Chapter 25

CHAPTER 25

Just beyond the village stood a row of ramshackle huts that had fallen into disrepair. All long since abandoned, the occupants driven out in the upheaval after the former Laird had attempted to kill Grant. There had been a riot in the village, a fire, and many had fled.

When Grant had returned as Laird, in addition to building the hospital, he’d ensured that every villager had a sturdy, well-insulated home. That had sometimes meant leaving huts such as these and moving into a new one. And even though Grant had wanted to destroy the empty ones, such things took time.

Now, he regretted not doing it.

As the sun seemed to dawdle, as though anticipating the sultry days of summer hence, the peaceful scene was incongruous with what lay ahead. Birds chirped in the underbrush and the trees as Grant and his men passed beneath them. The trembling maid at the rear was guarded by McWirthe and his nephew. Reuben, meanwhile, stuck close to Grant, twirling a blade in his hand.

Just down the road, the villagers were decorating the streets and their homes with garlands of flowers, hanging lanterns, and cooking mountains of food for the upcoming festival. Every so often, across the fields, Grant heard children’s laughter and strains of music.

Fury squeezed his heart, and he gripped his blade tighter.

How dare this bastard attempt to ruin the peace he’d bled and fought for? The peace that his people had bled and fought for? And how dare this bastard’s actions cause Emma even a moment of pain?

As they approached the hut where the Skulleye seller had last been seen by a village lass, a cold fear welled up inside Grant.

Eventually, they paused.

Someone was whistling, and Grant’s eyes went wide.

It was the same tune that the man who had attempted to kidnap Emma all those weeks ago, just outside Morgana’s tavern, had sung.

A man emerged from around the corner of the hut, swinging a headless chicken, and Grant stepped forward. Reuben grabbed his arm, and Grant nearly threw him off, but he stopped when his brother gave him a warning look, and mouthed, “ Make sure. ”

Grant glanced back at the maid, who was pale to the lips and seemed about to faint. But she squared her shoulders when she met his eyes and nodded.

So, it is him.

Cold determination flared along with his rage. So, this was the man that Reuben had tried to track down. Indeed, as he glanced up at the sky, Grant could see the resemblance.

The man went inside the hut, and Grant wrenched his arm free. Gesturing with his head, he began to move toward the hut, and he sensed the guards flanking him. McWirthe’s nephew, who was faster than all of them, was already behind the hut.

Only when Grant was sure that the slippery bandit could not escape again did he step inside.

The man whirled around and lifted a butcher’s knife, sneering at Grant. “Ye picked the wrong house, boyo.”

“Did I?” Grant asked as he lifted his own blade.

The man went as white as the chicken feathers on the table, and he stumbled, his back hitting the wall hard. His blade fell from his hand, hit the ground point first, and remained there, shivering with a high whine.

“The Laird. Nay, I was—” His eyes suddenly went wide. “Oh, Banrose is full of bloody snakes, ain’t it? Always lookin’ after their own hide.” His lips curled into a strange smile. “Cannae escape yer destiny, lad. Nay matter how much ye try to outrun yer faither’s dark shadow, it’s right there at yer heels.”

“Is that so?” Grant asked.

“Aye, and one always waits by the door,” the man said and suddenly threw a blade at him.

But Grant easily dodged it, then threw his sword at the bandit, who’d been attempting to stand up. It drove right through his chest, and the man wheezed out a laugh, grinning at Grant through a mouthful of blood.

“Nay escape from the devil, boyo.”

And then, his head lolled to the side, the light leaving his eyes.

Grant approached him and pulled his sword free as his men filed inside. The strong smell of whisky invaded his nostrils, and he shook his head.

“That was uncanny, nay?” McWirthe asked quietly as he joined him and nudged the man’s leg with his boot. “Bletherin’ on. Never heard a man who was afraid of ye mock ye.”

“Aye,” Grant uttered, slightly disquieted. “Look into this.”

“Och, ye’re both fussin’ for nothin’,” Reuben drawled. “He was a drunk and a bit mad. It’s well-kenned, Me Laird. I told ye this.”

Grant and McWirthe exchanged a glance, one that they usually shared on the battlefield when they sensed that there was more work to be done. That the quiet was heralding a coming storm.

His man-at-arms nodded at him, and Grant relaxed slightly, knowing he’d look into it.

“Burn the body,” Grant ordered and turned on his heel. “And have the men tear down these damned huts.”

With that, he strode out of the rotten room and into the early evening. Stars were appearing overhead, and he pulled in a deep breath, grateful that at least this part was over.

“Thank ye,” he said to the maid, who was clutching a guard’s arm. He glanced at his guard. “Take her home, lad.”

They took off, while Grant decided to make his way through the village. He stuck to the shadowed paths he’d once known, though Banrose Village had grown considerably in his absence.

Everything was at peace here. No one knew what had happened back in the abandoned huts. They did not suspect ruin still dogged them.

