Chapter 16

I zzy transferred her gaze between Magnus and Eamon McRae, struggling to make sense of what was going on. Magnus had told her that Lord McRae was behind the attacks on the villages, the one he was trying to bring to justice. But he was also Eamon? The man who’d been Magnus’s mentor? The one who’d taken him from the monastery and brought him up?

And he claimed that it was Magnus who had caused the horrendous scar that bisected his head and neck? She shook her head, refusing to believe it.

“No,” she whispered fiercely. “No, you’re lying.”

“But I am not,” McRae said with a shake of his head. “Ask him yerself. Ask him what happened all those years ago.”

Her eyes flickered toward Magnus. His face was pale in the torchlight, his blue eyes clouded with pain and regret.

“Tell her, Magnus,” McRae urged. “Tell her how ye killed me.”

Magnus’s throat worked as he swallowed hard, his fingers curling into fists at his sides. A vein was throbbing in his neck and his stance was tense, jaw tight.

“Magnus?”

He didn’t look at her. Instead, he hung his head, dark curls falling forward so she couldn’t see his face.

“What’s wrong?” McRae asked, his voice all mock-sincerity. “Why do ye hang yer head, Magnus? Is it shame, perhaps? ”

“Enough!” Magnus roared, his voice echoing off the stone walls of McRae’s stronghold. Anger flamed in his eyes, a deep, ferocious rage.

All around them, McRae’s men took a step forward, reaching for the hilt of their swords. But before any of them could draw their weapons, Magnus moved. With the swiftness of lightning, he slammed his fist into the nearest man’s chest, sending him sprawling onto the cold stone floor.

McRae’s expression turned into a satisfied smirk as chaos erupted in the chamber. Magnus moved like a beast uncaged, all raw power and brutal instinct. He ducked under a fist aimed at his head and landed an uppercut on his attacker’s chin. The man crumpled like a puppet whose strings had been cut.

Izzy watched in stricken silence as Magnus raged against McRae’s men. She had seen Magnus angry before, but never like this. Never with such raw hatred and pent-up fury. She saw not the quiet protector who had sworn to keep her safe, but the savage warrior, a beast whose fury had been unleashed.

Who was this man? Certainly not the man who’d taken the beating that villager had given him. Certainly not the man who’d made love to her so passionately earlier this very night. Certainly not the man who’d captured her heart and held it so tenderly in those big hands of his. No, this was the man who’d so savagely beaten the blacksmith in Hodwell.

“Magnus!” she cried, but her voice was lost amongst the chorus of grunts and the clatter of boots on stone .

Laughter rang out above the noise. “Ye see, lass?” McRae called out. “ This is yer Magnus. A beast who canna be tamed. He has fooled ye!”

Izzy watched in horror as Magnus fought. It took some time, but eventually the numbers advantage of McRae’s men won out and they managed to pin him against the wall, his strength finally waning under their combined effort.

His chest heaving with exertion and sweat trickling down his face, Magnus glared at McRae with unadulterated loathing. “Ye’ll pay for this,” he spat , struggling vainly against the men holding him.

McRae ignored him. “Well, lass,” he said, turning towards her. He was smiling—a cruel, satisfied smile that twisted his face. “Do ye see now? This is the true Magnus. Violent. Savage. Monster.”

The last word echoed in the silent room. Izzy’s gaze flickered between McRae and Magnus—one smirking with triumph and the other panting heavily, but still glaring at McRae in defiance.

The silence stretched as McRae regarded her with his triumphant smile. But all Izzy could focus on was Magnus’s heated gaze, the raw pain hidden deep within his ocean-blue eyes. She had seen traces of this pain before, flashes of self-loathing that would momentarily surface before quickly being masked again. But now, it was laid bare for all to see.

He met her gaze briefly and she saw shame burning in it before he looked down at the ground. She took a step towards him, but Magnus spoke suddenly.

“Stay where ye are, lass. Dinna come any closer.”

Her nostrils flared. “Why? ”

He looked at her then and she saw ruin and shame in his eyes. “Because everything he says about me is true.”

A hush fell over the room. Izzy stared at him, trying to reconcile the man she knew with the monster McRae was claiming he was.

