Chapter 23
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
T he metallic taste of blood filled Blaine’s mouth, settling heavy on his tongue. He coughed and spat a glob of blood onto the floor, feeling around with his tongue for any teeth that may have gotten loose.
He had been lucky—all of them seemed intact and in place. And yet, he could feel every scrape and bruise on his face, every burning cut from Laird Mackintosh’s rings, every dull throb of his swollen cheek, in time with his heartbeat.
But what hurt the most were not the physical injuries at all. Those, he could handle. He had taken many a beating throughout his life, enduring every stab wound, every bruise, and every broken bone with patience. What he could not stomach was the way Kathleen had looked at him before she had left the room—not with hatred, not with disgust, but with a disappointment so cutting and palpable, that it was like a knife to the heart .
She had every right to hate him for what he had done to her, and to never want to see him again, to even wish that her father would end his life. The weight of his guilt and his regret was so unbearable that he almost wished it himself. What other way was there for him to atone for what he had done? Now, sooner or later, word would reach around the castle about him and Kathleen, and after that, the rumors would only continue to spread outwards, reaching other clans, other people. Her reputation would be destroyed. Her life would be destroyed.
It already is. An’ I am the reason fer it.
Heavy footsteps pulled Blaine out of his daze. He looked up to see Bran there, staring down at him with such hatred that that one single glance was enough to chill him to his core. And still, Blaine couldn’t find the words to apologize. What was there to say? No apology was enough to fix what he had done.
“Get out o’ me sight,” Bran hissed, pointing an accusatory finger at Blaine. “An’ stay away from me daughter. If I catch ye near her again, I will have yer head. Nay… I will kill ye meself.”
“Bran—” Laird Stewart said, in a vain attempt to calm down his friend, but Bran was quick to hold up a hand to stop him .
“I dinnae wish tae hear it!” Bran said. “A sword fer hire! A sword fer hire layin’ his hands on me daughter!” Then, he spun around to face Blaine once more, baring his teeth as he spoke. “She’s only a lass. A decade younger than ye an’ ye didnae even respect that. Is that how little ye can control yer appetites? Ye couldnae control yerself near her?”
“It isnae that,” Blaine said through gritted teeth. He didn’t want Bran or anyone else to think this was nothing but lust—animal desire that he could not tame. “I love her. I ken it’s wrong, but I love her an’ I cannae change that. And I dinnae want tae.”
Bran paused, Blaine’s words bringing him to a sudden halt. His confession, though, seemed to stoke the flames of his fury, his face turning a deep shade of red.
“Love?” he scoffed, then threw his hands in the air as he cursed. “Love! Did ye all hear that? The lad thinks he’s in love!”
Anger threatened to bubble over inside Blaine at the mockery. He could sit there and take any kind of abuse Bran saw fit, but he would not accept him diminishing his feelings for Kathleen. “It is love. It’s real an’ I’ll swear an oath if ye dinnae believe me. I’ve never loved anyone the way I love yer daughter an’ I ken all this is wrong, I ken I should have never acted upon these feelings, but I will never regret lovin’ her. ”
Walking up to Blaine and leaning in close, Bran pointed an accusatory finger at him. “Lies! How can ye claim ye love her when ye never once considered her? What will happen tae her now?”
Blaine hesitated, blood pooling on his tongue once again. He swallowed with a wince, but when he spoke, his voice was clear and steady. “If ye let me, I’ll wed her.”
The slap that followed was not a surprise. Blaine’s ears rang with the force of it, his head whipping to the side, but he made no movement to avoid it—not even a sound of protest.
“Ye have ruined her,” Bran said. “An’ ye have ruined her life. But even so, I’d rather she never wed than be wedded tae ye.”
Bran was only putting into words what Blaine had feared this entire time. He would never be good enough for her parents. He had always known that, and yet he had ruined her without considering her future.
She would end up alone because of him—a woman with no husband, no children, no prospects. He had taken all that from her, and no matter what he did, he could never give it back.
