Chapter 21

21

B raden was restless. He had retired early to his chambers, refusing to eat in the great hall with his mother and sister.

"Are ye broodin' over her leavin' ye, Braden?" Kenna had asked, but Braden had dismissed her with a wave of his hand, not wishing to be the subject of speculation.

He felt embarrassed at having allowed his feelings to get the better of him. He had thought Roselyn felt the same for him as he felt for her, but in doing so, he had entirely misread the signs.

She had not fallen in love with him, nor had she had any intention of remaining in Scotland. As far as Roselyn was concerned, her job was done, and she was returning to England without giving Braden a second thought.

Tis' the last time I fall in love, he vowed, for Braden had no intention of allowing his heart to be broken again.

He had not meant to fall in love. At first, Roselyn had been an interesting diversion – an English curiosity. But the more time they had spent together, the more he had come to see her as something more, much more.

He had never allowed himself to fall in love before. It had seemed a weakness, a vulnerability, even as having done so he was loathe to admit he had no wish to repeat it, if only to spare himself a broken heart.

Daenae let her get to ye, he said to himself, drawing back the drapes across his chamber window and looking out across the darkening loch beyond.

He wondered where Roselyn was now – how far her carriage journey had taken her south. There was no doubt they would be forced to overnight in the forest, and it made Braden nervous to think of Roselyn out there alone.

It was her choice to leave, he reminded himself, even as he knew he should have been more insistent on accompanying her.

There were many unknown dangers in the forest – and many known ones, too. Not only bandits and outlaws, but madmen and wild animals. It was not a safe place for a woman, even entrusted to one of his men.

Ye should've been more forceful. Ye shouldnae have let her go alone, Braden said to himself, and now he thought he should have been more forceful in other ways, too.

He had not fought for her or pleaded with her. The power of speech was his, and yet he had failed to use it in the very moment of his need. What was the point of speech, if not to speak the truth of one's heart? Braden cursed himself for holding back, and now he felt resolved to follow Roselyn and persuade her of his feelings for her.

She had seemed cold and distant, even as her reasons for leaving seemed to belie the passions they had shared – or so she had claimed. She had given no indication of being unhappy, and yet there had been a sadness in her eyes, far deeper than any homesickness or fear of danger. It was as though she had hoped in something and lost it – hoped in him, perhaps.

But what have I done? I've done nothin' but speak, unless… he said to himself, suddenly fearing it may not have been in waking she took offence, but in experiencing his dream alongside her.

Perhaps that was what had scared her – had he said something while he was sleeping? Had he revealed something she should never have heard? He thought back to the night before, to the dream, and to what he had seen. But it had been just the same as ever, and he was still without the answers he needed.

I'll never discover the truth, he thought to himself, sighing as he paced up and down in front of the hearth.

Apollo had been asleep, but he looked up now, barking, as Braden sighed.

"Aye, and ye did nothin' to persuade her to stay. If she will nae find a reason to stay in yer big brown eyes, she's hardly going to find them in mine, is she?" Braden said, and Apollo lay down and whimpered.

But Braden knew he could not remain at the castle – not whilst Roselyn was out in the forest alone. He would not scare her, but keep watch from afar, ready to act should danger arise. In the morning, he could decide whether to speak to her, and with his mind made up, Braden hurried from his chambers, closely followed by Apollo.

"Where are ye going?" Kenna asked, meeting him on the stairs.

The clansmen were filing out of the great hall, and dinner was over. Braden signed to her, pointing towards the door of the keep, and making the movement of a horse and rider.

"Ye're going after her? Tis' about time, Braden. Ye were a fool to let her go. I know how ye feel about her, and tis' surely the same way she feels about ye. Whatever passed between ye, daenae let her go without a fight. Make her see how much ye care for her. I know tis' difficult without words, but by yer actions…" Kenna said, and Braden nodded, blushing, as he realized how easily his sister had discerned his feelings for Roselyn.

But tis' true, and why deny it? She could be mistress of this clan, and… my wife, he said to himself, and now he hurried out of the keep to the stables, where the stable hands soon had Zeus saddled, and Braden was galloping out into the night.

Kenna was right. He had been a fool to let Roselyn go, and now he was determined to find her and tell her so.

"Duncan? Is that you? This isn't amusing," Roselyn said, calling out through the darkness as the figure approached.

Still, he said nothing, and Roselyn shrank back, fearful it might not be Duncan at all. "So… tis' ye, and all alone, lass," a voice came from the shadows, and Roselyn let out a cry of fear as the figure of Braden's uncle, Donald, appeared in the flickering light of the candle hanging in the carriage.

He smiled, peering inside and looking from left to right. Roselyn's heart was beating fast. She was terrified, and she shrank back, not knowing what he intended to do to her, or why he had followed her.

"I… why are you here? Did you follow us?" she demanded, and Donald laughed.

"Follow ye? Nonsense, but I'm concerned now I find ye. Where's the carriage driver?" he asked.

