Chapter Forty
Alan’s pulse pounded in his ears and, with every breath he took, the wound in his chest throbbed.
He could feel warmth and wet seeping there, which told him the damn thing must have reopened.
Part of his attention was with the men at his back and Seumas, a heap on the floor—dead?
On his father lying so still and his mother huddled beside the bed, sobbing.
But his true focus narrowed to his brother and the woman now clutched in Evan’s arms.
Rarely had Evan looked less sane. Alan did not know where he’d spent the previous hours—tramping, likely, for he was filthy, boots and trousers, arms and hands. Grime even splashed his face. And his eyes—
Alan had grown up in the shadow of his brother—not an easy thing to do.
Evan had always been there, large and unpredictable, casting a fearful shadow.
The household had conformed itself to him, his moods and his belligerence.
It had been Father’s determination always not to let on to the world just what Evan was.
Alan had coped, as children do. Taken the back place, made himself scarce, and laid low. Dwelt, some might say, in the fringes of his own life.
Now he could not step back. For Evan held Annista in his filthy hands.
The woman I love.
That he did love her, he could no longer deny. He did not know how it had happened. They’d made promises to keep it a formality—to avoid so much as touching one another. They’d broken that promise, yes, and now—
Now his every heartbeat relied on her well-being.
He met her gaze, there where Evan held her snatched to him, one arm bent across her midriff, the big hand splayed over one breast.
Terrified she was, Alan could see it. Her eyes had gone wide, her face stark white, and she fought visibly for breath. But her gaze blazed upon his, sending a message. Trying to tell him something.
What?
“Back off,” Evan snarled, “or I’ll gut her. I swear I will.”
He raised the knife, clenched in his right hand, not to Annista’s throat but her belly, the point pressed so tight she had to be feeling the prick of the blade.
“Evan! Evan, nay!” cried Mother from her crouch on the floor as she struggled to rise.
“Shut yer trap!” Evan shouted at her.
“Mother, be still,” Alan urged. He had to think, though it seemed nearly impossible. He had seen Evan in like straits before, they all had—as close to unhinged as may be. Attempting to placate him rarely worked. Was direct attack, which Evan might not expect, the better course?
“Leave go o’ Annista,” he told Evan. “And we can talk this out.” As he spoke, he edged forward into the chamber, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.
“Annista,” Evan mocked and bared his teeth. “She should ha’ been mine.”
“Why? So ye could destroy her? Like her wee sister?”
“That bitch was weak. How is it they gave me a milksop for a wife? I deserve better.”
Annista moved, struggling against the strength of his arm. She might as well have fought an iron band.
The point of Evan’s knife pressed harder and she gasped.
“Nay!” Alan cried and leaped forward, bringing up his blade in a wild sweep.
He’d never killed a man, never imagined doing so. But Annista’s gaze still clung to him and he knew he would do as he must for her sake.
“Ssst!” Evan hissed at him. The knife came up and the blade pressed to Annista’s throat. “Back off, I say, or she dies. Believe me, brother, I will no’ hesitate to spill her blood.”
“Wha’ d’ye want?”
“All that belongs to me.” Evan glared at the man in the bed. “I want to hear fro’ his lips, before he dies, I’m still heir to Kallan.”
Was that all? “O’ course ye are.”
Evan gave a snort. “Are ye certain? Ye always wanted to snatch it all awa’ from me, didn’t ye?
Somehow ye loved the place.” Evan sneered the word loved as if it were an expletive.
“Looking and hoping I’d step wrong. When they ga’ this bitch—” he tightened his grasp upon Annista and she gasped again—“to ye instead o’ me, I saw my danger. But no one—no one takes wha’ is mine!”
“Verra well so, it is yours. All o’ it. Put down the knife and we will talk about it.”
“Talk!”
“Send for father’s lawyer, if ye will. Put it all down in writing. Anything—” Anything to get Annista away from him.
“Aye, ’tis yer way, is it no’? Talk and whining. But I will ha’ the old man’s promise—fro’ his lips, mind.”
Alan did not know if his father would speak ever again.
He said, “Wha’ if I gi’ ye my promise instead? That I will ne’er tak’ Kallan fro’ ye while yet ye live.”
Annista’s gaze, still fastened to his, fair glowed at that. She had learned what this place meant to him. Could she believe that she meant far more?
If he could only get her away from Evan, he could stop with talking, with placating, with hiding, and take his brother on, man to man.
