Chapter 22 #2
Cruim blinked. “She’s cared for me after her mum died. She’s told me how ye’ve tried to oppress me, how even yer gift of this manor was to keep me close, to watch me even as ye threaten me.”
Ewan stared hard at him, unable to believe his ears. “I threaten ye?”
“I know about the plots.” Cruim coughed into his fist. “It was ye who made me sick. To remove me from the line of succession for the chieftainship, so yer bairns will never have a valid rival. I never even wanted the damn chieftainship.”
Ewan stared at his uncle in shock. Cruim had never been the threat. In truth, his meddling had never made sense, not when he hadn’t shown an aptitude for cleverness. It was why Ewan had discounted him so often, assuming Cruim couldn’t be conniving enough to pull off an elaborate stunt.
Ewan never had even suspected Moiré.
“I dinna ever intend ye harm,” Ewan said. “It was Moiré.”
Cruim scoffed. “She’s helped me, Ewan. She even helped my marriage with…
with Blair.” He winced. “Moiré said the arrangement would help her wed Finn.” Cruim’s voice went tender with an apparent affection for his daughter.
“She said doing that would secure my alliance with the Gordons and protect me from ye.” His lower lip trembled.
“Cruim,” Ewan said in an even tone. “She’s been using ye, manipulating ye as she’d done to everyone else.” He shook his head in stunned disbelief at how readily she’d fooled them all. “Even me.”
His uncle shuddered, and a cough erupted from his mouth so violently, it appeared to have surprised even him. He fell against the barred door, dragging in choked breaths as the cough overtook him.
He’d lost a considerable amount of weight recently, his arms like sticks, his shoulders slender where the doublet hung loose around them.
“Let me out, Cruim,” Ewan said. “I believe Faye to be in danger.”
Cruim’s hands curled around the rusty bars as though holding himself upright with them. “She’s no’ a good woman,” he panted. “Just like Lara.”
A chill descended down Ewan’s spine. “What about Lara?”
Memories rushed him all at once. How Moiré had been the one to see Lara teeter over the cliff before coming to him, distraught and scratched from her attempt to save her.
Lara hadn’t killed herself. Moiré had murdered her.
And if Ewan didn’t get free of his cell, he knew in his gut that Faye would also be killed.
Metal rang against metal in the distance. Ewan jerked at the discernible sound of battle. Men’s shouts rang out with alarm in the distance.
“Let me out,” Ewan demanded. “Moiré is going to try to kill Faye. The same as she did with Lara.”
“Moiré knows best,” Cruim said weakly. Another cough took him, leaving his shoulders trembling.
Spatters of blood glistened in the dirt. Whatever plagued Ewan’s uncle, it would surely kill him.
Ewan slipped his hand through the bars and jerked the keys from Cruim’s belt, along with his dagger. The older man did nothing to stop him.
Ewan tapped the key on the opposite side of the iron door, seeking the lock. It clattered inside clumsily, and he wrenched it to the left. A metallic click sounded, and the door creaked open. He stepped out into the hall. Still, Cruim did not move.
It entered his mind to put his uncle inside the cellar, but with the way the man was curled in on himself, blood dripping in strings of saliva from his mouth, Ewan knew it would do little good. His uncle would be no threat. Not when he was dying.
Instead, he crouched by his uncle and gently squeezed his shoulder. “May God forgive ye for what has been done, Uncle.”
Ewan straightened and backed away before charging up the stairs to where the sounds of battle increased—the clashing of weapons and armor and cries of war.
A line of warriors appeared in front of him, backlit by light, so they were set in the shadows.
At least a dozen men ran to him. Too damn many to take on with a single dagger.
Ewan gritted his teeth and held his ground. If saving Faye lay beyond them, he’d kill every damn one to get to her.
“Sir?” A familiar voice said.
The men stopped.
“Monroe?” Ewan squinted as he raced forward, so the light washed over the faces of his trusted advisor and strongest warriors.
Monroe’s dark eyes went wide. “What’s happened—”
“Moiré,” Ewan ground out.
“We know.” Monroe’s lips thinned beneath his black beard. “Lady Sutherland wrote me a note telling me what happened. We found blood in the cottage she sent us to, and we assumed it had to do with Cruim. Lady Sutherland’s horse was still bound near the hut, as well as Mistress Moiré’s.”
“Where is Faye?” Ewan demanded.
Monroe’s brows shot up. “She’s no’ here?”
Ewan shook his head. “No’ that I’m aware. She wasna brought to the cellar.” He turned his attention to his warriors. “Most of ye search here and take every traitor prisoner. Send two men to Dunrobin to look for Faye. Monroe, ye come with me.”
The warriors split up in immediate compliance with their orders.
“Where are we going?” Monroe asked as Ewan led him through the Great Hall of the manor to the large doors exiting outdoors.
“To the cliff,” Ewan said as a savage pain twisted through him. “Where Lara died.”
Where Faye most likely was. He only hoped they would not be too late.
“There’s something I think ye should know.” There was an almost gentle note to Monroe’s voice that made Ewan pause and regard him with concern.
“What is it?” Ewan’s heart locked mid-beat as he waited for his friend to respond.
“In the letter Lady Sutherland wrote, she confessed something I think ye should know.” Monroe glanced down at his hands, then lifted his gaze to Ewan. “She’s with child.”