Even if he loved Kathleen—and there was no doubt in his mind about that—he had failed to protect her from the one thing that had hurt her the most.
Himself.
“There is nay need tae be so harsh,” Laird Stewart said in a soothing voice that still managed to carry an air of authority. “Let us all take a moment tae calm ourselves an’ then we can see how tae proceed.”
“Would ye say this if it was yer daughter?” Bran asked, pinning Laird Stewart with his gaze. Blaine watched as Laird Stewart’s mouth snapped shut, his gaze sliding over to him for a brief moment before it returned to Bran. “Would ye? Would ye stand an’ watch if a guard had taken her innocence? Or would ye have already killed him fer it?”
Laird Stewart stood there, his expression grim as he considered Bran’s words. His silence was enough of an answer for everyone in the room, though.
“I thought so,” said Bran and with a decisive nod, he stomped over to the door and left the room without another word. Shaking her head, his wife followed close behind, and soon Blaine was left alone with the laird in the lingering remnants of this oppressive atmosphere .
For a long time, neither of them spoke. Blaine didn’t even try to stand; he knew his legs wouldn’t carry him, not because of the beating he had taken, but rather because his guilt weighed so heavily on him. What kind of life awaited him now? How could he ever live with himself?
“Come, lad,” Laird Stewart said as he approached him, laying a heavy, comforting hand on his shoulder. Blaine looked up at him, partly in surprise and partly in suspicion, shrugging off the hand.
“What?” he asked, the word coming out in a croak.
“Come. I’ll take ye tae the healer.”
Blaine had expected to be left there to fend for himself, but the laird turned out to be a merciful man. He should have expected it, after all Laird Stewart had been the one to try and calm Bran down.
Still in a daze, Blaine pushed himself up to his feet, but the moment he did, he realized the damage Bran had caused was more extensive than he had first thought. His vision swam and his temples pounded with every step he took, but Laird Stewart was right there next to him, helping him along the way .
The trek to the healer’s cottage was a long one, but even after the laird’s urging, Blaine refused to be carried there by guards. The two of them trudged through the corridors and then through the courtyard, walking down the path laboriously. The entire way there, nobles and servants alike stared at Blaine. Whispers spread behind them like a swarm as they passed, everyone speculating on what could have happened.
Neither Blaine nor Laird Stewart paid them any mind.
It seemed like hours later to Blaine when they made it to the small building at the very edges of the tidal islet on which the keep stood, right by the shore. Now, with the tide high, the water lapped at the jagged rocks and the green grass by the cottage’s western wall, giving them a sparkling sheen under the sun. It struck Blaine as odd, how his mind focused on those small details, how he was still capable of seeing them and absorbing them, but completely incapable of appreciating their beauty.
The door of the squat, stone building opened before the laird had the chance to knock. An old woman stood there, her skin tanned and wrinkled, her hands sporting sunspots and calluses from years of work. Her blue, rheumy eyes took one look at Blaine and she shook her head, gesturing at them both to come inside.
“A brawl, I take it?” the woman asked, and her voice sounded surprisingly youthful and melodic to Blaine’s ears. “I’ll never understand young lads. ”
“Nae so young,” Blaine said, the movement of his lips splitting the cut that had just begun to heal.
“Ye’re all young tae me,” the woman said as she hobbled over to the large oak table that stood by a row of shelves. The cottage itself was small—nothing but a single room and an attic, which Blaine couldn’t believe was still in use, considering the woman would have to climb the rickety ladder. Herbs and flowers hung all around from strings, drying in the sun that filtered in through the windows. The air was fragrant, filled with their scent, but there was something underlying, something pungent, like most medicinal concoctions.
“Mrs. Moggach, dae ye think ye can take care o’ Blaine here?” Laird Stewart asked, and the old woman smiled at him as she began to gather small jars from the shelves.
