Chapter 24

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

K endrick's eyes snapped open. His body shivered and cold sweat dripped down his forehead as he tried to breathe through his horror. He flinched out of bed, frantically looking about the dark room, unsure of what he hoped his search would yield.

His head bumped against the back of his bed, hitting him to the realization that it was just another of his usual nightmares.

Only, this one had not been like the rest.

What was Uncle Logan doing in the dark? Why was he there? And if Da carried me… if Da was shocked at the sight of Ma's body… who truly killed her?

He settled himself in the seat beside his bed, thinking over his nightmare. His wandering eyes fell on the empty container of herbs by the side of his bed.

‘Tis that, aye. I must've taken too much of that. There is no way he could've been there. Nae my uncle..."

Yet a tiny drop of doubt lingered in him. He shot out of his chair, picked the container up and paced around the room.

The rest of his night was plagued by thoughts of the same, dark nature. He was certain of what he had seen that night: it was not Logan who had walked out of that door; it was his father; he had left his brooch behind…

But why had his mother been holding the brooch in his dreams?

This new nightmare proved to be hellish. Perhaps , he told himself, I've started to go mad from losing Sophia. I must really be mad for doubting Uncle Logan's goodness .

Before he knew it, so lost was he in his thinking, the sun had begun to rise.

An unsettling wave was building in Kendrick's mind, threatening to wash away every shred of peace that remained to him since losing Sophia.

He decided to pay his uncle a visit at his home. He would tell him about his plans to settle for any fair lass he could find, as well as his dream. He'd be cautious, since Logan was always hesitant whenever the subject of the former Laird came up.

It did not matter now. Kendrick was in dire need of his help.

Kendrick forced himself to eat a light breakfast, but nothing tasted as it should. When he was finished, he left for his uncle's house.

Logan's home was a very fine cottage at the edge of the keep. Kendrick had not visited it since he was but a boy. He carefully observed its changes since: black painted bricks held themselves at the corners of the white building, matching the frames of the windows, not dissimilar to the Gibson home at the edge of the village. It sat at the edge of a lock, which mirrored the blue of the skies.

A perfect painting in Kendrick's opinion. Not a place a villain would hide.

Kendrick knocked on the door. When he got no reply, he helped himself into the cottage. Portraits hung on the immaculate walls of the house. A chair that rocked back and forth, exactly like the one that he had seen at Sophia's house, was in the corner of the hall. The hearth burned desperately, crackling in the hearth.

Kendrick found himself lost at the sight of the small house. Admiring the portraits on the wall, following them, he lost track of himself. The next thing he knew, he was inside Logan's room. It was scarcely furnished, but the furnishings were grand .

On the opposite end of the bed, a large portrait caught his eye, startling him. At first, he thought it was a ghost, but at a second gaze, he was staring right into his mother's bright blue eyes.

Her face, which he had forgotten, was right in front of him. Her fair skin shimmered graciously. Her dark, curly hair ran down her shoulders. God above, he could swear it wasn't just a portrait, that it was indeed her sitting right in front of him, in the flesh.

He ran a hand over the portrait, curiously, nervously. It felt good to see her as she truly had been—not deformed as she was in his dreams. Her, in all the color of life.

What was she doing here? Inside the intimacy of his uncle's bedchamber? Even the keep had no such painting of her.

Nae… there was nae single painting of her in the castle. Father had been so angry after he had killed her that he burned it all… or so I thought.

Kendrick was sure of one thing; this portrait was not from a Highland artist, and Logan must have paid a fortune to commission it.

Why would ye have such an expensive portrait of her in yer bedchamber?

"Kendrick!" the Laird heard suddenly from behind him. He turned to see Logan at the entrance to the room. Before Kendrick could utter a word, Logan rushed up to him and tore his hand from the painting.

Kendrick was at a loss. He'd never seen his uncle act so irrationally before. He appeared to be possessed.

"Calm yerself, Uncle!" Kendrick stepped back.

Logan would not look at him. It did not matter. Kendrick would make sure to get to the very root of the mystery. He sat himself on the edge of the bed.

"Whenever yer ready to talk, Uncle, I'll be listening."

Silence fell between them. Only the loud pounding of two hearts kept the room from grave quietness: one impatiently waiting to uncover a mystery; the other, hiding away something—something Kendrick did not want to hear.

Logan took a deep breath. "I am sorry, Kendrick. Ye can choose nae to forgive me, for I've sinned a great deal."

"I dinnae understand ye, Uncle." Kendrick regarded him intensely. "What're ye sorry about? Why do ye have this portrait?"

"Tis the only thing I have left of her."

Kendrick was overcome by fear. A horrid suspicion started to cloud his thoughts.

