Chapter 29
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The glen opened before them like a wound in the earth, wide and shallow, bordered by ancient oaks whose branches twisted toward the grey sky.
Rowan reined his horse to a stop at the edge of the tree line and waited. The morning air was cold and damp, carrying the scent of wet earth and dying leaves.
Ewan drew up beside him, his sandy hair loose around his face and his hand resting easy on the pommel of his saddle.
Behind them, a handful of guards fanned out across the path, their bows loose in their hands and their eyes scanning the shadows between the trees.
“Ye are quiet,” Ewan noted. “More than usual.”
“I have much on me mind.”
“Aye.” Ewan turned in his saddle to look at him.
His expression was unreadable, but his voice carried something that might have been concern.
“This could go two ways, Rowan. It could end well, or it could end with blood on the ground and a war on our borders. There is nay in between with a man like Laird Kerr.”
Rowan did not answer. He was watching the far end of the glen, where the trees parted and the moorland stretched toward the hills. Kerr would come from that direction.
“He will be here soon,” Ewan said. “Ye should prepare what ye mean to say.”
“I ken what I mean to say.”
“Do ye?” Ewan’s voice was soft. “Because if ye accuse him without proof, if ye push him too hard and too fast, he willnae forget it. Men like Laird Kerr daenae forgive slights. They carry them like stones in their pockets, waitin’ for the right moment to throw them.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “I am nae afraid of him.”
“Nay one said ye were afraid.” Ewan leaned forward in his saddle. “But there is a difference between fear and caution. Ye can be cautious without being afraid. And ye should be cautious now, Rowan. For yer wife’s sake, if nae for yer own.”
Rowan turned to look at his friend, and for a moment, he saw the years of battles and losses and quiet moments of understanding that had passed between them.
Ewan had been with him through everything, had stood at his side when the plague took his family and when his first wife died and when the weight of the lairdship threatened to crush him.
“I willnae bury her,” Rowan said. “I willnae let anyone take her from me.”
“And I willnae let the man who poisoned me sister draw another breath,” Callan growled from Rowan’s other side. He had been a silent, simmering presence the entire ride, but now his horse danced restlessly beneath him, his knuckles white upon his reins.
Ewan held his gaze for a long moment, then nodded slowly. “Then let us finish this.”
The sound of horses reached them before the riders appeared. Hoofbeats on damp earth, the jingle of bridles, and the low murmur of men speaking.
Rowan straightened in his saddle and watched as Kerr emerged from the trees at the far end of the glen.
John Kerr was younger than Rowan remembered, or perhaps he only looked younger because he carried himself with the careless arrogance of a man who had never been told no.
His hair was long and dark blond, his jaw was clean-shaven, and his features were fine enough to be called handsome if not for the hardness in his eyes.
He was tall and very muscular, and he rode at the head of his men like a general leading an army, though there were only a handful of guards behind him.
Rowan had heard the stories, of course. Every man in the Highlands had heard the stories. Kerr’s temper was legendary, and his outbursts were the subject of whispered conversations in Great Halls and taverns alike.
“MacLaren.” Kerr reined his horse to a stop a few yards away, his smile not reaching his eyes. “I didnae think ye would actually come. I thought perhaps ye would send one of yer men to do yer dirty work.”
“I do me own work,” Rowan said. “Always have.”
“Aye.” Kerr’s eyes swept over him, taking in the sword at his belt and the scar on his face and the set of his shoulders. “I can see that.”
There was a moment of silence, and Rowan realized that Kerr was waiting for something. Pleasantries, perhaps. The empty words that men exchanged before they got to the business of hating each other.
“The journey from yer lands was long,” Rowan said, because it was expected, because tradition demanded that enemies speak politely before they drew steel. “I trust yer men found suitable accommodations.”
Kerr blinked, as though he had not expected courtesy from the man who had stolen his betrothed. “The journey was long, aye. But me men are accustomed to hardship. Unlike some, we daenae spend our days sitting in castles and ordering others to fight our battles.”
Rowan let the insult slide. “There is food and drink waitin’ at the keep. The cèilidh will begin once we return from the hunt.”
“I would rather be at me own castle,” Kerr said.
“I would rather be anywhere than here, breaking bread with a man who took what was meant to be mine. But me council insisted I come. They said it would look bad if I stayed away. They said the other lairds would talk, would wonder why I wasnae there, would assume I was sulking in me keep like a child who had lost his favorite toy.”
“And are ye?” Rowan asked. “Sulkin’?”
Kerr’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, Rowan thought he had pushed too far. But then Kerr let out a short, sharp laugh that held no humor.
“Me pride was hurt,” Kerr admitted. “I willnae deny it. I had been told that the Sinclair alliance was mine. I had made plans based on that understanding. And then suddenly, without warning, it was gone. Taken by a man I had never even met.”
“The alliance was offered to me,” Rowan said. “I didnae steal it. I didnae scheme or plot or maneuver behind yer back. Callan Sinclair came to me and asked if I would consider marryin’ his sister, and I agreed. That is all.”
“Ye expect me to believe that?”
“I daenae care what ye believe.” Rowan’s voice was calm and steady, though his patience was wearing thin. “I am tellin’ ye the truth. What ye do with it is yer own business.”