“And there ye have it!” McRae crowed. “Straight from the horse’s mouth! Now ye see what kind of man he really is?”

“Magnus...” Izzy whispered.

Suddenly, the door creaked open, admitting a middle-aged woman with hair the color of silver moonlight. She was the first female Izzy had seen in this place and was elegant in an austere kind of way, clothed in a faded tartan dress that swirled around her ankles.

McRae gave her a nod in greeting. “This is Mrs Dunbar, my housekeeper,” he said to Izzy. “She will see ye to the guest quarters.”

“I’m not going anywhere!”

“It is the middle of the night and ye have had quite a journey,” McRae replied. “No harm will come to ye. I’ve brought ye here only for yer own safety. Go with Mrs Dunbar.”

Izzy looked at Magnus, who gave her a slight nod. “Go, lass.”

“No way! Not without you!”

“I will be fine. Please. Go.”

Izzy opened her mouth to protest, but McRae spoke before she did. “If ye are worried about what will happen to Magnus, dinna be. He willnae be harmed, on this I give my word. I only wish to talk to him. ”

“Like hell you do! I’m not going—”

“Isabelle,” Magnus said, his voice like a plea. “Go with Mrs Dunbar.”

“Aren’t you listening? I said no!”

McRae sighed. “Fine. I was hoping ye wouldnae make this difficult. Take her away.”

Two of McRae’s men grabbed Izzy’s arms and began dragging her across the room towards where Mrs Dunbar waited.

“Get your hands off me!” Izzy bellowed, trying and failing to kick them in the shins. “Let me go, you bastards!”

She might as well have struggled against the wind. They reached Mrs Dunbar, who turned and led the way out of the room. Izzy was dragged after her. As they reached the doorway, she looked back desperately over her shoulder at Magnus. He was staring after her, desolation in his eyes.

“Magnus!” her desperate cry echoed in her own ears before the door was slammed behind her, blocking him from view.

MAGNUS WATCHED ISABELLE leave with a taste like ashes in his mouth. How had everything unraveled so quickly? Only hours ago she had been in his arms, and he’d been filled with light and hope. Now he was filled with only darkness.

He pulled a breath through his nostrils, trying to still the despair that filled his veins. He could not afford to give into it. If he did, he was lost .

“Ye can let me go,” he growled at the men pinning him. It had taken four of them to hold him against the wall and many others lay insensate where he’d knocked them down. “I willnae hurt McRae.”

The men looked at Eamon for permission and the lord nodded slightly. The men let him go and Magnus staggered, feeling all his bruises and cracked ribs.

He straightened and faced his old mentor. Eamon was older, of course, his face more lined, his hair thinner, but he’d changed in other ways too. The warmth that had once suffused his expression was gone, replaced by twisted hatred. Aye, he’d not been lying when he’d told Isabelle that Eamon, the man who’d been his mentor, had died years ago. The man standing before him now was a different person entirely.

“Ye have me now,” Magnus growled. “So there is no need to drag Isabelle into the darkness that lies between us. I’ll not resist. But if ye hurt her, I swear I’ll—”

“I have no intention of hurting Isabelle,” McRae cut in. “I never did. I said I brought her here for her protection and I wasnae lying.”

Magnus narrowed his eyes. “Then what do ye plan to do with her?”

“In the morning, after she’s rested,” McRae replied. “I will escort her to Dun Saith, as my spies tell me ye planned to do all along.”

Magnus blinked at this unexpected twist. What was McRae up to?

“Why would ye do that? Dinna expect me to believe that it’s out of the goodness of yer heart. We both know ye dinna have a heart any more. ”

“If I dinna, then whose fault is that?” McRae snapped. He nodded to one of his guards, who quietly left the room. “I will keep my word and see yer woman taken safely to Dun Saith. If...” He left the word hanging.

Magnus took a step forward. “If?”

The door opened and the guard returned, bringing another man with him. He was barrel-chested and sweat and soot-stained, and Magnus felt a jolt as he recognized him.

Armand. The blacksmith from Torloch.

Magnus looked from Armand to McRae. “Why is he here?” he demanded.

