Chapter 28
Connor stopped outside Lachlan’s cell and looked at the two guards.
“Wait beyond the passage.”
The older guard hesitated, his hand still on the iron key. “Me Laird, he attacked Lady Moore.”
“He is still me brother.” Connor held out his hand for the key. “Give us privacy and stay close enough to hear me call.”
The guards obeyed. Their booted steps faded down the narrow passage until damp stone swallowed the sound.
Connor unlocked the cell and entered alone.
This was where Violet had first stood before him, filthy from the road and furious enough to raise her hand against a laird. She had refused to back down. She had demanded John. One damaged link remained in the chain fixed to the wall, scraped bright where she must have pulled against it.
Lachlan sat beneath that chain.
The drink had begun to leave his system. Without it warming his face or loosening his limbs, he looked hollow. Dried blood darkened his split lip, and his hands shook against his knees. Bruises covered one cheek.
Connor closed the door behind him.
Lachlan lifted his head. Hatred sharpened his eyes, though shame broke through it.
“Come to finish it?” he sneered.
Connor stopped several feet away. “I came for the truth.”
A broken laugh scraped from Lachlan’s throat. “Ye have always preferred truth when it gave ye permission.”
“Did Henry send ye?”
Lachlan wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Aye.”
“Did ye come here to take John?”
“He is me son.”
Connor nodded. “Did ye intend to give him to Henry?”
“Nay.”
“Did ye intend to harm Violet?”
Lachlan’s gaze dropped to the floor.
His silence tightened something behind Connor’s ribs. He had seen the bruises on Violet’s arm. He had seen blood on her fingers from the window frame. Her traveling cloak had been waiting on the chair beside John’s cradle because she had already decided to leave him.
“Look at me,” he bit out.
Lachlan rose too quickly and swayed. His hands were unbound. Connor had ordered it before entering. Whatever happened inside the cell would be Lachlan’s choice, made sober enough to understand.
Lachlan steadied himself against the wall. “Ye want me to say I came for her.”
“I want ye to say what ye meant to do.”
“Then come closer and make me.”
Connor did not move, and that enraged Lachlan. He crossed the space in three uneven strides and swung for Connor’s face. Connor caught his wrist. Lachlan drove his other hand toward Connor’s throat. Connor turned, twisted the captured arm behind his back, and forced him against the wall.
The struggle ended before it had properly begun.
Lachlan kicked once, found no leverage, and sagged beneath Connor’s hold.
Seven years earlier, Connor had carried him through blood and smoke. Lachlan had been lighter then, his arms locked around Connor’s neck while their home burned behind them. Now, Connor could subdue him with one hand.
“Fight me,” Lachlan snarled.
“Ye arenae fighting.” Connor released him and stepped back. “Ye are throwing yerself at whatever might end ye.”
Lachlan turned. His face crumpled for a moment before rage restored it. He spat at Connor’s boots. “She took Jane’s place.”
“Careful,” Connor growled.
“She holds me son. Sleeps in yer bed.” Lachlan dragged a shaking hand through his hair. “Stood before the priest as if Jane never existed.”
“Violet took care of what Jane loved.”
“Ye cannae tell me she didnae enjoy it a little.”
Connor’s jaw tightened. “Choose yer next words carefully, Brother.”
Lachlan’s mouth twisted into a cruel smile. He had pressed the wound. “Ye should have killed her when ye had the chance.”
Connor crossed the cell. His hand closed around Lachlan’s throat, and the force drove him back against the wall. Lachlan’s skull slammed against the wall. Connor lifted him until his heels barely touched the floor.
“I daenae want to kill ye too soon,” he gritted out. “Think before ye speak again.”
Lachlan’s face darkened beneath his grip. Something close to relief entered his eyes.
“Then kill me slowly,” he wheezed.
Connor tightened his fingers. “Did ye mean to kill her?”
Lachlan laughed through the pressure, a thin, ugly sound. “I wanted all of ye dead.”
Connor slackened his grip enough for Lachlan to drag in a breath. “Violet?” he asked.
“Aye.”
“John?”
Lachlan’s gaze flickered, and Connor pressed him harder against the wall.
“Yer son? Really, Lachlan? Ye would kill a child, too?”
“He would have been better with Jane than with any of us.”
The answer forced Connor’s hand still.
“Would ye have done it?”
Lachlan looked toward the broken chain beside them. His voice came quieter. “Aye.”
Connor released him, and Lachlan dropped to his knees, coughing. He remained there while Connor stepped back and drew his sword. Steel cleared the scabbard with a low scrape that echoed through the cell.
Lachlan looked up at the blade. His breathing steadied. The rage left his face, exposing the younger brother Connor remembered beneath the ruin.
“Is John safe?” he asked.
“Aye.”
His shoulders lowered. “And Violet?”
“She reached MacBain land under guard.”
Lachlan closed his eyes. “Kill me,” he whispered. “At least I will be with Jane.”
Connor held the sword at his side. “I am nae certain ye deserve that kindness.”
Lachlan opened his eyes again, his mouth trembling. “Please.”
