The man looked up. He didn’t speak, but he started to tremble.
Fergus’ mouth twisted in a vile grin.
“Ye’ve heard of me, havnae ye?”
The man still didn’t speak.
“The Beast of McCloud Castle,” Fergus snarled, crouching down to face the prisoner.
The man cowered, trying to scoot away but only hitting the brick of the cell wall.
“Ye cannae escape me, boy,” Fergus said, his voice going eerily calm. “Tell me who the masked man is. Yer leader.”
“Nay,” the man gasped, his eyes wide and blue and terrified as he looked at the scarred laird. “Never.”
“Ye’ll talk,” Fergus said confidently, and he took the man’s hand in his. “What’s yer name?”
Breathing hard, the prisoner stared at him for a long moment before responding.
“Archibold.”
Fergus nodded, having no need to know the man’s surname.
“Alright, Archie. Ye ready?”
Archibald looked at him, a confused expression crossing his face.
Fergus twisted Archibold’s hand, breaking each of his fingers as the prisoner screamed and desperately tried to pull away.
An hour later, Fergus had his name.
And he had a mission.
It took two days for Fergus to find the masked man. He found him in a saloon without his mask, his face showing his connection to Leary.
He looked exactly like the man. He was his bastard as Archibold had told Fergus.
Fergus couldn’t help how his breath caught in his throat. It was like seeing a ghost, a demon from his past he thought long buried.
He waited in the back until Hamish Beaufort walked out of the saloon through the back alleys to get to the stables.
Fergus called out his name.
“Hamish Beaufort. The masked man. Bastard of Fife. Meet your fate.”
Hamish whirled around, a knife in his hand, slashing at Fergus.
Fergus jumped back, his reflexes quicker than a cat’s. He grinned wildly at Hamish, loving the battle.
Hamish might be a worthy opponent for once.
“Ye killed me father,” Hamish growled.
“Aye,” Fergus said proudly. “And I’d do it again. And again.”
Hamish roared and rushed at Fergus, who had his hand on his sword. Fergus swung it but Hamish ducked and dodged, managing to tackle Fergus around the waist.
They went down and Hamish’s knife was at Fergus’ throat. Fergus pushed against Hamish’s grip, managing to turn the knife around.
Hamish’s eyes widened as the knife got closer and closer to his own throat. After a struggle, Fergus finally kicked out his legs and flipped Hamish over.
“Farewell, bastard of Fife Leary.”
“They willnae stop,” Hamish gasped, still fighting. “They’ll kill ye.”
“Nay,” Fergus said quietly. “They willnae. Cut off the head, and the rest will fall.”
Then he pressed Hamish’s own knife into his throat, and blood spurted from the wound, soaking them both.
Fergus watched as Hamish jerked and twitched, watched as the life flowed out of his body, just as he had with Fife.
Like father, like son.
Fergus calmly stood, wiping the blood from his hands onto his tunic.
He went to the stables, his deed finally done, a weight seemingly lifted off his shoulders.
He should want to celebrate. Instead, all he wanted was Jeane.
He had to find her and be with her.