Chapter 27
The castle had barely begun to stir the next morning when Violet entered the nursery dressed for the road.
Her traveling gown was plain brown wool, chosen because no servant would remember it, and her cloak lay folded over one arm. The small bag in her hand carried little more than a shift, her purse, and the rest of the angelica she had gotten from the market, all wrapped in cloth.
She had left every fine gown Connor had given her behind. Taking them would have made her departure look permanent.
John slept in the cradle near the banked fire. His fever had gone down further during the night, though a faint flush remained across his cheeks. One small hand rested beside his head, fingers curled around nothing. The blue cloth lay folded near his shoulder.
Violet set her bag beneath the chair and approached. She had spent the previous dark hours building some sensible reason in her head as to why she was leaving.
MacBain Castle was close, and the healer could examine her there. John would have Moira, Connor, and every servant in the castle watching him. Distance would protect him until Violet knew whether the old illness had returned.
All those reasons seemed weak when she saw his face.
She touched the back of one finger to his wrist. His skin was warm, no longer burning. John stirred, turning his head toward the contact, and his fingers opened.
“I love ye,” Violet whispered. “More than I kent I could love anyone. I hope ye can grow up to ken that.”
His hand found her finger and closed loosely around it. The action made her throat tighten. She leaned over the cradle, bringing her cheek to the blanket beside his head. She would not kiss him. Lachlan’s warning had rooted too deeply in her for that.
“Daenae wake up, little love. I am trying to do the sensible thing, and ye will ruin it if ye look at me.”
John gave a soft, sleepy sound, and Violet closed her eyes.
“MacBain Castle isnae far. I will come back when I ken I am safe to be around.” Her voice faltered over the promise. She pressed her cheek harder into the blanket. “Ye may scold me then. I expect a very serious scolding.”
At that moment, the door opened behind her. She pulled her hand free and straightened, clearing her throat before turning around. She had been expecting Moira or some maid, and was thinking of ways to deflect whatever questions either might have about her cloak.
Except it wasn’t a maid.
It wasn’t even Moira.
Lachlan stepped inside. His coat hung open, and his hair had escaped whatever effort he had made to smooth it. He pushed the door shut with his heel, and the lock clicked.
His gaze moved from her traveling gown to the cloak on her arm, then to the bag beneath the chair.
“Leaving?” he asked.
Violet swallowed. There was no point in hiding anymore. “Aye. For me sister’s castle.”
Lachlan nodded slowly. His eyes were bright, though the light filtering through the narrow window was weak. “Ye are doing the right thing.”
The answer cut through Violet with cold precision.
John’s father agreed that she should leave. A small part of her had hoped someone might call her fear foolish before she crossed the gate. Lachlan had taken that hope and crushed it without effort.
Then he looked toward the cradle.
“Perhaps it wouldnae be so terrible,” he said, “if everyone in this castle died.”
Violet’s fingers tightened around her cloak.
What?
“What are ye talking about?”
Lachlan laughed once, a broken sound with no pleasure in it. “Jane did, did she nae? The rest of us wake, eat, drink, marry. Why should she be the only one made to pay?”
The smell reached Violet when he stepped closer. Spirits, stale and sharp beneath whatever herbs he had chewed to hide it.
She lowered the cloak onto the chair, feeling her heart pound hard in her chest. Something told her, like a looming warning in the back of her head, that her hands needed to be free for this.
“Ye should rest,” she urged. “I will call someone to help ye.”
“Help me?” His face twisted. He glanced at the bag beneath the chair again. “Everyone leaves. Jane. Connor. Now ye.”
“I am only going to me sister.”
“Aye. Because ye can,” he responded, moving toward the cradle.
Violet stepped into his path before she thought about illness, fever, or her own frightened hands.
John let out a soft sigh, which made Lachlan stop.
“Why do ye get to stand there?” he asked. His voice had dropped, and the softness made her more wary than she would have been if he had been screaming.
“Lachlan, ye’re drunk. Step back.”
Lachlan ignored her. “Why do ye get to play mother to me son?”
Violet kept one hand low near her dress, ready to move. Her lessons from multiple training sessions with him returned in pieces.
Watch the shoulders. Watch the hips. A man’s hands lie less than his face.
“I am only doing what Jane asked of me.”
Lachlan’s eyes flashed. “Daenae speak her name.”
“She wanted John to be loved.”
“Daenae speak of him either.” His gaze flicked past her to the cradle. “He is mine.”
