Chapter 32
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Come to me,” Alasdair whispered his challenge.
The weather was better compared to the time Alasdair met with Cray, but not by much.
As soon as he’d received the proof Kittridge was involved in the plot against his father, he reached out to the bastard and arranged a meeting with him.
Let’s call a truce. Give me the name of a place where we can meet.
Of course, Kittridge wanted to meet in secret. Somehow, Alasdair could understand that. The man had too many things to hide.
That was why Alasdair ended up in a warehouse not too long after he met the politician Ambersen and the informant Cray.
Now, he was meeting with the man who destroyed his father’s life.
All in a week’s work.
Alasdair wanted to end the story, and he had to admit Kittridge chose the perfect place.
Water sloshed against old timber. Everything seemed to creak and swish in this place. Wet and old. Crumbling with decay. But here, it was nature that caused destruction, not another man.
Wearing a long coat and old boots, Alasdair looked like a warehouse worker from afar, ready to carry boxes and boxes of textiles and various raw materials.
He stood by the entrance, body tense and legs wide apart. He might have called for a truce, but that was never the intention. He was there to fight, live or die.
“Faither, help me. This is it. This is what I’ve been workin’ hard for all these years. It’s for ye. It’s for us,” he whispered raggedly, catching a whiff of sea salt and fish. “And if I live to see another day, that day is for Elizabeth.”
Soon, he detected a flicker of movement. Then, he heard the sound of boots on stone.
Finally, Kittridge stepped out from behind a stack of crates. His face was stern and arrogant, as expected.
Better yet. It would make things easier, Alasdair thought. It would remind him that he was facing an enemy, not some man he was about to make peace with.
Even with his arrogance, Kittridge’s eyes showed some caution. He pulled off his gloves even through the cold, either raring for a fight or showing just how comfortable he was in front of Alasdair.
“You asked for a truce, Redmoor. Here I am, unarmed. What about you? Have you done the same?” the older man asked.
“If ye’re thinkin’ what I’m thinkin’, I daenae need those kind of weapons tonight,” Alasdair said, holding up the rolled parchment that carried the proof of how his father was framed. “This one here is enough.”
Kittridge scoffed. Then, he chuckled almost silently, his shoulders moving up and down with forced mirth. He did walk a few steps closer to Alasdair.
Aha.
“What’s this again, Redmoor?” Kittridge drawled as he stepped into the warehouse, his silhouette sharp in the dim light.
“I thought we were becoming fast friends. Then I hear you’ve been asking about me, imagining it wouldn’t reach my ears.
” He gave a slow, mocking smile. “Another empty accusation? Or some tale you and your allies have stitched together? I suppose it’s tiring, being the man everyone can’t stop talking about.
I could help you, you know. Navigate the ton, silence the whispers. ”
Alasdair’s eyes narrowed. How dare this bastard?
“That’s not what I need, Kittridge,” he said coldly. “What I have is what matters. A forged letter. The very one that condemned me faither. It locked him away, made him easy prey for those who wanted him dead. Ye ordered it. Ye framed him.”
Kittridge’s smile didn’t falter, but the temperature in the room shifted. “Let me be clear, Redmoor. I tried to be civil. But your father was always a criminal. This little piece of paper, forged or not, changes nothing.”
“He was nae a criminal,” Alasdair growled, stepping forward. “Ye made him one in the eyes of the world.”
He held out the parchment, the proof he’d paid dearly for. His face was carved from stone, every line taut with fury. “Ye ken what this is. Even if ye try to hide it with yer lies, ye ken. And it’s time to set things straight.”
Kittridge snatched the letter with a sneer, unrolling it lazily—carelessly, as if it were beneath his concern. But Alasdair saw the flicker of recognition in his eyes, the twitch of panic.
Then Kittridge moved.
So fast, so sudden, Alasdair barely saw the pistol until it was too late. But adrenaline surged. He lunged, striking the man’s wrist. The shot rang out, echoing through the rafters, startling gulls into flight outside the warehouse.
