Chapter 35
Emma ran like her life depended on it.
Because it did.
Branches bit at her forearms as she ran, and wet ferns slapped her shins. The ground rose and fell under her feet, and she sped down the path with as much fervor as she could muster.
Boots pounded behind her, steady and unhurried. Arthur did not bother to hide in the trees. His breath came strong, and his voice carried like a blade in clear air.
“Run faster if ye like; nay one is coming for ye. Ye might as well make this easy for all of us and end this now,” he called.
Emma panted hard and continued to run anyway.
“Ye ken, I sent a man once. Thought he would finish it. Ye should thank yer Laird for keeping a stricter watch than I expected, and curse that wee blabbermouth at the gate who almost spoiled the game.”
The words struck as hard as any branch.
She did not look back. She could not. The path sloped ahead, and the mist made every trunk look like a man with a spear. The fear settled low and cold, then climbed her spine and set her teeth on edge.
“Ye wrote it,” she wheezed. “It was ye.”
“Aye,” he answered, closer now. “A letter is a clean tool. A kind one, if a lass listens. Thought it was only fair, since that was how he broke the news to me.”
“Ye blamed him,” she said, stopping to catch her breath. “In the hall. In the gallery. Every time ye opened yer mouth, ye cut him, and I thought it was grief speaking. All the while, ye were planning this.”
“Grief is a rather great motivator, do ye nae think?” he said, his voice low. “Step out of the shade, Emma. We will finish it quickly.”
She backed into the woods even further, and then the ground fell without warning. Her foot slipped on a root, and she felt the fall coming before she could even hit the ground.
She pitched forward and tumbled down the slope, landing in a heap of leaves and dirt. Pain flared in her palm when the rough twigs bit her, then stung her forearm where a stone skinned it open. She scrambled to her knees and pushed upright as he was coming close.
He was already at the top of the slope, coming down with his sword low and steady. Her hand found a rock the size of an apple beside the stump. She grabbed it and flung it as he dropped the last step.
It struck his cheek with a crack like wood in a fire. His head snapped to the side, and blood welled, quickly and brightly, along the cut. He froze for a heartbeat, more from shock than pain, eyes gone sharp as knives.
“Bold,” he uttered. “Wrong quarry.”
He advanced fast. She moved the way Jack had taught her, or tried to.
When a man reaches, step aside, take his wrist, and use his weight.
She caught Arthur’s sleeve and shifted, but her heel slipped in the wet soil, and her grip loosened. He wrenched free and shoved her shoulder, sending her to the low rock behind. The jolt ran up her spine and left a coppery tang in her mouth.
“Again,” he grunted. “Try again if ye like. I have the time.”
“Listen to me,” she pleaded, shaking the numbness from her fingers. “For a breath, only that. I will love the child. I already do. Let me walk back with ye, and we will make peace for her sake.”
He let out a small, harsh laugh. “Ye have nay right to even say her name, do ye ken that?” He stepped closer, his sword pointed at her. “If I let ye live, ye will die at his side soon enough. Not only does yer husband draw death, but he keeps it too. Believe me, Emma, I am doin’ ye a kindness.”
“Ye daenae ken him,” she said. “Nae now.”
“He killed me daughter,” he hissed. “That is what I ken, and that is enough.”
Emma pressed back against the rock. There was nowhere left to run; that much was evident. The trees stood thick to her right, the slope behind, and Arthur in front with his sword rising slowly.
The world narrowed to the bright line of steel and the pulse at her throat.
“Hold still, lass,” he said. “I will make it quick.”
“Daenae,” she whispered. “Please.”
He raised his sword, and she squeezed her eyes shut.
This was it. This was the end.
Not once did she think she would die on a random morning in the woods. But it turned out fate had other plans for her, so she must succumb to—
Wait, what is that scent? Is that—
“Arthur!” a voice… his voice sounded from the trees, low and rough, close as a hand at her ear.
Her eyes flew open, and they both turned.
Jack was standing just as sharp as ever, his hand resting on the hilt of his sword and his feet planted firmly in the soil. His hair was slicked back, and his eyes flashed with a level of anger she had never seen before. The kind she didn’t think him capable of.
“Oh, see. Yer husband has decided to join the party,” Arthur drawled.
“The only one who’s going to die today is ye.”
Emma felt her heart sink into her stomach.
Jack followed the break of twigs and the churn of wet grass as if a rope was pulling him through the trees. Shrubs brushed his knees, and mud took his boots and let go again. He kept his sword low and his eyes on the ground, where her light steps cut across heavier tracks.