“Am I to believe ye?” Evan scoffed. Not waiting for an answer, he glanced at the bed. “Is he dead? Mother,” he flung at the woman still on the floor, “get up and tell me.”
Mother scrambled to her feet and flung herself onto the bed. The posture was agonized and protective. But when she touched her husband’s face she began to weep.
Evan took it for an answer. His stark face twisted in what looked not like grief so much as fury.
Ah, and was Father dead? Alan wondered. Had he passed even as his two sons stood arguing above him?
No time for grief.
“Ye will ha’ to deal wi’ me now,” he told Evan. “Put aside the weapon and let the woman go. We will talk it out and ye will ha’ my promise.”
****
Annista struggled to breathe. She must fight back the fear that ran rampant—difficult though it be—with the help of the rage that filled her. Rage and hate.
She hated the feel of Evan’s hands upon her body, hated being so close to him. He fair stank, and she could feel his emotions as if they ran through his body to her own—the blistering anger, the madness.
Just as she could feel what filled Alan—could see it in his eyes. Agony. Fear on her behalf. Love. Love and courage. He would expose his own throat to his brother, sacrifice himself if he thought it would assure her safety.
She thought the chances were fifty-fifty that it would. One could not reason with a madman.
Again, she gasped for air. Blood welled on her stomach where the tip of the knife had pricked her, and she could feel the sharpness of the blade now pressed to her throat. If she breathed too deeply, if she moved at all, it would pierce her skin.
She did not want Alan to witness that—not if he loved her. And aye, she believed that he did.
So she spoke. In a squeaky voice she did, that did not sound like her own.
“Ye be a coward, Evan MacKallan.”
“Wha’?” He tightened his grip and glared down as if startled she could speak—that she was more than just another woman destined for abuse.
She would show him.
“Ye be naught but a bully, bent upon ranting yer way through life. Nay one can be allowed to stay ye, eh? Or get in yer path. Nay one would dare. Except me.”
“Be silent,” he told her, “unless ye wish to die.”
But she could not remain silent, not now.
“Is that wha’ ye told Robena? To be silent?” she ground out.
“Shut yer gob.”
“Wha’ did she do that night, to set ye off—the night she died? Did she look at ye the wrong way? Prove disobedient? Did she dare to speak back?”
“Her? Och, she would no’ dare. I had her properly cowed, the wee bitch.”
Cold rage trickled through the heat filling Annista’s veins, sharp and dangerous.
“Then, what? Why did ye want to hurt her that night?” For Robena must have run from him, out of their chamber and to the stairs.
“I always wanted to hurt her. She was worth nay more.”
Annista wiggled her fingers into the pocket of her gown and found the handle of the knife there.
“Took pleasure in it, did ye? In tormenting her?”
“She did no’ fight enough to gi’ me pleasure in it. I hated her.” He spat on the floor.
“She was stronger than ye believed. Strong enough to survive wha’ ye dealt out—for how long?” Annista could feel blood tricking down the skin of her throat where his blade bit, a bright sting.
“Too long. I would ha’ strangled her that night. Had done wi’ it. But she got awa’ fro’ me. Ran out to the top o’ the stairs where I caught the foolish bitch.” His voice turned gloating. “It took nay more than a push.”
The room went dead silent. Everyone there—Mistress MacKallan, Alan and the men behind him, including the physician—heard what Evan said. As did Annista.
Heard Evan’s confession.
She drew the knife—the very one her own mother had given her—from the folds of her gown.
She was unable to raise the weapon—Evan had her clamped too tight against him—so instead, without hesitation, she plunged the blade into his thigh.
At that moment, she cared not at all for her own welfare. She thought only of her sister, how he had terrorized her, and the desperation Robena must have felt there at the top of the stairs.
Everyone in the chamber cried out, Evan with surprise more than pain. Mistress MacKallan started up from the bed. Alan, from the door.
Annista in victory.
For Evan’s grip slackened. At the shock and no doubt pain of the attack, it did, and she was able to twist free of him.
“Annista!” Alan cried and started forward.
What he meant to do at that instant, she never knew. Employ the sword in his hand, no doubt. Step up like the man he was. Step in and save her.
She did not give him the chance. She had a promise to keep.
Fast and furious, she drew the knife from Evan’s flesh and whirled upon him. “This for Robena,” she said, and plunged the blade into his heart.