Chapter 10
Chapter
Ten
Sinclair came from nowhere, like a phantom moving among the shadows.
Gavin tensed immediately. Sinclair was flanked by two guards. The man could glide through silence as if it were water.
“I’m disappointed tae find ye here, Iain. Why would ye want tae spend yer wedding night with this animal instead of my daughter?” Laird Sinclair said.
“My reasons are my own. Please take yer leave, my Laird,” Iain said.
“Well, ye sound more defiant than usual. I suppose all the ale and wine will dae that. Have ye come tae yer senses? I hae a sword ready tae kill him, or would ye prefer tae use yer hands?”
Iain glared at Sinclair. “There will be nae killing taenight. I am showing him mercy.”
Laird Sinclair stared at Iain blankly for a few moments and then burst out laughing.
“Mercy? It’s merely another word for weakness, and it certainly should nae be given tae someone like him.” He waved a hand towards Gavin. A disgusted expression twisted on his face. “If ye cannae dae it yerself, let me.” He advanced a step, but Iain held up a hand.
“This is my Keep. I am the Laird and there shall be nae killing without my order. I appreciate all yer advice, my Laird, but I ken what is right.”
“I dinnae think ye dae. This man came intae yer Keep. He could have done anything tae Isla! My daughter. Yer wife. If ye will nae protect her, then I will.”
“That’s nae true! Isla was nae in any danger from me,” Gavin snapped and watched as Laird Sinclair’s face twisted.
He was not accustomed to being spoken to like this and did not tolerate any disrespect. Gavin was impressed that Iain was standing up to Laird Sinclair, and it showed that there might be hope for the Highlands after all.
If he was willing to resist Sinclair’s influence in this matter, then perhaps he would be able to do the same for the wider issues plaguing the Highlands as well. Gavin could be safe in the knowledge that Iain would not forsake Isla.
“Shut yer mouth, ye filthy lion.” When he turned to Iain, his expression was icy. “Remember yer place,” he hissed. “Yer father would be sae disappointed in ye.”
This was the wrong thing to say. Iain’s eyes flashed as he twisted around and glared at Laird Sinclair.
“Dinnae speak about my father. He taught me everything I need tae be, and he would nae kill a man for the sake of it. As for yer war… I am haeing second thoughts. I will nae plunge the sons of this clan intae battle unless there is a good reason. I think we need tae reevaluate things. There is a path for peace. Perhaps a new Pact can be made.”
“Looks like if ye want killing tae be done then ye are gaeing tae hae tae dae it yerself.” Gavin smirked. “Ye are running out of pawns.”
Laird Sinclair’s face became twisted and evil, as though the mask of civility he wore slipped away.
“It seems sae,” he replied, relishing the words.
Gavin only realized the grim portent of them when it was too late.
Sinclair was already standing close to Iain. He nimbly closed the distance and drew a dagger…
Stabbing Iain in the gut.
It happened so quickly that nobody else had the chance to move.
This was no noble duel, no grand challenge, just a murder in the depths of the Keep, hidden away from the eyes of those who mattered.
Iain looked down, as though he couldn’t quite believe that this happened. Blood bloomed on his tunic and there was a confused look in his eyes.
Then, Sinclair stabbed him again, this time through the chest.
He shoved Iain to the ground. Gavin caught Iain reflexively and staggered back. Iain slumped in Gavin’s arms. Blood poured out of his wounds and his mouth. It was warm against Gavin’s skin.
“Tell Isla…” Iain gasped, but the rest of the words were lost to a gargle of blood.
Iain convulsed twice, and then the life slipped from his eyes.
Gavin bent his head. How many people had to die for this madness to finally be over? He bared his teeth and roared, throwing himself at Laird Sinclair without any words. Laird Sinclair raised the dagger, but while he was trained in the art of combat, he wasn’t facing a warrior.
He was facing a lion.
Gavin roared and knocked Laird Sinclair’s arm aside. He slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest and pushed him to the floor. He put all of his weight on Laird Sinclair and brought his fist crashing across the older man’s face.
Over a decade of fury was unleashed in that one blow, and it was testament to Laird Sinclair’s resolve that he was not killed by the blow.
But he was groggy.
Gavin’s hands found Laird Sinclair’s throat. He squeezed tightly, watching Laird Sinclair’s eyes bulge, watching his face turn a sickly shade of purple, and hearing his attempts to breathe. Laird Sinclair writhed, kicking his legs, but Gavin wasn’t going to relent.
He could stop the war here and now. He could save the Highlands. He could get revenge for ten years of pain.
But most important of all was that he could make sure Isla was free to live the life she wanted; not the one she felt she needed to live to protect others from her father. He might be condemned for this, but so be it. Without her, his life was over anyway. At least he could do one last good thing.
However, Gavin’s life was not one of heroic victory.
He did not possess a warrior’s glory. He suffered.
He endured, and just when he thought that he was accomplishing something, it was torn away from him.
He’d moved quickly, almost as quickly as Laird Sinclair had attacked Iain.
But where that attack had been designed to kill, Gavin’s attack had been designed to hurt.
The burly guards leaped into action. They flanked Gavin and wrapped their arms around his, straining to pull him away.
Gavin struggled and grunted, maintaining his lock on Laird Sinclair’s throat for the time being, but then they started beating him.
They kicked him in the spine and pain radiated over his body.
He cried out, his grip loosening only lightly, but it was enough.
Laird Sinclair, who was still clinging to consciousness, wriggled away. The guards hauled Gavin back and threw him into the cell. He landed next to Iain, although he quickly turned around. But now the guards had their swords drawn.
Laird Sinclair coughed and rubbed his throat, struggling back to his feet.
