Chapter 32

32

D oughall’s gaze rose slowly to the figure in the doorway. “ Ye wrote this.”

It wasn’t a question.

Flynn frowned, sweeping a hand through his hair. “Wrote what? I dinnae ken what ye’re talkin’ about.”

“This note.” Doughall held up the singed paper. “The note me wife found in me maither’s book.”

Flynn gave an infuriating shrug. “I dinnae ken about any note. I never wrote aught to yer maither.”

“Ye would choose this moment to lie to me?” Doughall seethed, prowling toward his uncle. “I’d ken yer handwritin’ anywhere—I’ve signed enough of the correspondence ye send out for the distillery.”

That eerie calm washed over him as he continued his approach, realizing from the cornered look on Flynn’s face that the man would keep lying, that he thought he could talk his way out of the truth.

“Explain yerself,” Doughall said, his voice unnervingly calm. “Ersie, could ye put the poker in the fire while I talk to me uncle?”

Ersie bowed her head and moved back to the fireplace, stoking it up until the fresh logs began to crackle. Flynn watched her, sweat beading on his brow.

If ye run, I’ll catch ye.

Doughall had already anticipated that his uncle might flee through the open doorway, but Flynn was older and likely knew that he could not outrun his nephew.

“It’s nae what ye think it is,” Flynn said, his eyes furtive.

“ Explain then,” Doughall snarled, now no more than two steps away from his uncle.

With the fire now restored, the flames dancing merrily, Ersie took the poker from the stand beside the hearth, her movements slow and practiced, and jammed the end of it into the heart of the fire, heating the metal.

Flynn’s throat bobbed as he observed her, his eyes darkening as he looked back at his nephew. “I loved her.”

“What?” Doughall hissed.

“It should have been me,” Flynn replied in a grim tone, his face contorting into a mask of pure bitterness. “Ye should have been me son. I loved her like nay man has loved a lass before, but yer pa bewitched her, stole her, took what wasnae his. She should have been mine , but instead, I ended up with her sister just to be close to her.”

A strange fog of confusion descended over Doughall’s mind, his ears hearing his uncle’s words, but it was as if they were being spoken in a different language. Not a bit of it made sense, for he had watched Isla and Flynn for years. He had lost count of the times he had rolled his eyes at their obvious affection for one another.

He lunged forward, seizing Flynn by the front of his shirt. “What did ye mean by that note?” He pulled his uncle further into the room, kicking the door shut so the man could not escape. “When ye said that if ye couldnae have her, neither could he, what did ye mean?”

A sad voice in the back of his head suggested that he already knew the answer. But this was Flynn, this was his uncle—a man Doughall had relied on for so many years, who was so dear to him. Not a father figure, but certainly someone he would have given his life to protect.

How can this be?

Flynn’s eyes were wide and wild, his expression crazed as he tried to wrench himself free. But even as Flynn’s shirt tore, Doughall put a hand around his uncle’s throat—not squeezing yet, but warning him of what would happen next if he did not explain himself.

“I poisoned her first,” Flynn said darkly as he ceased struggling. “Isla saved her life, the wee dolt. Found her in the library and got her to Sorcha in time. Yer ma didnae tell a soul, fearin’ they’d think it was yer da who tried to kill her. She didnae ken it was me. I cannae remember who took the blame in the end.”

The awful realization took hold of Doughall’s throat in a vice-like grip, furious heat rushing to his face as he resisted the urge to strangle the life out of his uncle right there and then.

“I wasnae deterred,” Flynn continued, his eyes burning with a madness that made Doughall believe devils might be real, after all. “I was patient. I let me beloved marry that unworthy beast ye called ‘Faither.’ For ten years, I made meself essential to yer faither. I built me reputation, earned me honor, and waited. Ye were born, and I saw how happy ye made her. I made meself essential to ye too, teachin’ ye things yer pa didnae have time to, bein’ the faither ye should have had.”

Doughall knew where Flynn’s story was heading, his fingers shaking as he fought against every burning desire to crush his uncle’s throat like a twig. He had to hear it. He had to hear it all.

