Chapter 33
Sword in hand, anger flaring like a beacon in his chest, Hunter ran like a man possessed through the hallways and courtyards of his castle, sprinting out of the gates and across the small stretch of grassy meadow to the gray stone chapel.
There were men outside, his and Laird MacLeach’s, tension bristling in the air as they glowered at one another, hands resting on the pommels of broadswords, the prospect of a renewed war practically crackling around the chapel.
One false move, one spark of revenge, and the entire peace treaty, fragile though it was, would go up in smoke.
“Where is he?” Hunter snarled at Beathan, who stood by the chapel’s entrance, barring anyone from entering.
Jack, who had just caught up, came to a breathless halt at Hunter’s side.
Although, to Hunter’s relief, there was no sign of Nancy.
She’d thought she had to leave his world to prevent the tapestry’s scenes from coming true, but perhaps all she had to do was not be present when the inevitable attack came.
“He’s in the chapel,” Beathan replied.
Lip curled, Hunter ducked under the low lintel and marched into the chapel, not caring if he had to spill blood in this hallowed place. For his survival, and for that of his potential future with Nancy, he would spill blood wherever his sword swung.
Footsteps echoing across the flagstones, he spotted Laird MacLeach standing at the end of the central aisle, gazing up at the stained-glass depiction of a cross entwined with thistles and vines.
“So, ye heard about me weddin’?” Hunter grunted, devoid of the usual calm he carried into battle.
Then again, he’d never been fighting for anything as important as his bride and their future before.
As Laird MacLeach turned and brushed something from his cheek, Hunter noticed a strip of white fabric tied around the old man’s upper arm.
“I did,” Laird MacLeach said with a bittersweet smile. “I wanted to come and offer me congratulations.”
Hunter laughed coldly. “Aye, of course ye did.”
“I’m serious.” Laird MacLeach walked back up the aisle toward him, his gait awkward and slow.
“I ken ye might nae believe me, but it’s the truth.
Yer men out there werenae convinced either.
That being said, I ken ye’re a rational man, Laird Lochlann.
Would I have come here meself if I intended to do ye harm? ”
Hunter frowned. “Aye, I’d say ye would. Ye blamed me for yer daughter’s death. Why would ye nae want to look in the eyes of the man ye deem responsible as ye killed him? Tried to, anyway.”
Laird MacLeach nodded, coming to a stop five paces away.
“I was angry then,” he said, his voice catching.
“She was the jewel of me life, Laird Lochlann, and… when she died, I was so deep in me grief that I needed someone to blame, because I couldnae very well blame the bairn or the heavens that took her from me.”
“But she wasnae well at the end,” he went on, his brow furrowed as if in pain.
“She wouldnae eat or sleep. She saw things that werenae there. She saw her braither and spoke to him as if he were still alive. When it came to her labors, she was so thin, so sick, that I already kent she wouldnae survive it.”
Hunter didn’t quite know what to do. He hadn’t expected this when he’d walked in. It could be trickery. He wasn’t foolish enough to rule that out, but there was something so sad, so defeated about the old man’s demeanor that it was enough to give him pause.
“I ken why ye killed me son,” Laird MacLeach continued. “He tried to kill ye first. What man wouldnae defend himself? Yet, ye sent me daughter back to me. Ye could have killed her too for her betrayal, but ye didnae. Ye gave me those last months with her, and for that, I’m grateful.”
“I never harmed her,” Hunter said stiffly. “I never would have.”
Laird MacLeach nodded. “I ken, and… that’s why I forgive ye.
I forgive ye, and I want to sincerely offer me congratulations.
Ye’re a good man, and ye’ll serve yer clan well.
” He held out his hand. “I’m glad me granddaughter will have a maither, even if it’s nae me daughter.
I’m glad me granddaughter will ken peace instead of war, and I mean to see that continuing. Ye’ll have nay fight from me anymore.”
“And I’m supposed to trust that?” Hunter asked, his eyebrow raised.
Laird MacLeach tapped the white armband. “I hope that ye do, Laird Lochlann.” He took a step closer. “Have we nae all lost too much already?”
“Aye, I reckon we have.”
Despite every instinct screaming at him not to approach, and the image of Nancy’s horrified face if she saw him walking right into a trap, Hunter closed the gap between them. With a breath, he took the old man’s hand.
The attack didn’t come. The trap didn’t snap shut. There was just Laird MacLeach’s rough palm against his, shaking an agreement that they’d both had enough of war and loss and revenge and bloodshed.
Hunter couldn’t quite believe it.
“Ye daenae mean to strike, then?” he said, staring at the older man’s hand.
Laird MacLeach let out a sad chuckle. “Nay, Laird Lochlann, unless it’s to strike a peace treaty and a promise of trade.” He let go of Hunter’s hand and took a moment to look around the chapel. “I’ll nae stay for the ceremony, but I wish ye well, ye and the new Lady.”
“I’ll convey yer well wishes,” Hunter said, dumbfounded as Laird MacLeach bowed his head and, brushing something from his cheek once more, made his way out of the chapel.
A few moments later, Beathan entered. “Laird MacLeach says ye’ve reached an understanding? Are we to just let him go?”
“Aye, we are,” Hunter replied as he turned to stare at the stained-glass window that had held the old laird so enraptured.
“Is that wise, Hunter?” Beathan cautioned.
More footsteps thundered in.
“Is it true that he just came to offer ye congratulations?” Jack’s voice asked.
