Chapter 21

Chapter 21

They called him a tyrant. A despot. An oppressor. Some whispered he was evil, that the devil himself had his due. Bram did not care what they said about him, because it all meant the same thing. They were bitter, jealous, and fearful, because they recognized his power. No more was he the boy who had lived in fear of magic spells and treacherous women. No more a child whose weak father ruled over him. Now, he was the most powerful Laird in this part of the Highlands, and once the battle was done, he would have everything he ever wanted.

"Ye'll just hand me all of their land?" Laird Brennan asked. The ugly, fat, pathetic man sat at the other end of the table from Bram, a greedy look in his eyes as he contemplated the riches that were soon to come. "Ye mean it?"

Bram smiled, a open, charming smile that could not have been more disconnected from the spite he felt in his heart. "Me good man, after what those awful witches did tae yer noble son, ye deserve that and more. All of the McFerguson land will be yers, once ye've overcome James McFerguson and his Wraith on the battlefield and returned their weeping widows and their bitch sisters tae me side."

"Ye can have the McMillan lassies," Laird Brennan said dismissively, waving his hand. "I met the youngest. Bonny thing, she is. Stupid and mouthy, aye, but fair bonny. I'll deliver them tae ye personally if that's what ye want."

Bram internally sneered. He doubted this pile of lard would do anything personally. Laird Brennan was the type of pathetic wastrel who had found himself thrust into power by virtue of birth and only kept it because nobody had challenged him for it yet. No matter. When this whole issue with the sisters was over, Bram might take the Brennan clan for himself as well. Certainly, the current Laird didn't deserve them.

"Father. I thought this was about Angus, not land," spoke up the man next to Laird Brennan.

Bram's gaze shifted to Ciaran Brennan, the Laird's dark-haired son. No, Brennan wasn't worth the air he breathed—but the son was another story. There was a darkness to him, a dangerousness hidden in the tension of his slight but muscular form. His father dismissed him as a bastard replacement, but Bram saw something else when he looked at Ciaran—a formidable figure who could either be a powerful ally or a deadly opponent. He was clever, too clever by half.

I never liked clever people . They were too wily, too eager to outsmart everyone. Bram himself was more intelligent than anyone else he knew, and he did not appreciate challengers for that spot. Only he should be the mastermind, unclouded by sentiment.

"Of course it's about Angus," the Laird declared dismissively, obviously annoyed at being called out by his son. On his other side, Brennan's captain of the guard was carefully not looking at anyone. "Everythin' I do is about Angus. Don't speak to me as if ye ken what his loss was."

Bram saw that danger flash in Ciaran's stormy eyes, and he had to prevent a smirk from crossing his own face. Yes, Laird Brennan was a fool, especially if he could not see the powerful wildcard he had beside him. That was good. Bram enjoyed treating with fools. They made it so much easier for things to go his way.

"Good, very good," he said, clapping his hands together jovially. "So by this time a week hence, it'll all be over. I'll finally have each of those whore traitors under me own control, and ye'll have yer land. And at last all this will be over. We'll see who the real wolf is then."

Laird Brennan chuckled. "See, lad," he told his son, slapping him on the back, "That's what ye could have been. Shame yer mother was what she was."

"Me Laird, be mindful," the captain whispered.

Bram pretended not to hear, and was pleased to see when Laird Brennan dismissed him with, "I'll say as I please, Rabbie. Bad enough yer daughter let me prisoner go free, don't push me any further."

The guard's mouth tightened into a frown, and Bram saw anger or maybe even hate flash in his eyes. This was a man who was done with his Laird, and it would not take much to turn him away completely. However, he did not argue nor did he tell the Laird to be silent again.

Good. Let the old idiot ramble on as much as he liked. Bram enjoyed the discomfort it caused, and how Brennan clearly wasn't able to stay on even footing with him. It made him easy to manipulate and control.

"Well, gentlemen," he began, but Brennan spoke up again.

"There's been a change of plans, cuilean ," the old, disgusting man said, and Bram narrowed his eyes. The unexpected boldness would have been intriguing, had the idiot man not just insulted Bram to his face. He'd called him cuilean , puppy, as though he still saw Bram as nothing more than a wolf whelp barking toothlessly at his father's heels.

Well, old man, me father thought the same. But I dealt with him easily enough.

So instead of responding to the insult with the decisive rage he usually would, Bram forced a small, cunning quirk to the side of his lip that might be called a smile by the most optimistic of observers. "A change of plan?"