"Why is her portrait all ye have left?" he asked. "She was nae yer wife…"

"I loved yer mother, Kendrick. I really did love her."

As much as Kendrick had suspected it, he was in no way prepared to actually hear it. "She was yer brother's wife, Uncle! My father's wife!"

"I ken, but I couldn't stop. I tried, but I could nae stop myself from loving her."

"Did she ken… Mother, I mean—did she ken yer feelings for her?"

Logan hissed in hesitation. "She did… and she felt the same way about me."

Kendrick swallowed hard. "What happened ?"

"It started after she gave birth to ye. She did nae love yer father, nae in the same way he loved her. After ye were born, we both finally gave into our feelings. We started enjoying each other's company, and then…"

Kendrick's impatience was drowning him. "And then?"

"Then we sinned. We did things we should nae have done."

"Were ye… sharing your bed with my mother?"

Kendrick's eyes locked on Logan's, and his uncle dropped to his knees before him. "Aye, Kendrick. I am truly sorry. I truly am."

"Did Father find out about this? Is that why he killed her?"

Logan shot his head up. "Nae! Nae , Kendrick! Yer father did nae kill yer mother. He would never have hurt her—he loved her so selflessly that even when he found out our love, he still could nae bear to lose her."

"Then… who did?" Kendrick jolted up from the bed. "I remember it clearly, in that study, that night. I saw her dead on the floor."

Logan let out slow sobs that stunned Kendrick. He had never seen his uncle cry.

Why? Why is he crying?

Kendrick's panic reached a boiling point—slowly, like an enemy emerging from the darkness of the woods in the dusk. "Was it ye, Uncle?" he cried. "Was it ye who killed Ma?"

"It was nae like that, Kendrick. I did nae mean to kill her. I swear it—it was an accident," Logan explained. "That night… I meant to ask her to run away with me and finally be free to live out our love. I wanted to run to a place where we could both nae be ashamed for our actions, but… but—"

"She refused ye, and ye killed her."

"Nae, Kendrick. She chose ye . She could nae leave ye behind, and she did nae want to take ye away from yer father." Logan's sobs exploded in loud cries. "I wanted to convince her to go with me. I tried to kiss her and she struggled to push me away. That was when it all happened. Before I ken it, she had rolled down the stairs."

Kendrick closed his eyes. His heart was shattering, his soul was fading away.

The truth he found was far more devastating than anything he could have imagined.

"I ran to her, Kendrick, but it was too late—she was dead."

"And ye left here there, ripped apart so ye could save yer own head?" Kendrick could hear his own voice rise to a shout. "Did ye even love her?"

Logan shook his head in reply.

"For sixteen years, I have hated my father! I thought he was the one who had killed her. I spent every night in company of the thought that my father was a monster. I deprived myself of love because I feared I would hurt the person I loved because of him—that I would become as monstrous as he was." His shock transformed into anger. "I avoided Sophia because of ye . I have always loved her, but I would nae let myself have her. Even when my father was on his deathbed, I refused to see him or talk to him because of ye . I hated and cursed him because of ye !"

His father's last moments flashed before his eyes.

That Laird had refused food and water for days; he only wanted his son. Yet Kendrick could not bring himself to see him, for he did not feel love nor pity—only hatred.

Aye, I was punishing him for a sin of which he was nae guilty. How much it must have hurt him, seeing his wife with another man, losing her and the only person who should've been at his side loathing him for nae reason.

As if donning a shawl of thorns, Kendrick's body sagged forward. Then he stood upandpunched his fist through his mother's portrait, tearing it apart with fury and pain.

There was no satisfaction in it—nothing could ever wash away the sin of falsely accusing his father. He returned his gaze to his uncle, to those eyes where it all began.

"Father must've ken it, too. He must've ken what ye did. Still, he let ye be—he covered for ye, allowed ye into his home. Ye only repaid his kindness by ruining his son. If ye said naething all those years, then why did ye bother revealing the truth now? Ye should've carried it with ye to the grave."

"I could nae bear it, Kendrick. I could nae. Some nights, I stood outside yer door and heard the torture in yer dreams. I was tired. I hated myself, I wanted to tell ye, but I could nae bring myself to do it. I will pay for my sins when the time comes. If that time is now, so be it, but I cannae bear yer hatred."

"Aye, Uncle… ye'll pay for yer sins," Kendrick muttered. "Stay away from me. I never want to see yer face again—nae in my castle, nor anywhere else. If ye ever show up at the keep, I will do with ye what I would do to any murderer."

His legs took heavy steps out of the cottage, knowing that there was only one thing he could do to make things right.

It's time to bring ye back home, Sophia… I cannae lose ye, too.