“I dinnae ken how, but yer ma realized that it was me who poisoned her before her weddin’. I asked her to see me at the loch so I could explain meself. She brought yer faither with her, as I’d kenned she would,” Flynn sneered, his mad eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “The men I paid werenae supposed to kill her, just yer faither. I meant to marry her once yer pa was gone. But she must’ve put up a hell of a fight because when they came for their coin, they told me they had nay choice but to kill her too. Said they couldnae catch the boy, and… I’ve always been glad of that. I told ‘em so when I killed them.”

For what felt like an eternity, Doughall stared into his uncle’s eyes, right down to his soul, and saw how black and twisted it was. He urged words to rise to his tongue, to attack Flynn with everything he had always planned to say to the men who had killed his beloved parents, but there was only intolerable, agonizing silence.

For twenty years, ye’ve been right under me nose…

But there was one person who had become more important than Doughall’s parents—a woman, a wife, a beloved angel who was lying in the healer’s chambers, poison running through her veins. It was justice for her that he cared about now, just as much as he had once cared about justice for his parents.

“And Freya?” he barked.

Flynn wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Isla asked me to fetch her somethin’ a while back. I saw her with that book in her hands, readin’ the note. I kenned she might figure it out, but I watched and waited, just to be sure.” He paused, a sick smile curving his lips. “I had nay idea that yer maither kept me note. I wish I’d kenned. Deep down, she must’ve kenned it came from me, yearnin’ for me in secret.”

“Me maither loved me faither,” Doughall spat. “She never gave ye a second thought, though I bloody wish she had, so she could’ve seen ye for what ye are. A devil hidin’ in plain sight.”

Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “When ye lose Freya, ye’ll only ken half of what I felt when I lost yer ma. But at least yer lass only has herself to blame—she took that book and that note out of the library. I saw her with it, kenned she couldnae be up to anythin’ good, kenned she’d start askin’ questions. Figured it’d be easy enough to blame Lewis Brown. I guess nae.”

For a moment, Doughall was transported back to the peat mound at the northernmost point of the loch. He concentrated on all the things that Lewis had said before he died, one part repeating in a cycle of dawning understanding. “She got M’Laird killed because she couldnae let it lie. She deserves the same fate. But I dinnae see what concern it is of yers. What is she to ye, eh? As far as I ken, she’s nothin’ to ye other than yer ally’s sister.”

It was never Freya who Lewis was after. What happened at the loch had been an attempt to kill another Kane, but the real target had been Laura. Laura, who had disappeared, her location unknown. Laura, who had sparked the events that had gotten James Stewart killed.

In all likelihood, Lewis had been following Adam and Emily in the hopes of finding Laura and had been waiting out in the woods until they resumed their journey to her. Doughall wasn’t sorry he had killed Lewis, but he had assuredly killed the wrong man.

And now Flynn had poisoned Freya, just as he once poisoned Doughall’s mother. That was what Sorcha and Isla had been talking about. That was why Isla had been permitted to stay behind.

“Ye should’ve let those men catch me,” Doughall said and squeezed.

With all the force he possessed, every drop of his anger feeding his grip, every spark of his fury powering his muscles, he unleashed it all.

“This is for me parents… and for Freya. Ye should never have touched any one of ‘em. Ye should have never threatened my wife.”

Flynn’s eyes bulged, his face turning purple as Doughall’s other hand closed around his throat. The older man flailed and tried to hit his nephew, but it was no good.

Nothing could have stopped Doughall. Flynn could have stabbed at him with a blade a thousand times and he would not have faltered, for this had been festering inside Doughall for twenty years, becoming inevitable the second he saw Freya on the ground, unconscious.

A quiet crunch sounded in the room, and a look of surprise crossed Flynn’s face. His mouth opened as if to try and draw breath, but no air could reach his lungs. Still, Doughall did not stop, squeezing harder and harder until the light had long vanished from Flynn’s eyes.

A gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder.

“Ye can let go now,” Ersie said in a soft voice. “He’s gone. Ye got him, Doughall. Ye got him.”