“Have I ever left any o’ yer lads without care?” Mrs. Moggach asked.
“Never,” said Laird Stewart. “An’ there’s nae one better tae take care o’ ye than Mrs. Moggach, Blaine.”
Blaine glanced between the two of them warily, but neither of them seemed to have any bad intentions, much to his surprise. For all the laird appeared imposing and severe, when he spoke to his people—and even when he spoke to Blaine—he was a gentle man, one who inspired nothing but warmth and trust.
As the woman dragged Blaine to a chair, where he all but collapsed, his shoulders sagging, Laird Stewart pulled another chair from the table closer, so that they were facing each other. Blaine had an obstructed view of the man as Mrs. Moggach treated him, her hands steady and sturdy as they cleaned his wounds.
“Why are ye daein’ this?” Blaine asked him. He didn’t care if he sounded rude; he didn’t have much more to lose. He was more interested in the reason behind all this kindness.
Laird Stewart gave Blaine a small, wistful smile. “Because there is always nuance in every situation, an’ I’d rather hear what ye have tae say afore I make a judgment.”
That is probably why he is a beloved laird.
Blaine pushed himself to return the laird’s smile, though he was certain it lacked all the warmth his displayed. “I dinnae ken what there is tae say. Kathleen’s faither has every right tae despise me an’ so daes she. Despite of me feelings being true, I had nae right tae lie to her. ”
“I dinnae think she daes,” Laird Stewart said with a small shrug. “I ken Kathleen well an’ trust me, ye’d ken if she despised ye. We all would.”
“Forgive me, but that is nae comfort, me laird,” Blaine said, just as Mrs. Moggach spread a particularly pungent ointment on his cheek, making him hiss in sudden pain. The woman patted his back comfortingly, as if he were a child, and Blaine couldn’t help but wonder at this show of kindness, too.
It’s only because she daesnae ken what I’ve done.
But the laird did; he knew and he still wanted to hear his side of the story.
“Isnae it? Would ye rather she hated ye?”
“I think she should.”
“Would that make ye feel better?”
Blaine looked up at Laird Stewart, considering the question. The more he considered it, though, the more he realized he couldn’t provide an answer.
In some ways, it would. In others, it would devastate him .
“Dae ye think it would make her feel better?” the laird then asked, when Blaine said nothing.
That was the question that gave him pause. Blaine stared at the other man through Mrs. Moggach’s movements, his chest tightening at the thought. Hatred was a bitter thing, poison. He doubted it would make Kathleen feel any better if she hated him, but it certainly didn’t do her any favors if she still loved him.
Either way, she would be unhappy.
For a while, all three of them were silent as Mrs. Moggach worked on his injuries. By the time she was done, the blood was wiped off Blaine’s face and his wounds, though still painful, were all clean and dressed. As the old woman retreated to the back of the room, Blaine gathered all the courage left in him, drawing in a deep breath.
“I love her,” he said. It was the truth, plain and simple. “An’ I want her tae ken that. I want her tae ken I didnae dae this out o’… o’ lust. I did it out o’ love an’ if I could, I’d take it back out o’ love.”
“Have ye told her this?” Mrs. Moggach asked him, glancing at him over her shoulder. “I’m sure whoever she is, she would wish tae hear it. ”
Blaine shook his head, his hand coming up to brush his hair off his face. “Nay. And even if I try now, I dinnae think she would wish tae see me. Furthermore, it daesnae matter anyway. Even if she wishes tae see me, even if she wishes tae hear what I have tae tell her, her faither would never allow me tae approach her. He would have me head afore he did.”
“He certainly will, willnae he?” said Laird Stewart with a thoughtful hum, scratching idly at his chin.
“Is there anythin’ ye think I can dae?” Blaine asked the laird, willing to give anything in return. If only he could get a few moments with Kathleen, if only he could get the chance to fight for her, then maybe he could change everything.
Laird Stewart frowned as if in deep thought. “Well, maybe there is.”