“Ye fool. Ye are gaeing tae pay for this. I am gaeing tae make ye suffer. Killing ye now would be a mercy. I am gaeing tae watch as Isla starts hating ye for killing her new husband. This clan will be begging for yer head, and I will be the only one who can stop them. When will ye learn that I am the one in control here?”
He limped forward and then threw out his foot. He kicked Gavin, and the metallic taste of blood pooled in Gavin’s mouth. Gavin looked down, noticing the blood on his own tunic, the blood that was staining his hands.
Iain’s blood.
“Guards! The Laird hae been murdered! The animal hae lost his mind! Help!” Laird Sinclair yelled, his voice strained. He clutched his throat, but nothing was going to stop him from framing Gavin.
Gavin’s eyes went wide. He searched for a way out, but if he ran, it would only be into the guards’ blades.
Laird Sinclair had won again.
Far from the dungeons, there was another scream.
Isla had been tossing and turning in her sleep.
A terrible dream haunted her. She and Gavin were about to escape the Keep, but he jumped and she did not.
Her feet were rooted to the stone and no matter how much she wanted to move them, she could not.
She had to watch as Gavin fell, plummeting into the abyss below, reaching for her with his long fingers, never to be touched again.
She awoke in a cold sweat, panting heavily. She reached across, hoping that she did not disturb Iain, only to find that the bed was empty. Her brow furrowed, and the mystery sobered her, distracting her from the anguished feelings of her nightmare.
She threw off the covers and wrapped a shawl around her. She’d changed into a nightdress after Iain had turned out the lights, using the shield of the blankets to maintain her modesty.
From the direction of the Great Hall, she could hear the continuing joy of her wedding. Perhaps Iain had returned there to celebrate with his people. She hoped that her father would still be there as well, although she had no desire to reappear.
But it did bring a thought to her mind.
If everyone was still celebrating, a path to the dungeon might be clear. If she spoke to Gavin one last time, perhaps even helped him escape, then he might realize there was nothing here for him, and they could part, finally and forever.
It was not what she wanted, but it’s what she needed to do.
She hurried through the Keep, but when she came close to the dungeons…
She heard a cry for help.
Isla raced down the stairs.
The sight made her heart tremble. Her blood ran cold.
Gavin was in the dungeon. The door was open. Iain was beside him, a pool of blood spreading out. Her father was on the ground, his throat covered in bruises, his voice rasping and hoarse. The guards stood with their swords drawn, glaring at Gavin.
“What… what happened?” Isla cried out, staring at Iain. Tears fought to mist in her eyes, but she was so shocked and confused that she hadn’t quite comprehended the situation yet.
“This animal just killed yer husband. Used Iain’s own dagger against him. The dagger I gave him as a wedding present!”
“No… no, it cannae…”
“Look for yerself!”
Gavin was on his knees, his head hanging low. He hadn’t yet looked at Isla. Blood stained his tunic and his hands. A dagger was on the floor beside him.
“He stole the keys and unlocked the door. He took advantage of Iain’s kindness!” Laird Sinclair said.
He grabbed Isla by the arm and tried to push her away.
“This is yer daeing, Isla. If ye hae just listened tae me, I would hae dealt with him and Iain would still be alive.”
Laird Sinclair’s words assaulted her mind. Isla knew he was a liar and a manipulator, but right now, still suffering from the effects of her nightmare, she couldn’t deny the possibility that he was right.
If she had been more forthcoming with Iain, or more of a wife… If she had lain with him, then surely he wouldn’t have been here?
She twisted away from her father’s grasp and turned to Gavin.
“What hae ye done?” she whispered.
Gavin raised his head. There was a bruise running along his jaw. His eyes were bloodshot, his lips a thin line.
He’d done the impossible and climbed into the Keep to be with her. Was it really so far beyond reason to think that he would kill for her as well?
Isla knelt in front of Iain’s limp body. She touched his face with a trembling hand, a sob escaping her throat. She drew back up. Her dress now stained with Iain’s blood.
Laird Sinclair pulled her back.
“Isla, ye must go back to yer chambers,” he hissed.
There were too many thoughts running through her mind. She flailed her arm towards her father and tried to ignore the way the world seemed to shift, as though it was all made of wax and everything was melting.
Iain, poor Iain.
He had died without knowing how she felt about him. Tears started trickling down her cheeks and she wanted to scream.
Footsteps hurried down the stairs.
“Ah good, reinforcements,” Laird Sinclair said.
“Nae the ones ye hope for.”
Isla turned around in shock, recognizing her brother’s voice.
Kai.
Flanking him was Kirsty. They both had their swords drawn.
She might have still been dreaming, for everything was happening so quickly that she couldn’t properly comprehend the progress of things.
“Gavin, run!” Kirsty yelled.
“It’s time for us tae leave,” Kai whispered, yanking her arm.
Isla had resisted her father, but she could not do the same with Kai. The two guards brandished their swords, but Kirsty slashed her blade in Laird Sinclair’s direction. He hopped back, pulling one of the guards in front of him.
“Gavin!” Kirsty screamed again, and finally, he started moving.
Kai threatened the guards. Kirsty shoved her sword into Gavin’s hand and then drew her bow and arrow, making threatening motions towards the guards, ensuring they did not try to attack. Laird Sinclair was still using his guards’ bodies as a shield.
Isla followed the rhythm of Kai’s footsteps up the dungeon. They raced through the Keep.
“Kai, wait,” Isla said, but Kai wasn’t having any of it.
“There is nae time. We need tae get away from here,” he said.
Isla looked over her shoulder. Gavin was running just a few paces behind her, his gaze shadowed.
A lump formed in her throat.
A good man had died tonight, her husband.
A man she should have loved.
And although Isla had not wielded the dagger, she could not help but feel as though she had played a role in his death.