The claim felt too raw and too dangerous. Something like possession taken from a dead man’s inventory.
She couldn’t control how fast her heart pounded anymore. As calmly as she could, she edged toward the door. However, she was either too slow or he was too fast, even for a drunk.
Before she could do anything, he caught her upper arm, his fingers digging painfully into her skin.
“Let go.”
“Henry found me, ye ken?” he sneered.
Violet stopped struggling. Talking might keep him away from John. She looked at his face and forced her breathing to remain even.
“Jane’s brother?”
“He kent where to look.” Lachlan’s thumb pressed into the inside of her arm. “The taverns. The women. All the places Connor wouldnae deign to search.”
“What did Henry want?”
Lachlan’s mouth stretched into a poor imitation of a smile. “He said Connor had taken everything. Me home. Me bairn.” His eyes roved over her. “Even Jane’s friend.”
He tugged her closer. Violet went with the movement rather than fighting it, keeping herself between him and the cradle.
“He told me to come here,” he continued. “Kneel before me brother. Smile. Drink only when nay one was watching.” A sharp laugh escaped him. “Pretend to ask for forgiveness.”
Violet felt her stomach drop to her knees.
Was anyone coming?
She couldn’t hear footsteps. Why would she? It was still too early. That was the point.
The helplessness she felt at that moment was as painful as Lachlan’s hand around her. It grew even more painful when his grip tightened.
“Now ye,” he said, his voice even lower than before, something she didn’t think was possible. “Ye are standing where Jane should be. Holding her son. Sleeping in Connor’s bed.”
The accusation carried enough pain to expose the wound beneath the drink.
Violet held his gaze. “Did ye come back because ye were scared Henry wanted John?”
“He thought I would carry me own son to him like an obedient hound.”
Violet struggled to speak. “And will ye?”
For one moment, Lachlan’s eyes cleared. “Nay. Henry willnae have him,” he scoffed. “He wanted the bairn hidden away. Perhaps dead when hiding became inconvenient.” His eyes fixed on the blue cloth near the cradle. “I willnae let him touch what Jane left me.”
A wave of relief tried to rise, but Violet pushed it back.
It didn’t sound like any help was coming. She couldn’t scream or try to do anything else. For now, all she could do was keep him talking. She would even try to make the conversation not break for a minute, so he wouldn’t change his mind.
“So what will ye do? What is yer plan?”
“Take John.”
“Where?”
“Away from Connor.”
“To the taverns?”
Lachlan stared at her, and she knew she should soften the question. But John had no time for softness.
“Will ye lay him beside the cups while ye drink?” she asked. “Carry him through brothels? Forget his milk because ye barely remember yer own name?”
Lachlan laughed once, and the sound cracked through the nursery, causing John to stir in the cradle.
“I see me brother kept ye informed,” he snarled.
“Connor told me the truth.”
“Oh, spare me. Connor tells the truth that makes him righteous,” he spat, squeezing her arm hard.
Violet could already feel the bruise forming beneath her sleeve.
“This isnae about Connor,” she said. “It is about whether John survives being loved by ye.”
Lachlan’s face hardened. “Ye daenae deserve him.”
“This isnae about what I deserve.”
“Ye daenae deserve to live.” He shoved her hard.
Violet hit the stone beneath the window with her hip. The open casement caught her shoulder, and cold morning air rushed across her face as Lachlan drove forward again.
Connor’s voice in one of their many subsequent training sessions cut through her panic.
“Always remember, when trying to use The Yellow Lady, daenae pull against the grip. Turn with it and drop yer weight instead. The Yellow Lady wins because the fool expects her to flee straightaway.”
Violet twisted toward Lachlan instead of away. She stamped hard on his toes and drove her elbow into his ribs, causing his grip to loosen for one second. She then wrenched her wrist through the opening between his thumb and fingers.
Lachlan cursed and struck her shoulder, sending her staggering sideways. Her upper body pitched through the window, but her hand caught the stone frame, pain tearing through her fingers. Her hip slammed against the sill, leaving her half inside the nursery and half above the courtyard below.
Behind her, John woke and screamed.
Violet pressed one knee against the wall, fighting for leverage. John’s loud cries tore through the waking castle as Lachlan reached for her again.
For the briefest moment, a part of her wondered whether dying by falling from a window would be some kind of poetic irony.
Connor found Violet’s chamber empty.
The healer waited below with her bag, already displeased by the delay. A maid near the stairs said that Lady Moore had gone to the nursery before the castle woke, and Connor immediately turned without answering.