Chapter 18
Kenna smacked at the door until the skin on her hands split and blood started to trickle down her wrists in hot rivulets.
When she couldn’t bear it any longer, she started kicking, lamenting that her soft slippers did not give her nearly as much force as would a sturdy set of boots.
That didn’t work either, nor did screaming until she was hoarse.
She couldn’t stop, though, not even when the back of her mouth tasted like coppery blood, not when the sounds she made were barely more than a whimper.
She could not let Ashbourne win. She couldn’t let her father win.
And Arran. What must he have thought when she didn’t arrive on time?
She had no way of knowing quite how long she was stuck in the closet, though she was able to tell that night had fallen when the small strip of light that shone around the door went dark.
There wasn’t enough room for her to sit down properly, so she leaned against the shelves as best she could. She would need her strength.
The fuzzy light of dawn was barely coming through the crack when she heard the telltale sound of a key turning in a lock. She jolted into perfect awakeness in an instant, only to be rewarded with the malicious grin of her wretched husband.
“Did you have a nice rest, my darling?” he asked with simpering sarcasm. “Come along, now. We have things to do.”
He yanked on her arm, nearly pulling it from its socket as he tugged her out of the closet. She blinked in the sudden light, grateful that he hadn’t waited until it was a full day before letting her out.
Defiantly, she gathered what little moisture was in her paper-dry mouth and spat upon him.
It was mere specks of spittle, all hitting his expensive silk waistcoat, but his face contorted in vicious rage.
He released her arm to put his hands around her neck, not squeezing enough to fully cut off her air, but enough to make her know that he could.
“Watch yourself, Makenna,” he snarled. “Your usefulness has run its course. But the next part can be as easy or as painful as you wish it.”
What happened next came mostly down to luck, a little bit of desperation, and the blessed fact that Ashbourne was as lazy as he was conniving.
She saw the knife at his belt—no doubt a vain affectation designed to make him look as brave and capable as the Scottish lairds around him—and she lunged for it.
His hands were still caught around her throat, so he couldn’t reach down to stop her.
Before he disentangled himself, she drove the blade directly into his neck.
It wasn’t a clean blow—she hit bone rather than soft flesh, and the knife wasn’t all that sharp.
But she didn’t let herself hesitate. She drew back and stabbed again and again, roaring her defiance, until Ashbourne stopped screaming and his hot blood was spattered all over her face, chest, and hands.
His weight went limp and she was almost brought down with him, but she stepped back just in the nick of time.
She wouldn’t let him knock her down. Not ever again.
There was an odd moment of peace after the fact, a moment when all that disturbed the silence of the room was Kenna’s own harsh breathing.
She watched, horrified and oddly transfixed as a thin rivulet of Ashbourne’s blood, driven out by the last beats of his treacherous heart, trickled across the floor.
He was dead. She had killed him.
After everything, after years of his brutality, after years of feeling miserable and powerless and alone…
She’d killed him. It was all over in a mere moment.
She didn’t know how long she just stood there, unmoving, unhearing. But she didn’t startle until a hand landed on her shoulder. She whirled, knife raised.
Declan Callahan immediately took a step back, his hands going up in a gesture of innocence.
“I’m nae going to hurt ye, lass,” he said in careful, soothing tones. “Are ye well?”
She wasn’t, not really. Everything hurt, and she was coated in blood. But she nodded anyway.
Declan had the kind of desperation in his eye that she recognized, so he just nodded, too.
“Good. We have to go. Right now.”
Something about his tone set off an alarm in the back of her mind.
“What’s happened?” she asked.
He reached out and grabbed her hand, gentle but firm as he tugged her behind him.
“It’s Arran,” he said, a thread of panic moving into his tone. “They are set to execute him at dawn.”
“What?”
Declan’s pace increased and Kenna didn’t even feel the pain in her legs as she raced after him.
“Your father has accused him of-of forcing ye. I looked for your maid to deny it, but she’s already fled.” Even through her terror, Kenna felt a surge of relief that her loyal maid, at least, was all right. “I’ve been seeking ye all night. Only ye can deny it. Only ye can save him.”
Kenna looked out the window to where the predawn rays lit the world in a hazy gray.
“Let’s hurry,” she said, picking up her skirts so she could race after him.
Arran stood at the gallows.