"The lassies," Laird Brennan elaborated. Confidence, misplaced though it was, radiated from him, oozing from his pores like a cloying perfume. "Ye can have the widows and the third, but I'll have the youngest for meself."

Bram paused, still keeping himself in check. His anger was rising, and he knew that this fool was only a few words from a knife in the gut for presuming he could order Bram around, but he was too curious at the audacity to act immediately.

"Father," Ciaran snarled, all traces of proper decorum suddenly gone. His stormy eyes were dark, and Bram could almost see the lightning flashing in them. "What are ye sayin'?"

Ah, the wench got tae ye, did she?

Bram's suspicions were confirmed as Ciaran added in a low growl, "Ye promised that when the battle was won, she'd be mine tae do with as I saw fit."

Laird Brennan guffawed. "Ye! Me bastard whelp! Well, ye can have her when I'm done with her if it pleases ye, tae bed or tae beat for escapin' as ye see fit."

Ciaran slammed his fist down on the table. "I am yer legitimized son and heir, and I will be dismissed as a bastard no longer!" he declared in a growl that was almost a shout. "Deirdre McMillan is mine . She betrayed me , and she will be treated as I see fit, and I alone."

A heated silence filled the room, father and son glaring daggers at each other, the guard watching them with a tell-tale paleness behind his stoic expression.

Bram cleared his throat. "Gentlemen. I think ye're forgettin' that all of those lassies are me own tae do with as I please."

Laird Brennan grunted. "I am sure ye could pass one off as a reward," he replied, after shooting his son another poisonous look. "The eldest two already have bairns, they'll be of little use tae me. And between the middle and the youngest, it makes sense I go for the most youthful to give me a chance at a true son."

"Ye're already bein' rewarded, far more generously than some may say ye deserve, with all the McFerguson land," Bram reminded him. His anger had ebbed away, replaced by a cold, calculating cunning. He could use this. "And the eldest two will not be mothers long. They have three sons and a daughter, and I will not have any pretender spawn survivin' tae challenge me seat once more."

"There are four lassies, me Laird," Brennan countered. "And it would cement our alliance on a more permanent basis if ye gave one tae me,"

He still thought that Bram needed him. How delightful. How ridiculous. This man truly was scum, the kind of pathetic fish that wasn't worth the line it was hooked on.

"That's true," Bram told him, stroking his chin as if he was considering it. It was true that an alliance with Brennan going ahead would be advantageous, especially when they ruled the McFerguson lands as well. But of course, the current Laird was not part of Bram's plans. No, he would secure the young, dangerous man who was the living embodiment of thunder soon enough. But first, he must placate the idiot father. "So I will give ye one of the widows."

"No." Brennan shook his head. "I won't have a dirty, sullied woman in me bed. A widow and a whore are no different; both have kent the touch of another man, and I will not tolerate it. Ye'll give me one of the unsullied lasses, the youngest two."

"Only the middle daughter suits, then," Ciaran spoke up abruptly.

A pause.

"What?"

"I already took the virtue of the youngest when she was in our custody," Ciaran replied coolly. "She may even be carryin' me bairn as we speak. Perhaps that's why she fled."

Bram started, then saw the look in Ciaran's eyes. It was the tiniest little shift, the smallest knotting of the eyebrows, but he knew that look too well—a look he himself had perfected. Ciaran was lying. He was manipulating the old man for some reason, and Bram would bet money that it was because when Deirdre was broken, Ciaran's anger made him want to be sure he was the one to break her.

A clever man. A manipulator. A bastard. Yes, Bram could appreciate this deadly snake. He'd make a fine ally, or a worthy enemy. Perhaps both at once.

"Ye had no right—" Brennan started furiously, his skin purpling at the cheeks, but Bram held up a hand.

"It's agreed, then," Bram said sharply. "I'll take the eldest tae wife tae secure me seat, until she's borne me a bairn, after which time she'll suffer a dreadful accident. Ye, Brennan, can have the third girl, Aoife. She's a flighty thing, obsessed with what's pretty and proper. She'll obey and be easy tae break. And ye, Ciaran, can take yer little pet, Deirdre, tae punish or play as ye will."

Slowly, both men nodded, though Bram noticed they were still glaring at each other. The guard, seemingly unable to help himself, spoke up. "What of the second daughter?"

"Clever Jocelyn, yes," Bram mused, too caught up in his delight to even get annoyed at the servant's presumption in speaking to him. "She's the Wraith's wife, and the one who took the younger two girls from me. So her fate will be the natural end to the dangerous path she started on."

