Chapter 23

CHAPTER 23

Grant kicked open his study door, his bare foot smarting at the impact. The sound jolted Reuben out of a nap. He’d been lounging in Grant’s chair with his boots up on the desk, and his mouth dropped open as he beheld his older brother.

“Ye’re alive,” he breathed, gripping his heaving chest. “I cannae believe it. Is Kyla a witch?”

He scrambled up to his feet as Grant approached, offering him a smile.

“What are ye doin’?” He blinked. “Where’s yer shirt?”

“I’ve come to find out what the hell ye did,” Grant growled, leveling his sword at his brother.

“What?” Reuben sputtered, fear flickering in his eyes. He held up his hands and eased out from behind the desk. “Are ye sure ye’re quite all right, Braither? Perhaps ye should still be abed. It was?—”

“Ye threw Emma in the dungeons,” Grant tried to roar, but it came out raspy and broken.

For a moment, he thought he saw a flicker of revulsion mixed with pity in Reuben’s eyes. His rage flared red-hot again, and he contemplated driving his blade straight through the smirking bastard’s chest.

Perhaps Reuben hadn’t pretended to survive their father’s cruelty by going along with it. Perhaps he’d been molded by it.

Even Brenda worried, Grant knew this. He’d overheard conversations between his mother and his aunts, whispered worries about Reuben’s darker tendencies, strange stories from the village—fights and brawls and weeping ladies. But there was never any proof, and Reuben seemed too foppish, too lazy for such things. And Grant had always felt sympathy toward him, for his brother had to live under the terrible shadow of their father.

“Is that what this is about?” Reuben asked, his lip curling. “Ye are that upset about the Sassenach ? What, d’ye want to bed her that badly?”

“Watch yer tongue, lad,” Grant said in a harsh voice, one that resonated with their father’s whip-like intensity, and it seemed to startle them both.

“Ye do, that much is clear,” Reuben said. “Ye want her so bad that ye’d look past her poisonin’ ye?—”

“She didnae do any such thing,” Grant snapped. “Ye are such a bloody fool, Reuben, ye ken that? Think—if she had done such a thing, why nae flee? Or why do it at all? What purpose does it serve?”

“Savin’ her friend from ye,” Reuben spat, his fists clenched and his pale face awash with fury. “I read her bloody letters. She cannae be trusted.”

Grant stared at him for a moment and then barked out a laugh. “Christ, ye are so thick. Even if I were to die, her friend would just be married off to another laird. There is nay escapin’ the Queen’s Edict by murderin’ a laird. And it’s quite a leap, to go from sewin’ parties and balls and music and gardenin’ to murder .”

Reuben’s mouth had been opening and closing, but then he lifted a finger in triumph. “Aye, that’s it, too. The healers were babblin’ about her gifts with plants. She was in the gardens—she could’ve found it there.”

“The healers dinnae grow Skulleyes,” Grant hissed and shook his head, shoving a hand through his hair. “They only grow in the decay of conifer trees, in cold and wet environments. So, mountain streams.”

“Or the loch.”

“I have never seen a damned Skulleye on the banks of the loch. Only afield. This wasnae Emma’s doin’.” He nodded at his furious brother. “Fetch the damn keys. I’m goin’ to free her.” Reuben simply stared at him. “ Now .”

“I willnae.”

Grant cocked his head and swung his sword. “I apologize, Reuben, if ye think that was a bloody suggestion. Move yer arse. ”

Reuben huffed out a breath, and for a moment, Grant thought his brother would not obey him and simply leave the room. But then, Reuben opened a drawer and took out a set of metal keys. Grumbling under his breath in Gaelic, which dredged up unpleasant flashbacks about the previous Laird, he marched out of the study and down the hall.

Finally, after what felt like too long, they were descending into the dungeons. With every step, Grant’s fury and horror rose.

“How long?” he hissed when they reached the bottom.

“Since ye were brought back—three days ago,” Reuben replied, without a smidgen of remorse in his voice. “Ye are welcome, Braither. I looked out for Banrose, and ye?—”

“Dinnae finish that thought,” Grant snapped.

“Grant,” a small, broken voice said suddenly, and he nearly dropped his sword to the floor.

A filthy, disheveled Emma was kneeling on the floor, her arms wrapped around her middle.

“Oh, Grant, you are alive.”

“Get her out, ye bastard,” Grant snarled. “Christ, I should kill ye.”