Connor paused for one breath. He saw Lachlan as a boy clinging to him while he ran from the men who had killed their family. He remembered carrying him until his own legs failed, then rising because Lachlan had been the only one left to save.
Control had kept his brother alive that night. Exile had failed to change him, and consequence had failed to sober him up. Blood had given Lachlan a claim on John, and grief had turned that claim into danger.
If Connor let him live, Lachlan could finish what he had started. No matter how sealed his prison was, he would find a way out and hunt John. He would also hunt Violet, and this time, he wouldn’t spare a minute before he killed her.
The thought washed over Connor like a wet blanket.
He raised the sword. “Ye brought this upon herself, Brother.”
With that, he drove the blade cleanly through Lachlan’s chest.
Lachlan’s body folded, and Connor caught him beneath the arms and lowered him to the floor before his head could hit the stone. Blood spread across his shirt, warm against Connor’s hands.
For one moment, Lachlan’s fingers closed weakly around Connor’s sleeve. “Thank ye,” he breathed, his hand slipping away.
Connor remained on his knees. Blood warmed his palms through the torn shirt as Lachlan’s head rested against his forearm, his face turned slightly toward the wall. The strain had left his mouth, and his hands lay open at his sides, no longer shaking from ale or reaching for anything he could ruin.
Without rage twisting him, he looked younger.
Connor saw the brother who had once smiled his way out of punishment, the boy who had followed him through the lower passages and whose arms had locked around Connor’s neck while their family died behind them.
Connor had carried him out with both arms. This time, one arm and a sword had been enough.
He lowered him onto his back. Then he drew the blade free and wiped it once on the edge of Lachlan’s ruined shirt. The act required no thought.
He rose and opened the cell door.
The guards returned at once. Both men slowed down when they saw Lachlan on the floor and Connor’s bloodied hands. There was no triumph on their faces. The older guard removed his cap.
“Wrap him,” Connor ordered.
The younger guard looked toward the broken chains. “As a prisoner, me Laird?”
Connor turned his head, and the guard lowered his gaze. “As me brother.”
“Aye, me Laird.” The guard nodded. “Where shall he be buried?”
The question landed harder than the sword had.
Their parents lay in the family crypt, beside the sister Connor had failed to reach. Lachlan had spent years making himself unworthy of the place. But blood had not stopped being blood because Connor had passed judgment.
“Near our parents,” he answered.
The younger guard glanced up, surprised, then thought better of speaking.
“He’s answered for what he did,” Connor said. “But he willnae be stripped of what he was before it.”
The guards grabbed the cloth and entered the cell with a clean sheet. One knelt beside Lachlan while the other waited for Connor to step away.
The older guard hesitated. “What should we say upstairs?”
Connor looked toward the passage leading back into the castle. John would be waking soon. He would search for Violet’s voice, fuss for milk, and know nothing of the father who had chosen death for him.
“The castle may ken Lachlan died after attacking Lady Moore,” Connor said. “Nothing more travels beyond these walls.”
The guards only nodded in response.
He stepped into the passage while they wrapped Lachlan’s body. A basin had been left on a low stand near the guardroom, and the water inside was cold. Connor plunged his hands into it and watched red spread through the clear surface.
He rubbed at his palms. Blood had gathered beneath one nail and along the crease of his thumb. He cleaned it away, emptied the basin, and used fresh water when a guard brought it without being asked.
The second wash changed nothing.
Connor dried his hands on a rough cloth. A faint stain remained near his knuckle. He folded the cloth carefully and set it beside the basin. Behind him, boots moved against the floor as the guards lifted Lachlan. He did not turn until they carried the covered body past.
The shape beneath the sheet looked too narrow. Lachlan had once been broad with youth and charm. Years of drinking had taken more from him than Connor had allowed himself to see.
He followed as far as the stairs, before a messenger appeared at the top, breathing hard. The man stopped when he saw the bloodied water.
“Me Laird.”
Connor did not climb. “What?”
“Word from Lady Moore’s escort. Laird and Lady MacBain received her at the gate.”
Connor’s shoulders sagged. He could reach MacBain land before nightfall if he changed horses.
He could walk into MacBain Castle, find Violet, and put her beneath a healer’s hands while he watched.
He could tell her that Lachlan was dead and John was safe.
He could take her back to Moore Castle before fear made another decision for her.
Then the covered body passed along the upper landing.
Connor stopped. Lachlan had to be buried, and his chamber had to be searched. Henry remained free in England, and Alex had only just begun the ride south. John’s guards needed orders that could not be misunderstood.
He stood halfway up the stairs and thought of Violet asleep against him in the tavern, her fingers curled into his shirt.
He had killed the brother he had once saved.
He had protected John from Henry’s plan and Violet from Lachlan’s hands.
The threats to his family had mostly been eliminated one by one.
So why was his family still broken?
He returned to the empty cell. Water dripped somewhere beyond the wall. Above him, the castle had begun its morning work, distant footsteps crossing stone and doors opening for servants.
The broken chain remained fixed to the wall where Violet had first entered his life. He reached instinctively for the one person whose safety had made the killing bearable, but his hand closed on empty air. It didn't matter that he knew where she was or that he could go get her.
It was too late.
Violet was already gone.