"He's gone. But he'll be back soon. The tree across the road – we can't go on without help. He's gone to the cottage along the way. He'll be back any moment," Roselyn replied, hoping her words might dissuade Donald from whatever unpleasantness he had in mind.

Roselyn had never liked him. It was the way he looked at her: an unpleasant smile, a lascivious look, the intent of a man desirous of those things he should not desire.

She did not trust him, the incident with the bandit having roused her feelings against him. There had been something strange about it, and in his reaction, too. In all these things, despite his apparent surprise, it was as though he knew about them – the fallen tree being no exception.

"Aye, the fallen tree. Tis' a strange thing for a mighty oak to fall when the wind doesnae even disturb the water of the loch. Still, nay matter. Ye and I shall have a little talk until the carriage driver returns. If he returns," he said, raising his eyebrows, as he climbed onto the buckboard, leering into the carriage at her, as Roselyn eyed him warily.

She was ready to fight – to strike out at him and cry for help. His sudden appearance had unsettled her. He had surely been following them, and had bided his time, waiting until she was alone.

Or making sure of it, Roselyn said to herself.

"Ye left in such a hurry today, lass and I was curious. Did ye and Braden have a disagreement?" he asked, edging forward into the carriage, almost within touching distance of her.

Roselyn was trapped. The carriage had only a front opening, the rest of it covered by the taut tarpaulin. The lamp cast flickering shadows from above, the darkness beyond seemingly impenetrable. Roselyn and Donald were all alone, and he had her in his power.

"I told you, I just want to go home, that's all," she said, and Donald laughed.

"One moment ye spend the night in the laird's chambers – aye, I know all about that, lass – and the next, ye flee. I can only assume somethin' happened, or perhaps ye discovered somethin' ye werenae expectin' – somethin' unpleasant," he said.

Roselyn did not know if Donald knew of Braden's dreams, or even if he could speak, but she knew she did not trust him, and despite her feelings towards Braden, she was not about betray his confidence, even as he had betrayed her.

"I don't know what you're talking about. I just want to go home. I want to go back to England, and back to my family. That's all," she said, and Donald laughed.

"Aye, but ye see, I cannae allow ye to do that. Nae when I think ye know more than ye're tellin' me lass. Ye see, I think ye discovered somethin', a truth about Braden. Tis' his dreams, aye? Ye heard him in the night, caught up in the throes of a nightmare and he spoke a name – ye heard that name," Donald said, and his voice now became soft and menacing.

He advanced again, creeping on his hands and knees towards her, causing her to cry out in fear.

"Please, no, I don't know anything about it. He didn't. He doesn't know. He dreams, yes… a terrible dream about what happened the night his father died. But that's why he doesn't speak. You know that. And besides, why does it matter to you? Don't you want to know who killed your brother?" Roselyn asked, even as a terrifying thought now occurred to her.

Why should it not be him: Donald? A jealous brother, the desire for power, a heart filled with longing for a woman he could not have for himself…

"Tell me what he said. Tell me," Donald said, and to Roselyn's horror, he held the dagger up to threaten her.

"I don't know, he didn't tell me. He doesn't know. Don't you think he'd take revenge if he did?" she asked.

Donald's eyes narrowed.

"Or perhaps he bides his time, and perhaps ye flee because he told ye the truth. Ye overheard it, didnae ye? Ye know," he said, staring at Roselyn, who was now terrified, shrinking back, as he raised the dagger threateningly.

"I don't know," she cried, and now he seized her, dragging her forward, their faces almost touching.

"Or perhaps he talked. Aye, that's why ye're leavin' isnae it? But that's when he told ye. Aye, nae in his dream, but in his speech. He told ye the truth, lass. He spoke and told ye what he saw that night. The figure of the man in his dream – he turned when the power of speech returned, revealin' himself, and ye know the truth," Donald snarled.

Roselyn shook her head, even as she was surprised to think Donald knew nothing of Braden's speech – he seemed to know everything else. She tried to push him away, but his grip on her grew only tighter, the dagger pressed to her neck, as she fought feebly against him.

"Please, I don't know anything. I don't know who killed Braden's father, and I don't want to know. I just want to go home," Roselyn said, as tears rolled down her cheeks.

There was a glint of madness in Donald's eyes, as though he had been seized by the possibility of her knowing the truth and would now stop at nothing to discover it.

"But I cannae let ye, nae when ye know what happened here all these years ago. Ye see, I daenae believe ye know nothin' of the matter. I think ye know it all. Ye came here to bring Braden's speech out of him, and ye've done so, lass – all too well. But ye kept it a secret when ye discovered the name, and now ye flee, and I cannae allow that. I've kept Braden silent all these years, but ye? Nay," he said, tracing the tip of the knife in a trail down her neckline.

Roselyn was trembling with fear. She shook her head, not knowing what to say or do. Braden had said nothing, even as she now had little doubt as to the culprit. Why else would Donald follow her if not to silence her when he himself was the murderer.