“Armand is here at my request,” McRae replied. “He’s a witness.”

“A witness to what?”

McRae turned to the blacksmith. “Why dinna ye tell him what ye told me, my friend?”

Armand cleared his throat and glanced between McRae and Magnus. He had a bruise forming over his eye from where Magnus had hit him earlier this evening and a smoldering anger burned in his eyes when he looked at Magnus. Yet when he looked at Eamon McRae, Magnus saw something else in the man’s face.

Fear.

“Several months ago, this man came to see me,” Armand said. “He placed an order with me for twenty of the finest blades and paid gold up front.”

“What?” Magnus cried. “I did naught of the sort! That’s a lie! ”

“I have the order right here,” the blacksmith continued, holding out a parchment. “And I’ll vouch as much before the king’s justiciars.”

“I see,” said McRae. “But there is naught sinister in asking a blacksmith to make swords is there? That only becomes a problem when those swords are used for nefarious purposes. Say, for arming a band of outlaws?”

Magnus went very still. “ Ye ordered those swords,” he said to McRae. “ Ye are the one arming and equipping those outlaws. Ye are the one responsible for their atrocities.”

“Am I?” McRae asked. “Not according to that document, I’m not. Not according to this upstanding citizen, I’m not. That, I’m afraid, is all down to ye.”

Magnus stared at McRae. What had happened to his old mentor? How had he become so dark and bitter? Was there nothing at all left of the man he once was?

“So that’s it then,” Magnus said quietly. “That’s why ye’ve been doing this. It’s about revenge.”

“Revenge?” McRae hissed, his expression twisting. “Revenge? This is about justice!”

“Justice?” Magnus echoed, a bitter laugh ripping through his chest. “Ye call this justice?” He gestured at the blacksmith, Armand, who was now standing rigidly against the wall. “By twisting an innocent man’s words and using him for yer own means?”

“Everything I have done,” McRae replied, not missing a beat, “is in service of justice. I took ye in. I gave ye a home. And ye destroyed me!” He ripped off his plaid, revealing the rest of the livid scar that ran across his skull, down his neck, and then across his back.

“See this?” he roared. “Ye did this to me!”

Magnus flinched, his guts twisting at the sight of the scar. “I...” he began, but words failed him.

“Ye did this to me, and what consequences have ye ever faced?” McRae bellowed. “None! Yer precious Order of the Osprey has shielded ye ever since and ye have become everything they wanted ye to become! The honorable warrior! The fierce protector! Well, now it ends! I will have my justice!”

McRae crossed to the table and thrust the ledger he’d been writing in towards Magnus. Magnus squinted at it. The ink was fresh, the handwriting meticulously executed—but not in McRae’s hand. In Magnus’s. A copy so well executed that nobody would be able to tell the difference.

It was a confession. A confession that detailed every secret meeting with the outlaws, every whispered instruction, every coin that had crossed palms. A map of treachery and deceit. Except, according to this confession, it wasn’t McRae at the helm. It was Magnus.

“Sign it,” McRae demanded, his voice low and dangerous. He tossed a quill onto the table. “Sign it and confess to yer crimes.”

Magnus looked at the ledger, then back at McRae. His eyes met those of his once-mentor. “These are lies. I willnae sign anything.”

“Are ye so sure of that?” McRae’s voice was an ominous whisper. “What is yer freedom worth, Magnus? Is it worth Isabelle’s life? Sign the confession and I will see her safely to Dun Saith. Dinna sign the confession and she dies.”

“If ye harm one hair on her head— ”

“No harm will come to her if ye do as I ask. Sign the confession and she leaves Dun Crogan unharmed. Dinna sign the confession and...”

He didn’t finish his sentence, letting the threat hang in the air. Magnus felt his heart pounding in his chest, a fiery anger mixing with a cold, insidious fear. Isabelle. He glanced over at the door, half expecting to see Isabelle dragged in, her eyes wide with fright. But the door remained closed.

He looked down at the ledger before him, its pages filled with lies and deceit, all crafted by the man he once called father.

What is yer freedom worth?

Nothing. His freedom, his life, was worth nothing against Isabelle’s safety.

With shaking hands, he reached out and took up the quill.