All he got from Reuben was a scoff as his brother angrily unlocked the door and threw it open. Grant shouldered him aside and hauled Emma up, embracing her, not giving a damn what his brother or anyone thought.

“Where are your shoes? And your shirt?” Emma asked as she pulled back, gazing up at him. “Are you already well enough that you should be out of bed?”

“Aye,” Grant said. “I’m so sorry.”

He did not even need to look back to know that his brother was walking away.

“Reuben,” he barked, his harsh voice ringing with an unquestionable authority. “Apologize.”

A weary sigh echoed down the hall. “I do apologize for the inconvenience, Lady Emma. Perhaps I might be forgiven, since I thought me braither’s illness was because of ye and took the necessary steps?—”

“ Reuben .”

“Nay, truly. I erred, Me Lady,” Reuben said, his voice softer and more genuine. “I apologize, and I shall endeavor to make it up to ye.”

Grant thought that Emma would brush it off or tell Reuben that all was well. Instead, she stepped back and cast a cold, haughty look down the hall. Grant glanced back to see his brother lingering in the shadows, halfway to the stairs.

“I look forward to it,” Emma said in a cold voice.

Reuben scoffed, and Grant shot him a glare. His brother held up his hands and vanished up the stairs.

“Are ye all right?”

“All that matters is that you are,” Emma said.

But Grant knew she was lying. Her cheeks were too pale, her eyes were bloodshot, and her hair was disheveled. Dirt was caked on her neck and hands, and she was trembling from head to toe.

“I cannae believe him,” he murmured. “We never use this terrible place. I should’ve had it destroyed—never mind.” He went to lift her. “Can ye walk, lass?”

“I can walk,” Emma said quietly.

They left the dungeons, Grant only glancing back once to see the indent in the hay by the corner and the poor excuse for a blanket heaped there. Everything inside him seemed to shake with a fury that tasted of hot copper and cold, rancid guilt.

How could this have happened? How could everyone let Reuben do somethin’ so foolish and wrong?

As they went upstairs, his folk stopped and bowed to him, and he saw the relief in their eyes.

A thought came to his mind, unbidden.

Same as yer faither did—he was Laird and his word was Law. Nay matter how terrible, how cruel, or how wrong.

It shook him, and he was glad he was heading to Emma’s chambers. Once he pushed the door open, the maids waiting there almost wept at the sight of their mistress.

Grant quickly ordered them to draw her a hot, lovely bath.

“How do ye feel?” he asked her softly when they were alone again, the maids having hurried off to fetch water.

“How do you feel?” Emma looked him over again. “You are in trews, without a shirt or boots on, and you’re carrying a sword.” Her eyes narrowed. “Did you need that to convince Reuben to apologize?”

“I-I was angry.”

“Hmm,” Emma murmured and stepped back.

Silence fell between them. Exhaustion was creeping over Grant, along with hunger, but he did not want to leave her just yet. He thought she might speak, but she simply hugged herself and looked around the room, as though she did not believe she was really there.

I wish ye didnae go through such an experience because of me, he wanted to say, but it seemed so trite—so meaningless. This rich, pampered, highborn Englishwoman had spent three days in a stone cell, with naught but mice, stone, and shadow for company. And that was all his fault.

Maybe I should have never brought ye here.

Everything inside him rebelled at the thought. Even though he knew that nothing would have dissuaded him from bringing Emma to Banrose.

The maids returned, and he sighed. “I… I shall leave ye. Send for me if ye need anything.”

Out in the hall, Grant felt a surge of helpless, useless rage. It was the same emotion he had felt after being banished from Banrose.

As tired as he was, he knew that he could not tarry. So he turned and headed for the stairs.

As he walked down the hall, a figure emerged from the shadows and stepped toward him.

“Braither,” Grant said in a cold voice.

“Braither,” Reuben echoed with faint contempt, but there was tension around his eyes. “Ye ken I only did what was right, aye?”

“Aye, I ken.” Relief flashed across Grant’s face. “I ken that ye acted in haste without any evidence or thought for the consequences,” he added. “But let me tell ye—ye are lucky I didnae die. Because if I had, I’d have sent the real Devil to Banrose to end ye.”

Reuben flinched, pausing and shaking his head. Then, he called after his brother, who had resumed walking. “Where are ye goin’ now?”

“To do what ye should have done,” Grant answered.