"He didn't speak. I wasn't able to teach him to do so. I wasn't good enough," Roselyn replied.

"Ye were good enough for his bed. He took ye into his confidence, and tis' ye he spoke to. He fears danger, and he's sent ye away with the secret, knowin' who killed his father, even if he were to suffer… an accident," Donald said, pressing the point of the knife more firmly into Roselyn's neck.

"Then it's you, isn't it? You're the one who killed Braden's father. You're the one in his dream," Roselyn stammered, and Donald laughed.

"Ye know tis' me. Ye know tis' I who killed Braden's father, ye know I'm the figure in his dream. He told ye as much, and I cannae allow ye to leave here knowin' it," he said.

Roselyn was horrified. He was admitting the murder – he was the murderer.

The dream, the years of speechlessness, the suffering Braden had endured was all because of Donald. But Roselyn knew he would kill her too if he believed she was the guardian of the secret on Braden's behalf.

"Please, I don't want to tell anyone. I just want to go home. That's all. I don't intend to tell anyone. That's why I left. If I'd stayed, would the danger to you have been all the greater? No one in England could possibly care about a long dead laird and the disputes of a northern clan," she said, hoping to appeal to his sense of reason, even as reason seemed entirely lacking.

Braden's uncle smiled, lowering the knife a little, his hot breath on Roselyn's face, their eyes locked together.

"Perhaps ye're right, lass, or perhaps ye're a liar, and what of years to come? What if Kenna seeks ye out, and then yer tongue loosens. Nay lass, I cannae take the risk. Ye know more than ye're lettin' on, and I cannae allow that," he said.

"No… I won't tell anyone. I don't have any reason to. I came here to help, not to get mixed up in all of this. It's all a mistake, I didn't mean to fall in love with Braden. I didn't mean any of it, and it doesn't mean he told me anything. When he spoke he—" she began, her eyes growing suddenly wide with horror as she realized what she had just said.

Donald let out an angry roar, throwing her back into the carriage and looming over her with the dagger held high above his head.

"So he did speak, ye little liar. He spoke to ye, and ye listened to him. When did he first speak? Or has he always spoken?" he demanded.

Roselyn had been a fool. She had broken Braden's confidence, and now she would pay the price for doing so. She had lied to Donald, and he would surely never let her go. There was no sign of Duncan or anyone else. She was alone and tears rolled down her cheeks, as she feared what Donald was capable of. Shaking the thoughts away, she wiped her tears and straightened her back, to appear as unaffected as possible. She had to protect Braden's secret. Even if he wasn't who she thought he was, she couldn't let a crazed man hurt him.

"He only wrote to me a few things. About looking for the murderer. He has no idea it was you. He trusts you," she said calmly, and then stopped talking altogether.

Donald looked down at her, his eyes wide and bloodshot. There was a madness there, one she could only fear, knowing he would never allow her to leave the glen alive. "Quit yer lying, will ye? Ye were the one who gave him the power of speech. Ye coaxed it from him. But why else would he speak but to reveal the truth about that night? He fell silent then, I threatened his mother as such. She implored him to say nothin', just as I told her to. Had he spoken, I'd have had nay choice but to kill him. I thought about it, but how to do so…" he said, as though talking as much to himself as to Roselyn.

The thought of that dreadful night filled her with horror. She imagined the fear in Braden's mother's heart – the loss of her husband and the threat against her child. What mother would not do anything she could to protect her offspring, even if it meant silencing them for the rest of their life?

That threat had hung over Braden his whole life long, but the truth would set him free. Roselyn now realized Braden had trusted her. It did not matter whether he and Calder had always spoken or not – and how did she know whether they had? That trust was theirs, and in speaking, Braden had taken the greatest of risks, trusting her with a secret not even his sister knew.

What a fool I was, she said to herself, as Donald now held the knife over her.

"And who else might he speak to now, I wonder?" said Donald. "Calder? Kenna? His mother? Aye, she knows the truth, but she values the lives of her children over her own. Tis' remarkable what a threat can achieve."

Roselyn felt sickened by him. He had created an elaborate web, silencing Braden through his mother – the woman Donald purported to love – and keeping himself as the power behind the throne. He saw Braden as a mere puppet, kept silent by the horror of the faceless man in his dream.

"You're nothing but a wicked coward, a pitiful excuse for a man. All these years, you've—" she began, but Donald struck her angrily across the face with the back of his hand.

"That's enough. Ye should never have come here, Roselyn. An Englishwoman in Scotland? Ye should've stayed where ye belonged," he said, and now he raised the dagger, ready to strike her.

She screamed, but as Donald brought the knife down on her, a sudden movement caused the carriage to lurch to one side. Donald let out a cry, dragged backwards as Roselyn looked up in astonishment. Braden was there, and was dragging his uncle backwards, his sword drawn…