The pistol clattered across the floor.
“Scottish scum,” Kittridge snarled, launching himself forward.
Alasdair met him head-on. They slammed into crates, fists flying, boots scraping on the wooden planks. The warehouse erupted in chaos—splintered wood, crashing crates, the brutal sound of flesh on flesh. It wasn’t a duel. It was a war.
A sharp punch to Kittridge’s ribs gave Alasdair a moment’s breath, but the older man was already reaching into his boot.
Alasdair saw the glint too late.
The blade came up, slicing across his side. He cried out, staggering back as pain bloomed through his ribs.
“We’re almost done, Redmoor,” Kittridge spat, voice gleaming with triumph.
He drove Alasdair against a stone pillar, arm crushing his throat, knife poised to finish it.
“Who’s the criminal now?” Alasdair gasped. “Ye seem awfully comfortable with murder.”
“I have years on you,” Kittridge hissed. “I know when to fight, and when to end it.”
Alasdair’s vision darkened at the edges. But the fire in him refused to die.
“Years,” he rasped, “and ye learned nothin’. Still hurtin’ folk to get ahead.”
Kittridge sneered. “You should’ve stayed in Scotland, boy. You don’t belong here. You never did.”
Alasdair gritted his teeth, pain radiating from his side, his back, his throat, but he wasn’t done. He never would be.
“Neither do ye,” he spat. “Ye belong in prison.”
With a surge of fury, he slammed his forehead into Kittridge’s. The older man reeled. Alasdair twisted, flipped their weight. They crashed to the ground, and this time, Kittridge was beneath him.
Alasdair drove his knee into the man’s chest, pinned his wrist, and slammed it to the ground until the knife skittered away. Bloodied and panting, he raised his fist.
He could end it.
Right now.
He could destroy the man who ruined his family, shattered his youth, murdered his father.
But then—
Live, my boy.
His father’s voice. Not “avenge”. Not “prove”. Live.
And then Elizabeth’s. Her eyes, her voice, pleading with him to come back to her. To choose life. To choose her.
His fist hovered.
Kittridge whimpered.
Alasdair roared. Not in triumph, not in defeat, but in agony. He let the fury tear from him like a storm. Then he let his arm fall to his side.
It was over.
Kittridge stared up at him, eyes wide, snot and tears streaking his face. “W-why didn’t you do it?”
“Ye’re finished anyway,” Alasdair said grimly. “They’re already on their way.”
And they were.
The thunder of boots echoed through the warehouse as Bow Street Runners burst into the room.
“Giles Marwood, Marquess of Kittridge,” the officer barked, “you are under arrest.”
Alasdair stood slowly, every movement laced with pain. Kittridge just stared, stunned.
“Y-you planned this,” he stammered.
“Aye,” Alasdair said, voice low. “I came unarmed, as promised. But ye proved me right, Kittridge. Ye always do.”
“Will you be all right, Your Grace?” one of the officers asked, glancing at the blood pooling on Alasdair’s side.
“I will be,” he said, even though speaking those words made the pain intensify.
He would be. He had to be.
They hauled Kittridge to his feet. The marquess struggled for a heartbeat, then sagged. A man undone.
It was over. Truly over.
Alasdair watched the officers lead him away, then staggered to the nearest beam, pressing a bloodied hand to his ribs.
His body ached. His knuckles throbbed. His shirt was soaked with blood. His legs trembled.
He’d won.
He should feel triumph. But all he felt was… the absence of her.
Elizabeth.
He thought of her voice, her hands on his chest, her laughter spilling through their rooms. She saw through the broken, brooding mask. She’d trusted him.
And he’d walked away from that love. Left without a word of promise.
Damn.
The truth struck him harder than any blow he’d taken tonight.
He loved her.
Of course he did. He could not live another day without hearing her laugh again, without tasting her lips. Without being worthy of her.
He staggered toward the exit, hand clutched to his side. He would not die here tonight. No. Not when there was so much left to say.
He had a wife to return to.
A life to reclaim.