Hunter allowed himself a smile, still bewildered. “Aye, it is. So, please see to it that Laird MacLeach and his men are permitted safe passage out of Lochlann lands.” His heart swelled with hope. “It seems we’re to have peace, true peace, at last.”
“That’s fine news for a weddin’ day,” Jack said brightly. “Och, I kent ye could change yer fate. Ye deserve this, Hunter. And on this day of all days! Aye, ye deserve it, just as ye deserve a wife that ye adore, standin’ at yer side. Och, a happy day, indeed.”
His retreating footsteps were swift, like he couldn’t wait to spread the joyful news, even to those who didn’t know the full extent of the joy.
There was no doubt in Hunter’s mind that the threat was supposed to come from Laird MacLeach, and now it had passed without him having to make a single strike with his sword.
There would be no bloodshed in this chapel. There would be no loss. The tapestry had gotten it wrong.
“Ye deserve nothin’,” a harsh voice hissed behind him. “Ye deserve nothin’ but a cold grave.”
“Is he inside?” Nancy rasped, her lungs on fire as she skidded to a halt outside the chapel.
Strangely, there was a crowd of people leaving already, heading out across sweeping moorland on foot and horseback. People that she didn’t recognize.
“Aye,” Jack replied, his arm wrapped around Elsie’s shoulders. “Laird MacLeach didnae do anythin’. He just came to wish ye and Hunter well. Then, he left.”
“No… no, it’s a trick,” Nancy whispered, more to herself than to him. “It has to be.”
She pushed past the small group of guests and shouldered her way through the chapel door, her racing heart dropping into her stomach at the sight before her: Beathan with his sword drawn, standing far too close to Hunter at the end of the aisle, right by the altar.
“So, it was supposed to be ye,” she heard Hunter say in a quiet, almost sad voice.
Neither man was aware of her presence; they had their backs turned to her.
Why wasn’t Hunter turning around to defend himself? Why wasn’t he making the first strike before Beathan could?
Nancy wanted to cry out, to warn him of what he already knew, but the words wouldn’t emerge, her pendant thrumming so furiously that she felt as if she had a wasp in her throat.
“Ye daenae get to live when me braither is rottin’ in the ground,” Beathan snarled. “Ye daenae get to forgive and be forgiven. Me maither and sister might be blinded by ye, so weak that they’d forgotten what ye did, but I willnae.”
“Ye must hate me a great deal,” Hunter said, his voice eerily calm. “I couldnae tell.”
Beathan laughed coldly. “I thought of slittin’ yer throat every moment I stood there and obeyed yer orders.
I thought of puttin’ somethin’ in yer whiskey at every opportunity, but I kent I had to wait until the time was right, until ye had somethin’ that ye wanted for yerself, so I might take it from ye.
Until ye saw a hopeful future, and I could make it vanish and take me rightful place as Laird Lochlann. The position ye took from me.”
“The position I offered ye, but ye refused,” Hunter countered, finally turning around.
Beathan raised his sword, pressing the tip to Hunter’s chest. “Ye didnae mean it. Ye would’ve killed me too,” he snapped. “But I’ll relish the thought of marryin’ yer bride, once she’s had time to mourn ye, of course.”
Hunter’s shining gaze settled on Nancy, his expression peaceful, looking every bit like a man who’d accepted his fate.
No, Hunter. No!
“Put the sword away, Beathan,” Hunter ordered. “Before ye hurt yerself. I willnae be the reason me aunt has nay sons left.”
As Beathan moved forward to sink the tip of his sword into Hunter’s chest, Hunter simply grabbed the blade with both of his hands. He didn’t even flinch, his attention now fixed on Beathan, his calm expression unwavering, even as blood began to drip down from his palms.
“I willnae tell ye again,” he warned.
But Beathan seemed determined, putting all of his not-inconsiderable weight behind the sword as he struggled to force it forward.
And there Nancy was in her wedding dress, watching in horror as she realized that the tip of the sword would run Hunter right through if he faltered for a moment, the blade plunged into the same spot she’d seen on the tapestry.
He’ll die to protect me. He’ll die so that Beathan never puts his hands on me. He’ll die so that Beathan won’t turn that sword on me.
Before she could think, before she could stop herself, she started running. The ruby pendant buzzed wildly, as if it were now in her blood, like adrenaline, commanding her to be brave, to be bold.
Whether it was the sound of her hurried footsteps or the soft, breathy murmur of, “Nay, love,” that escaped Hunter’s lips, she would never know. But as she hurtled toward Beathan, determined to do something, anything, to stop him from repeating history, he suddenly drew back and whirled around.
She saw, in slow motion, the blade sliding out from Hunter’s blood-slick grasp and the widening of her love’s eyes as he realized, a second before she did, what was about to happen.
There was pain; she was aware of that. A sharp pain like a pulled muscle, somewhere down her side. And Beathan was there, his arm wrapped around her as though he’d just wanted to hug her, his hot breath moist on her cheek as he declared, “Ye deserve nay bride, Hunter, so nay bride ye shall have.”
The traitor roughly pushed her back, knocking her off balance, sending her sprawling across the hard floor. Her head bumped the stone, but she didn’t quite register it as she saw Beathan adjust his grip on his sword and step over her, moving into position to drive it through her chest.
The tapestry, she thought in a daze. The tapestry in reverse.
Somewhere in the future, a different tapestry now hung on the museum wall, a sword plunged into the bride’s chest. This time, she had saved the Hawk. She was the one who would die for love.