Kerr stared at him for a long moment, and then he dismounted. His boots hit the ground hard, and he walked toward Rowan with his hands loose at his sides and his expression unreadable.
“The truth?” he scoffed, stopping a few feet away.
“Ye want to talk about the truth? Fine. Let us talk about the truth. The truth is that I didnae want to marry yer wife. I didnae want to marry any woman. I have never wanted to marry. But me council kept pressin’ the matter.
They wanted the alliance. They wanted the Sinclair lands, the Sinclair men, and the Sinclair name. I wanted none of it.”
“Then why were ye so angry when the betrothal fell through?”
Kerr’s hands curled into fists at his sides, and his face flushed.
“Because it made me look weak. It made me look like a man who couldnae hold onto what had been promised to him. Because every laird in the Highlands heard the story and laughed behind their hands and said, ‘There goes the Mad Laird, losin’ yet another battle he didnae even ken he was fighting.’”
Rowan studied his face, looking for the lie, looking for the tell that would betray him. But all he saw was a man who was telling the truth, a man who was too angry to lie and too proud to hide behind false words.
“Ye think I wanted to marry her?” Kerr continued, his voice rising with each word.
“Ye think I cared about some woman I had never met, with her blue eyes and her fair hair and her reputation for being steady and calm? I didnae care about her. I didnae care about any of it. I only cared about how it would look when they took her away from me and gave her to ye.”
“Then ye didnae try to kill her.”
The words hung in the air between them.
Kerr’s eyes narrowed. “Kill her? What are ye talkin’ about?”
“Someone tried to poison me wife.” Rowan’s voice was cold now, hard, stripped of all pretense.
“Someone soaked blocks of wood in wolfsbane and left them in her chambers, knowing she would carve them and breathe the dust and die slowly, without raising suspicion. The wood came from yer lands. Wolfsbane grows thick near yer castle. Everyone kens it. Everyone kens ye drink small amounts to harden yerself against it.”
Kerr stared at him, and for a moment, he said nothing. His face went pale, then red, then pale again. His hands trembled at his sides, and his chest rose and fell with each breath.
“Ye think I did this.” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper. “Ye think I tried to kill yer wife because she married ye instead of me.”
“I think ye had reason to be angry,” Rowan replied. “I think ye had reason to want revenge. And I think that a man called the Mad Laird might nae balk at the idea of poisonin’ a woman he had never met.”
Kerr’s face twisted, and for a moment, Rowan thought he might strike him. But then Kerr stepped back and shook his head. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with something that sounded like exhaustion.
“I didnae try to kill yer wife,” he said.
“I didnae try to kill anyone. Aye, I was angry. Aye, I wanted to burn yer castle to the ground when I first heard the news. I wanted to ride north with all me men and make ye watch as I destroyed everythin’ ye had built.
But I didnae do any of that. I stayed in me own lands, and I drank me own whisky, and I let me council talk me into attending yer cèilidh like a good little laird. ”
Rowan held his gaze, searching for the lie. “Then who did it?”
“I daenae ken.” Kerr’s voice cracked. “I daenae ken, and I daenae care. All I ken is that it wasnae me. I would never harm a woman. I have done many things I am nae proud of, but I have never raised me hand against a woman, and I have never tried to kill one.”
The words landed in Rowan’s chest and settled there. He looked at Kerr’s face, at the anger and the hurt and the desperate need to be believed, and he felt something shift inside him.
“I believe ye,” he said. “About the poisoning. I believe ye didnae do it.”
Kerr blinked, the surprise on his face genuine. “Ye believe me?”
“Aye.” Rowan hauled back on his reins, his massive horse sidestepping in the damp earth as he turned the beast away. “But if I find out that ye are lying, I will come back. And I willnae come back with questions.”
Kerr did not answer. He stood in the middle of the glen with his fists still clenched and his chest still heaving, and he watched as Rowan mounted his horse and gathered the reins in his hands.
Ewan leaned close as Rowan turned his horse toward the tree line. “Do ye truly believe him?”
Rowan did not answer at first. His mind was racing, turning over the possibilities and discarding them one by one. If not Kerr, then who? If not the man whose pride had been wounded, then what enemy had he made that would want his wife dead?
Someone who wants to hurt me, who wants to weaken me. Someone who kens that losing her would destroy me.
His blood ran cold as the realization struck him. He had invited everyone to the castle. Every laird of note in the Highlands was under his roof, eating his food and drinking his wine and sleeping in his beds.
And all his guards, even Ewan, were here in the glen with him, miles from the keep, leaving the castle exposed and vulnerable and undefended.
Sorcha. Elspeth. They are alone.
“The castle,” Rowan said, his voice sharp and urgent, nothing like the calm control he had maintained moments ago. “We need to get back to the castle. Now.”
Ewan’s face went pale. “What is it?”
“Kerr didnae poison her.” Rowan wheeled his horse around and dug his heels into its flanks. “Someone else did. Someone who is still in me keep. Someone who is there right now, with me wife and me daughter, while we are standing here in this glen like fools.”
He did not wait for a response. He kicked his horse into a gallop and raced toward the tree line, toward the road, toward the castle that held everything he loved.
Behind him, he heard Ewan shouting orders and the thunder of hooves as the guards fell in behind him. But he did not look back.
He could only ride forward and pray that he was not too late.