Page 69 of Marry the Highland Villain
“Aye,” she said, looking up at him. “Aye, Conall, I am. Nae of what ye’ll do, but what ye might cause, and what might happen when yer temper overtakes ye.”
“I see.” Conall’s voice went cold, and she watched him in alarm.
His jaw was clenched, his back straight and his shoulders stiff. His eyes were like storm-tossed clouds, brimming with rage and pain as palpable as thunder during the worst summer storms.
Brigid stepped forward, her arm outstretched, only for him to immediately step back, moving out of her reach.
The gesture was like a blow to her gut.
His words rang like a portent of doom when he spoke, like the curse of a vengeful spirit.
“I thank ye for yer honesty,” he said in a stiff, formal manner, which was nothing like the man who had carried her playfully to his chamber just one night before. “Now that I ken ye’re afraid of me, I’ll nae come to ye again in any manner, until ye seek me out of yer own accord. But ken this, Brigid Barr of Blackwood’s kinsmen, and ken it well—ye are my wife. I’ll nae surrender ye, nae to my temper or yer fear. Nae now, and nae ever.”
He stepped forward then, caught her chin, and tipped her head back so their gazes locked. “Ken this too, my wife. I didnae tak’ pleasure in killin’, and I’d have been happy to have never needed to raise my blade. I didnae enjoy takin’ yer grandfather’s life, and I wouldnae have done it if he hadnae threatened ye and forced my hand.”
Brigid blinked. “But the feud?—”
“The feud wasnae my choice. I didnae start it, nor did I wed ye to end it. I mourned my brother, but vengeance I would have taken only against the man who killed him—and it wasnae ye. Nor even Holdenson, even though he ordered the actions that led to my brother’s death.”
Brigid could feel herself beginning to shiver under his icy gaze. “I dinnae understand.”
“Ye dinnae understand much of me at all, it seems. But understand this, whether ye trust it or nae—my brother died because I was too much of a fool to protect him properly. Or to think afore I raced to his rescue. I’ll bear the weight of it and all that came from it for the rest of my life. But I will never regret defendin’ ye against anyone, nay more than I’ll ever regret doin’ what I must to defend my clan.”
Conall released her and stepped back. His face was so lifeless that his expression might have been made of chiseled stone, and the sight chilled her to the bone, despite the warmth of the room. He stared at her for a long moment, then turned and left without another word.
Brigid stood motionless until the door closed behind her husband. Then, and only then, did she sink to the floor and allow herself to sob, mourning all that had happened that day, and the ache in her heart that she feared would never go away.
CHAPTER 24
She’s afraid of me.
A hot bath, a hearty meal, and several glasses of whiskey later, the words Brigid had spoken to him still refused to leave his mind. He badly wanted to go back and talk to her again, to try to explain himself. But he’d promised not to approach her until she came to him, and he meant to keep that promise.
He also knew, though the thought cut like a knife, that there was no point in going to her now. She would either cease to be afraid of him at some point, or she would continue to fear and distrust him. There were no words he could say that would alter her thoughts one way or the other, just as there was nothing he could say or do that would erase her memories of her grandfather’s blood—her kinsman’s blood, for all he’d been willing to kill her—on his hands. And nothing he could say or do to counter her mother’s dying words.
Dying words. They were a powerful force. Blessing, curse, command, or advice… it was all the same. The words of the dying held power over those they were spoken to and those they were spoken about.
The words spoken by Brigid’s mother might tear the two of them apart, and there was nothing Conall could do about it. He couldn’t make people stop fearing him, and even if he could find some way to accomplish the task, he wouldn’t do it.
Fear was useful. Fear was what kept his enemies at bay, and he couldn’t sacrifice his clan’s safety for his selfish desires.
He couldn’t erase the memories of what he’d done in anger, or to protect others, and he knew no way to ease the fears of people who’d seen him covered in blood or those whose first impression of him would always be marred by the scar on his face, and the harshness it ingrained into his features.
With a groan, Conall raked a hand through his damp hair, then forced himself to straighten in his chair. There were many things that needed to be done. He might as well set about taking care of them—he was in no mood for sleeping or reading, and he knew himself well enough to know that drinking himself into a stupor in his current state of mind would have poor results.
He needed to visit Emily and have her tend the wounds Laird Auchter’s sword had inflicted. They weren’t deep, and he didn’t think the blade had been poisoned—his exertions before would have killed him if it had been—but the healer would still scold him if she found out that he’d left them untended, and he had nodesire to find himself in his sister-in-law’s bad books, as well as in his wife’s.
He needed to write several letters. One to the council of Clan Auchter, to formally explain the death of their Laird and the circumstances surrounding it. Another letter would need to be sent to those lairds who mediated the Highland Gatherings, and possibly another to Court as well. Most would be unlikely to care about the entire series of events, now that the feud was over, but he might still be called to account for killing a man he’d supposedly agreed to a truce with.
Another letter he would send to the Blackwood sisters, although he did not relish the thought of writing it. He’d gathered from the guard that Oliver had effectively banished them and had them escorted out of the castle at swordpoint. They were owed an explanation and an apology, and although he did not expect forgiveness from them, he would make sure they received an apology—one from him and one from Oliver, whom he would make promise he wouldn’t be so foolish in the future.
The thought of Oliver made him groan again. It was far past time he and his brother sat down and had a proper discussion. He understood his brother’s grief and anger, and he shared them, but the way Oliver expressed them had gone too far into blind foolishness, and Brigid had suffered as a result. Such a thing could not be allowed to happen again.
Conall had tried to give his brother time and space to work through his feelings, but it was clear now that he should have taken Oliver in hand well before now. Whether through a longdiscussion over a bottle of peat whiskey, or a knock-down brawl in the training yard, they both needed to air their grievances and clear the air once and for all.
They both needed it, loath as Conall was to admit it. Oliver wasn’t the only one who’d lost his senses to grief and anger. Conall, too, had become far too prone to swinging his blade, rather than finding some other way to mend a dispute. The fact that he’d nearly killed his brother in a fit of rage was proof of that. There were times when a sword was what was needed, but even he could admit he’d become a little too comfortable at the thought of shedding blood.
’Tis nay wonder Brigid is scared of me.