"Which is?" Ciaran asked.

Bram leaned forward, a dark smile flitting across his face. "She'll want tae protect her bairns and Blair's, I presume. So she can, until the very end. We'll return her tae the village of Whisperer's Rest where she pulled her little scheme, along with the Wraith's family and the bairns and any remainin' loyalists. And she can stay by their side, righteous and strong, inside one of those cottages, while we burn them all tae the ground. And that will be the end of it."

A short silence followed these words. Bram was satisfied to see that even the horrible Laird seemed startled by the viciousness of this declaration. He turned his eyes to Ciaran, but was a little disconcerted to see that the young man was staring at him, unflinching.

"What say ye, Laird Brennan?" Bram asked, though his gaze was locked not on the father, but on the son.

Ciaran did not look away. He lifted his cup and said, "Tae cooperation."

Bram grinned and lifted his own cup in response. "Tae victory," he replied. "At long last."

Soon after, the three men stood to go, but Bram held up a hand. "Wait," he commanded. "Ye. Ciaran…"

Ciaran turned back, an eyebrow arched. "Can I help ye?"

Bram smiled. "Stay a while and talk alone with me. It may be we can help each other."

Ciaran sat in the small, dirty, moth-eaten bedroom that had been Deirdre's prison, looking at a dark, stubborn mark on the stone floor that hadn't been washed away. It was wine, spilled one of those many days that Deirdre had been here, perhaps thrown by her in a fit of rage. He couldn't remember. It didn't really matter anyway; here and now, dark and stained and seemingly permanent, it made him think of only blood.

The door opened, and Rabbie entered. The poor man had lost much weight since the day of Deirdre and Marjorie's flight. His wife and children had been sent away to stay with his wife's family, and only Rabbie remained, forgiven for how his daughter had betrayed them all only due to his years of service.

"The night ye helped her escape," Ciaran said quietly, "Did ye comfort her? Did she weep?"

Rabbie did not move. "Marjorie helped her escape," he corrected. "Just as she warned ye she would. That was why ye gave her the herbs, wasn't it?"

"I thought they'd fail," Ciaran told him, carefully keeping his voice neutral. He could not let the whole truth of his torn, broken heart out now, not even to the man he trusted most in the world, not even to the man who was his only real father. He didn't believe for a second that Rabbie had not been directly involved in Deirdre's escape, but he supposed they both had their reasons for keeping secrets now. "I expected she'd overdose on the herbs rather than die of exposure."

Rabbie flinched, and Ciaran felt guilt creeping through his carefully stony exterior. There had been no news about Marjorie since the women had fled, though spies confirmed that Deirdre herself had made it back to the castle alone. Ciaran was sure that the servant girl had survived, but…

"I didn't…" Ciaran started.

Rabbie shook his head. "Marjorie is alive," he said quietly. He stepped into the room and closed the door tight behind them. "I ken it for sure."

Ciaran frowned. "How?"

Reaching into a deep pocket, Rabbie withdrew a folded paper with the wax broken and held it out to him. "I read it," he said unapologetically. "And ye should too."

Then Rabbie opened the door again and left. Ciaran barely noticed him go, staring at the paper in his hands. His fingers traced the broken seal, and then he unfolded the paper. As he did, something fell out onto the floor with a soft clink.

He ignored it, his eyes scanning the words on the paper first.

I fled. Ye must have been so angry…

He took his time to read her words, hearing each in her voice. He could hear how she would start softly and grow increasingly pleading, increasingly desperate, as the letter went on, as she begged and pleaded and declared her love. When he was finished reading, he read it again, then simply stared at the words for a long time.

At last, he moved, his eyes catching a golden glint on the floor as he stood. He bent and swept it up, then realized what it was—Deirdre's pin, the one he'd fixed in her hair that first, fateful moment. When had she gotten it back? Hadn't the maids taken it? Then he understood; this wasn't the same pin, but a similar one, a silent message to him, a last-ditch plea.

Ciaran sighed and shook his head. He tucked the pin away in his pocket, the solid gold making it heavier than its small size should indicate, and left the prison-room for his own rooms.

There was already a comfortable fire cheerfully burning when Ciaran entered the room, and he settled in his chair before it, warming himself as he read over the words one more time.

Then, without changing his expression, he tossed the letter directly into the fire, his eyes never leaving it as he watched it burn.

Your Deirdre of the Sorrows were the last words he saw before the flames erased them for good. And that was how it had to be.