No . So long as I live, this village will be safe.

And he would destroy anyone who might threaten that, no matter who they were.

Grant took longer to return to the castle than he meant to, and night had fallen, with a crescent moon hanging low over the loch. A breeze rolled in from the sea, warm and inviting, but soon spring would end, and summer would come—and he wanted none of it.

These two nights would pass too soon.

He thought then of Laird MacLarsen and how he’d married a lass the Queen had not chosen. She was Emma’s twin sister, to be sure, but from what he’d heard, the lass had told him at the altar what her true name was. How Matthew Wells had attempted to deceive him, how she had been raised in a convent, and yet MacLarsen had still chosen her.

Something about that gnawed at Grant’s chest, an idea that he did not dare to voice yet.

Not until he saw Emma waiting at the front doors, wearing a silver-blue gown, her eyes round and wide. She tried to surreptitiously wipe her tears away, but he could have told her it was no use.

She did not come down the steps as he approached. He slowly climbed up the stairs and paused a step below her, not caring who saw him. He was nearly at her eye level, but she was simply too petite.

He watched her eyes rove over him and knew that she was checking for injuries. A lazy smile had spread across his face by the time she looked at him again and her nostrils flared, but her blue gaze remained serious.

“Did you find him?” she asked, and he nodded. “Did you… take care of him?”

“I killed him, aye,” Grant said.

She flinched. “But why?”

“He could have killed ye in his mad plot to get to me. He could have harmed ye.”

“Were there no other options?”

Grant lifted a shoulder. “Not for a Laird.”

Emma’s chest rose and fell as her gaze flicked to the bailey, and Grant glanced back, too. All was quiet now, the few guards at the gate talking amongst themselves and a few prowling the upper walls. Horses whickered somewhere, and there were snatches of song on the breeze. The flickering torchlight danced over the packed earth, and the mingled scent of grass, mud, and smoke drifted in the air.

Grant glanced back at Emma, guessing that the front steps at her parents’ fancy manor led to some fancy lawn or garden.

She looked at him too, and he stirred. Usually, he could read or guess at the lass’s thoughts with ease. But now, she was distant and remote.

“Emma?”

“I am thinking of Agnes, my twin, who married Laird MacLarsen, and my best friend Helena,” she said in a soft voice. “I wonder if they, too, have this kind of danger in their lives. Where their husbands must always seek out justice by the sword.”

There was no judgment or recrimination in her voice. No, it was far more somber, and Grant sensed that she now saw beyond her sheltered upbringing. He felt a flash of admiration for his Sassenach, who had learned to stare danger right in the face and not quail. She only worried for her sister and her friend.

“Probably,” Grant said. “And they’ll be in more danger if their husband cannae protect them, mark me words.”

Emma’s gaze fell. “I see. At least Helena will have you, then.”

Grant stepped closer, causing her to step back, and he caught her elbow. “What do ye mean?”

“I mean that you are going to be my friend’s husband, Grant,” Emma mumbled, looking back up at him.

“Nay,” Grant murmured and glanced around. “We spoke about this—by the loch. For whatever time we have left, ye are mine , Emma Wells.”

Again, even though he held her by the arm, she felt far away from him. And even further when the minx had the audacity to shake her head sadly at him.

“No, I’m afraid…” She bit her lip. “Grant, I am so happy that you are all right. But I cannot stay here anymore.”

“I willnae let anythin’ happen to ye, Emma.”

“You happened, Grant. Don’t you see?” Emma put her hand over his and gently pried his fingers off her. “It’s not even the business with your brother or the bandits. It’s the fact that I should go. I should’ve never come here.” She paused. “And I think you know that.”

“Ye are wrong,” he growled. “’Tis the opposite. I’ve never been more certain that bringin’ ye here was the best thing I’ve ever done. Although, I admit, the mishap with the Skulleyes and dungeons was an unfortunate turn of events.”

“Indeed,” Emma said, a sad smile playing on her lips. “Grant, no. I need to go. Please.”

She turned around and walked into the castle, her arms wrapped tight around her middle, and Grant felt as though he had been stabbed in the chest.

“Ye still owe me three nights, Emma,” he called, and she paused. He walked toward her. “Ye willnae renege on our deal, Sassenach .”

She glanced back. “I suppose.”

Grant stepped around her, and she jutted her chin. “Come with me to the festival tomorrow.” He paused when she gave a slow shake of her head. “Please.”

“But Grant,” Emma said with a soft, disbelieving laugh. “You have not left your castle once since our return. And I’ve heard from enough folk that you rarely do.”

“I’ll make an exception, for ye. If ye go with me.”

Her eyes narrowed on him, and Grant knew to hold his tongue, to wait her out.

Finally, Emma nodded, offered him another smile, and then walked off.

This time, he did not follow her. He simply watched her go.

And wished that he had asked for more time with her.