CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
HE WAS CAREFUL TO STAY back in the crowd, for it was dangerous to step forth in his own corporeal identity, especially when he was expecting the Brotherhood to appear.
A huge crowd had gathered for the Wolf’s hanging, mostly Highlanders.
He had held and attended hundreds of executions over the centuries.
Even in this kind of death, there was so much pleasure and satisfaction to be had.
And while hangings were his least favorite form of execution—so little pain was inflicted—the crowd that gathered to cheer and jeer was always festive and bloodthirsty.
This crowd was oddly subdued, and he could not understand it. He needed their sadism; he relished it.
Centuries flashed before his eyes. There had been so much power, so much destruction, so much death. But this past century, one single son had defied him. He hated his son with a vengeance.
It was too soon for Aidan to die.
He hadn’t suffered enough. Now his son wished for death, in order to protect the woman and find peace. He must change this day, use the woman as he’d intended. There would be little satisfaction in doing so if Aidan were not alive to know of it. He must never allow Aidan peace.
Thoughtful, Moray stared. Aidan had yet to be brought forth from the dungeons.
When he appeared, he would be expecting death, but he would be stoic.
There would not be any pleasure in those first few moments.
His gaze sharpened. Frasier stood with some of his men by the scaffold, grim and severe, intent upon doing his duty.
He was merely obeying his king. There was no pleasure to be had in feeling him, either. Then Moray saw the Masters approaching.
He saw Malcolm of Dunroch first—the Master whom he had almost turned, the Master who had almost vanquished him—and Malcolm was near tears.
Moray’s anger vanished. His lust thickened. He instantly fed off his fear and grief, swelling with delight.
Then Moray saw the woman by his side, a warrior for whom he had once had great plans.
She was pale and in tears, too, clinging to Malcolm’s hand.
He had considered having his revenge on Malcolm, but he was leery, because the woman made the Master eerily strong.
Her power, while not as apparent, ran so deep that he feared it. More importantly, he feared their love.
Other Masters close to Aidan had come, as well.
Black Royce and a small, beautiful woman with a shocking white power were with them.
The golden Master was resigned and his grief was buried deep, making it far less pleasing, but the woman’s helpless rage amused him.
She thought to heal Aidan; she had no intention of letting him die.
He had heard many stories about the Healer, and he would enjoy bringing her to her knees, too—but not today.
The crowd shifted and murmured. Excitement began.
Moray saw armed soldiers bringing Aidan toward the gallows, his hands manacled behind his back. He began to feel amused. Did Aidan really think to protect Brianna by dying for her? Little did he know his suffering was only just beginning.
Aidan was staring blindly ahead, looking at no one. Then he jerked and looked right at Moray, as if sensing his thoughts. Hatred blazed in his son’s eyes.
Moray laughed at him. As Aidan was led up the stairs of the scaffold, Moray left the midward and hurried inside a tower chamber, bolting the door.
He lay down on the small bed and willed his power to Frasier, so he could stop the hanging.
He would do so only at the last possible moment, when Aidan was a breath away from death.
Nothing happened.
It was impossible. He tried again. He had been blocked. Someone had shielded Frasier from his power.
It was too soon for Aidan to die. He hadn’t paid for his defiance!
Moray sent his energy into the closest passing human, a husky knight.
Outside, he heard the crowd roar.
“CLAIRE, I CANNA STAY AN’ WATCH him die,” Malcolm gasped.
His heart had been broken since he’d left his brother in the dungeons yesterday, swearing not to intervene.
His brother, whom he’d spent the first twenty-five years of his life hating and whom he’d then come to love.
He’d spent almost seven decades clinging to faith and hope, refusing to believe the rumors about Aidan.
And he knew, in this last hour, that he had been right.
Aidan wasn’t evil. He was on his way back to the Brotherhood.
He had to stop this.
Claire clung to his hand. “The history books all say he dies, but I can’t stand it, either. Malcolm, do something!”
“Aidan,” Malcolm cried.
The noose was around his neck as he stood above the crowd on the scaffold, barefoot and clad only in his leine, shoulders squared, head held high.
He had been looking far into the distance, above the crowd, but his blue gaze settled on Malcolm, bleak and worn.
He smiled in resignation. Thank ye fer yer faith.
“Release me from my vows,” Malcolm roared.
Aidan seemed to shake his head. Take care o’Brianna. Guard her well. Let me go now. I’m done with war.
