Chapter 27 #2
Rage had been simmering in Archer’s gut since the moment he’d left the castle. But now the fire of it was raging.
“Why would he do this?” he growled. “How dare he?”
But Archer knew exactly why Finlay did it. Of course, that didn’t stop Marcus from answering.
“He was hopin’ we wouldnae notice,” Marcus growled, the anger in his voice matching Archer’s own.
“He was hopin’ we’d send out these barrels and then people would start gettin’ sick.
Even if all of them arenae tarnished, I suspect enough of ‘em probably are. Enough that word would get out that Clan McGregor whisky is tainted. That our drink cannae be trusted.”
“They’d nae buy from us again,” Archer mumbled.
White, icy fury spiraled through him, taking him over entirely.
“The coward,” he seethed, the words coming out of him in barely more than a hiss. “I cannae believe that he’d do this. That he’d threaten me livelihood, and the health of me people. I’ll kill him.”
And Archer meant every word. He imagined what could have happened if they hadn’t found the tainted barrels. How many people could have been hurt?
His staff.
His people.
Marcus.
Maybe even Emilie.
It was that thought of what would have happened if he had brought home some of his own drink and asked his wife to try it. How she could have fallen ill. How she could have even died.
Archer turned, storming back toward the door with murder in his heart as he made his way toward the door. Before he reached it, Marcus’s hands descended on his arm, turning Archer to face him.
“Arch,” Marcus said, his voice laced with concern. “What ye’re about to try to do, ye cannae.”
“Daenae tell me what I can and cannae do,” Archer growled, puffing out his chest and drawing himself up to his full height. “Ye ken what might have happened. Ye ken who all might have gotten hurt.”
“But they dinnae,” Marcus argued. “And if ye go stormin’ off, if ye go and start this fight, it’ll bring war to our doors. All the people that ye’re worried about gettin’ hurt from a couple sips of whisky? They’ll end up with much more than an upset stomach.”
“Nae if I kill Finlay first,” Archer growled back. “He has nay brothers, and he has nay heir. There’ll be nay one to start the war if the man’s heart stops beatin’.”
Marcus shook his head, but the calm, rational words from his friend did not matter. Archer didn’t want to hear it.
Visions danced in his mind, filling it with all the things he could do to Finlay.
He would run him through with his sword. Or maybe he’d hang him from the gallows, make it public for their entire clan to see, reveling in the death of the nuisance that had been at their door for far too long.
Even better. Maybe Archer could find a way to poison Finlay. To sneak into his home and do exactly what Finlay had tried to do to his people.
Archer knew that he could find the perfect poison, one that would affect Finlay slowly. Shutting down his insides one organ at a time, giving Archer time to tell Finlay exactly who it was who had taken his life.
All these visions danced in his brain, adding kindling to the fire of Archer’s rage. But then, something else started to creep in, a thought that was nagging at the back of his mind.
These are dark thoughts. Dark enough that they very well could belong to me own faither.
The volume of the voice in his mind began to grow until finally, it doused out his anger like water over a campfire. Because his thoughts had turned dark. So dark he had hardly recognized them.
Archer had killed before. But he had never reveled in it. He did not regret the lives that he’d taken, but he never took them unnecessarily. And he always did it in the quickest, most merciful way possible.
But this? What was he planning? What was he dreaming about? These were not merciful deaths.
“Are ye there, Arch? Are ye comin’ back to yerself?”
Archer blinked his eyes; the vision that had been clouded by a wave of hate cleared entirely, and the world around him became clear.
He was still standing at the door of the distillery, Marcus directly in front of him. His man-at-arms’ brow was creased with concern, dark eyes roving over Archer’s face and searching it for Lord only knew what.
Archer blew out a breath, shaking off the darkness that had plagued him.
“I’m here,” he grunted, shrugging so that he knocked Marcus’ hand from his shoulder. “I’ll nae be killin’ him. Nae now, anyway.”
Marcus nodded wearily, clearly unsure of whether he should believe him.
“We’ll need to get orders out to our other stores,” Archer ordered. “Get some barrels here to replace our stock. And we’ll need to start brewin’ new as well. Tell Alistair and get that all taken care of while I go back to the castle.”
Marcus nodded, clearly hearing Archer’s command. But he didn’t move.
“Ye’re truly only goin’ to the castle?” he questioned, and Archer blew out an exasperated breath.
“Aye. I’ll nae be goin’ anywhere else but home. I’ll nae be ridin’ out to kill Finlay, nae any time soon, at least.”
Marcus studied him for a moment more, but eventually he seemed to sense the truth of Archer’s words. He nodded again before turning on his heels and disappearing back toward the storage room.
When Archer was certain that he was alone, he heaved a sigh of relief, all the anger and frustration that had been bubbling up inside of him leaving entirely, replaced with a deep shame.
What had he been thinking? Why had he allowed himself to entertain such a violent path?
His thoughts had sounded exactly like his father’s words, and Archer had allowed those thoughts to run rampant. After years, decades, even, of promising himself that he’d never be anything like his father, it hadn’t stopped him from turning into him in one of his most vulnerable moments.
What if Emilie had been around me when I’d found the whisky ruined? What if the twins had been here? I’d been so furious. Would I have taken that anger out on them?
Archer’s stomach soured at the thought. Suddenly worried he was about to spill the contents of his stomach on the floor, he dragged in a breath.
Turning toward the door, Archer finally pulled it open, stepping out into the crowded street beyond. The noise of the city rose to greet him, the smells of a city packed too tightly with people washing over him.
He climbed onto his horse, not paying much attention to anything else around him as he started guiding his mount through the crowd.
Archer hadn’t lied to Marcus. He would be heading straight to the castle. The only problem was that now, having felt the rot of his father’s blood so deep inside of him, Archer was no longer certain of exactly what it was he was going to do when he got there.