“Emma,” he called, his breathing ragged from running. “Emma, answer me.”
A shout cut through the pines. It was a man’s voice, close and dangerous. Her voice came thin and afraid, and he veered toward it. He then climbed a short rise and saw them on the slope below, her back to a rock, and Arthur closing in with his sword lifted.
Jack stepped into the open and let his rage sharpen to a point. “Arthur!”
His former father-in-law turned around.
“The only one who’s going to die today is ye.”
Arthur sneered. “So the Laird crawls out of his castle at last.”
“Step away from her.”
“Come take me,” Arthur challenged. He widened his stance and squared his old shoulders, his sword held like a pledge. “Come prove that ye didnae finish what me lass started.”
Jack went down the slope fast, and steel met steel with a clash that rattled his teeth.
Arthur’s first strike was heavy and sure, not wild, and it forced Jack to jump to the side.
He gave ground, felt the slope, and put it to use, drawing Arthur downhill where his heels would slide.
Their blades clashed and slid and clashed again.
Bark flew from the tree where a missed swing struck deep.
“Ye twist grief to madness,” Jack growled, locking guard and shoving off.
Arthur spat on the ground. “Ye twisted the truth first. She struck ye because ye lied. Then, ye finished her and wrote a pretty letter.”
Jack slid left, drew Arthur’s guard wide, and swung. Arthur blocked it and answered with a jab to Jack’s ribs. Jack beat it aside and stepped in so close that his breath hit the old man’s cheek.
“She struck because she tried to kill me. Ye want proof? Look.”
With his free hand, he wrenched the collar of his shirt aside to reveal a scar, pale and long, where Moira’s blade had struck him. Arthur’s eyes cut to it for half a second.
Half a second was all Jack needed; he drove him back two paces and kept him there.
“Lies,” Arthur snarled. “All lies. I’ll never let Emma raise me granddaughter.”
“Ye willnae touch Emma,” Jack barked.
Arthur’s glare slid past him to the rock where Emma stood with her hands braced behind her. He roared and broke his guard, charged around Jack’s right shoulder, his blade reaching for the space past his hip.
Jack pivoted, caught the blow late, and the clash shot through his arm like fire. He shouldered into Arthur and shoved him back. Emma pressed herself against the rock as if her life depended on it.
“Stay with me,” Jack called over his shoulder. “Daenae move.”
Arthur came again with a flurry of blows that belied his years. Steel sang. The old man’s breathing grew ragged, yet his wrists remained quick, and pure, unadulterated grief kept lending him strength. He feinted high, cut low, and struck the part of Jack’s thigh that burned like a brand.
Jack grunted, then answered with a hook of his hilt that jarred Arthur’s fingers and knocked him off balance for a second.
“Ye want the truth,” he panted, crowding in. “I never harmed Moira. I would have also let ye live.”
“Say it to me daughter,” Arthur growled. “Say it to the ground that took her.”
“I will say it to the God who hears us both,” Jack spat. “But I willnae say it twice.”
Arthur’s blade shot toward Emma again. He tried to break past with a twist of his shoulder and a shove to Jack’s chest.
Jack did not budge, his boots planted firmly in the soil. “Ye threatened me wife,” he said.
Arthur’s eyes flicked to Emma. It was all the answer he gave.
His decision settled clear as winter water. Jack wrenched his blade free, slipped inside Arthur’s guard, and drove the steel straight down. The tip found the gap under the ribs and pierced through the lung, then the heart.
The old man gasped once, and the shock bent his knees. His sword fell first, then he followed, his cloak folding under him as he crashed into the grass and lay completely still.
The forest absorbed the noise. Only Jack’s breathing could be heard. He pulled his blade free, wiped it once on the cloak without looking down, then turned to Emma.
“Are ye hurt?” he asked, hands already on her shoulders, then gentling to check her arms for blood and her palms for cuts. His fingers shook, and he curled them. “Tell me, Emma. Are ye hurt?”
She swallowed hard. Her mouth moved twice before words came out. “I am all right,” she gasped. “He didnae reach me.”
He let out the breath he had been holding since the rise. It left him weak for a beat, and he pulled her in and held her there with the hill at her back and his chest a wall in front.
She trembled. So did he.
His chin found the crown of her head and rested there for a second, then he straightened and took stock.
“We go now,” he said. “Up the slope. Me horse is waiting at the edge of the woods.”
The horse stood steady under them, its breath foggy in the chill. Emma felt Jack’s hands on her waist as he lifted her into the saddle, his grip strong and familiar.