Malcolm decided to hell with his vows. But before he could blast the rope into shreds, Royce seized his arm, blocking his power. “Let him go. He wishes to die.”
“I canna!” Malcolm shouted at his uncle, well aware that his uncle understood this twist of irony far better than he ever would.
“He is tired o’ his grief. He needs peace. Canna ye see it? Canna ye feel it?” Royce asked softly.
“He’s my brother.”
“Aye, an’ he has been grievin’ fer his son fer too many years. Now he wishes to protect the woman he loves. He dies blessed, nay in shame or disgrace.”
Suddenly Allie left them, and ran through the crowd to halt at Aidan’s feet. Tears streaming down her face, she cried up to him, “Let us stop this. Let me heal you!”
“An’ can ye save Brianna from Moray?” he asked her softly.
Allie started to weep.
Aidan dragged his gaze away
“Brie loves you…I love you!” Allie sobbed. “Don’t do this!”
Soldiers seized her, dragging her back. “Another word and you will be arrested, Lady Morvern,” Frasier snapped. “’Tis noon. Hang him.”
Allie screamed, fighting the soldiers. Royce rushed to her side.
He stepped between the men, taking his wife into his arms. Tabby and Guy Macleod materialized beside them.
Those who noticed gasped and crossed themselves, but most eyes were on the man on the platform.
The floor dropped. Without support, Aidan swung in the air by the noose around his neck, and finally a loud crack resounded.
Malcolm roared.
“Jesu,” Guy whispered, holding his wife upright.
Aidan’s head fell forward.
Allie collapsed in Royce’s arms. “Let me heal him.”
“Let him go, Ailios. Let him go.”
A STUNNING FEELING, like a knife sliding deep into her heart, went through her. Brie paled, doubling over.
“Brianna?” Ian slid his arm around her.
She felt dizzy, faint. She blinked up at him. This was Aidan’s son. Ian had not been murdered in 1436 after all. Aidan had to know. It might change everything. “What happened?” Brie whispered.
Having steadied her, he released her. He said tersely, “I was released after his execution in 1502. In fact, I later learned I was released that very day.” He laughed without mirth.
“I had just been returned to Elgin. Evil had no more use for me. It went on to other prey. Because of his black power, I was still nine years old, even though I had been imprisoned in New York City for most of the sixty-six years.”
The extent of the abuse he’d suffered hit her. He had been imprisoned for decades in New York City and he had been nine years old the entire time. What child could withstand that kind of cruel abuse? “Oh, my god, we have to change this!”
“Ye can’t change Fate,” he snapped.
She searched his angry eyes. “How did you survive?”
“I spent almost every moment of every day thinking of my father, praying for him to come. I also tried to escape. Every day I had a new plot to trick the guards, and as often, I was beaten soundly for my efforts.”
She hugged herself. His suffering had known no bounds. She did not want Aidan to ever know. “What happened after you were released? Malcolm and Royce must have taken you in.”
He laughed derisively again. “I made my way home from Elgin myself, on foot mostly. It took me two months, as it was a cold, snowy winter and I was no longer accustomed to the Highlands. In truth, I was neither a modern lad nor a medieval one. And I wasn’t nine years old when I reached Awe, Brianna. ”
“Are you saying that once Moray’s spell was broken, you began to age?”
“I was a full-grown man when I reached Awe—only to find it in the hands of Argyll.” He nodded at the pamphlet she held, eyes flashing.
“There’s mention there o’ how Argyll seized the opportunity.
With my father hanged, he simply marched on Awe and added it to his Campbell holdings.
I spent the next fifty years warrin’ with him, until I got it back,” he added harshly. “It’s been mine ever since.”
Brie reached for his hand, but he wouldn’t let her hold it. “I am sorry. You should know that your father is living with the pain of having lost you and it has been killing him.”
“My father is dead.”
This time, she seized his sleeve. “He isn’t dead. I just left him, very much alive—and grief-stricken over you, Ian. We have to go back in time! What if we can stop his execution?”
“Ye canna fix what is meant to be.” His eyes blazed. “Ye love him.” It was not a question. “Ye loved him then, an’ it must be why ye received my thoughts when I was tryin’ so hard to send them to him.”
“Yes, I love him. Are you a Master?”
His gaze flickered. “Ye ken a great many secret matters, Brianna.”
“I guess I just got my answer.” She took his hand. “I’m ready. I’d prefer you hold me really tightly, because I do not want to get lost in space and time.”