The woven hemp of the rope was rough around his neck, a mere hint of what was to come. His hands were tied behind his back with the same prickling bonds.
All that was left now was to wait, because apparently the only difference between murder and justice was killing a man at the right time of day.
A group had gathered. Most looked apprehensive, but news of MacBrae’s accusation had spread, so more than a few members of the clan looked at him with loathing.
MacBrae was barely hiding his glee, and Callahan was stone-faced.
He did not look as though he condoned this, but he could not allow an accused rapist to go unpunished.
And Kenna… She had not come to speak on his behalf. She had not come to absolve him.
Foolish though it might have been, Arran hoped that she was absent because she had betrayed him. Because the alternative was that she was dead and, despite everything, he couldn’t bear that.
The first rays of sunlight peeked above the horizon. Arran could do nothing but squint into the light that damned him. He refused to close his eyes, not when he had so few sights left to him.
MacBrae strode forward and yanked the gag from Arran’s mouth roughly.
“Do ye have any last words, then?”
Arran’s mouth was dry as a bone. “Ye are a liar,” he said. “A liar and a coward and a traitor. And the time will come when ye are punished for your sins.”
He spat at MacBrae’s feet.
The laird looked at the damp patch of dirt impassively.
“Right,” he said. “Well, goodbye, then, Burns. Enjoy hell.”
The use of his assumed name was a mockery.
“Stop!”
In the instant before MacBrae signaled to the hangman, a voice rang through the courtyard.
Kenna. Kenna was there.
She stepped into the space, and Arran’s breath caught in his throat.
She was absolutely drenched in blood, an amount of blood that would have left her dead if it was hers.
Still, his eyes searched her for signs of injury.
She was moving awkwardly; something pained her.
But her head was high and her expression fierce.
And behind her was Declan, flanked by the rest of Callahan’s trusted six guards.
“Stop this immediately,” Kenna called, moving through the crowd, which parted for her as if she’d cut through them with a knife. “The accusations against this man are false. He didnae harm me.”
“Proceed!” MacBrae snarled at the executioner, who hesitated just long enough that one of Declan’s soldiers came up behind him and pressed a blade to his throat.
“I wouldnae do that if I were ye,” the new arrival murmured.
Kenna climbed onto the platform, clutching her bloodied skirts in bloodier hands. She was holding a knife, which she used to cut through the bindings on Arran’s hands before turning to the noose at his throat.
Her hands were shaking, and she wasn’t quite tall enough to reach easily, so Arran took the knife.
“Are ye harmed, lass?” he asked softly, relief washing over him when she shook her head.
The crowd was muttering restlessly, clearly uncertain if they should be afraid or which side of this conflict was the right one.
“Time to go,” Declan called from the back of the group.
He had somehow managed to get horses, three of them, including Torrin.
His allies made a careful path for Kenna and Arran, though there were not enough of them to hold back a larger force if one appeared to move against them. “Now, if ye dinnae mind!”
Arran sprang into action. He helped Kenna down from the platform and started to move toward Declan.
“Nay!” MacBrae surged into their path, his sword drawn. Arran tucked Kenna behind him, though he didn’t know how much he would be able to do to shield her, given his own unarmed state. “I will kill ye before ye get away.”
Laird Callahan laid a gentle hand on MacBrae’s wrist.
“I wouldnae advise that, Bruce,” he said, his tone almost cordial. “I would take great offense if ye killed an unarmed man in my Keep. I’m certain that ye understand.”
Despite the lightness of his tone, the threat in Callahan’s tone was clear. If MacBrae attacked Arran and Kenna now, it would be an act of war.
Still, it looked rather as though MacBrae was still considering it, and the gathered MacBrae soldiers seemed to sense as much. They surged toward their Laird, which led the Callahan soldiers to move to defend their own leader.
Arran grasped Kenna’s hand in his. This was dangerous, a powder keg with sparks flying everywhere. And, indeed, it only took a moment before one of the MacBrae soldiers slipped the leash of their self-control and slashed at a Callahan.
The spark landed. The world exploded into chaos.
It was all Arran could do to avoid the clashing blades as he and Kenna dodged their way toward Declan and the horses.
When they were in range, his friend tossed Arran a blade, then mounted his horse.
Arran all but threw Kenna up on her mount, then leapt onto Torrin’s back.
They sped toward the gates, leaving the sound of blood and violence in their wake.