Page 75 of The Highlander's Auctioned Wife
“She died of a broken heart, Uncle, seein’ what ye’d done to her beloved and her eldest, dearest boy,” Gordon replied thickly. “If that doesnae show the strength of her love for me faither and me braither, if that doesnae prove ye wrong, then I daenae ken what does.”
Beathan shook his head. “It was yer faither’s poison that did that. I daenae ken how, but that’s what killed her. It wasnae me. It wasnae anythin’ that I did.”
“When ye gave the order to those men to murder me family, ye sentenced her to death,” Gordon insisted grimly, his heart thundering in his chest, his mind igniting with painful memories. “But what I still daenae ken is why ye left me?”
Beathan’s eyes shone, as if close to tears, as he glowered at his nephew, shaking from head to toe. “Because ye were the only one who carriedherblood, our blood, in yer veins.” His throat bobbed. “Yer face is hers. Yer eyes and hair might behis, but yer face… it’s hers. As a wee lad, it was even more so. And ye were young enough to be molded, persuaded against marriage and bairns. I thought I could end yer faither’s bloodline peaceably, bringin’ it to a natural destruction because ye had nay desire to seek marriage or have bairns, and that bastard only has a lass for a child, but…”
Beathan turned his gaze on Anna, his lip curling in disgust. “I meant to take away yer ability to have bairns when I captured ye, but I wasnae quick enough,” he said more quietly, splitting his attention between his nephew and the bride. “I hesitated to make ye endure that much pain because, even now, I look at ye and it’s like seein’ the ghost of her. Still, as I swore to yer maither, I’ll have her revenge nay matter the cost. I’ll end the enemy’s bloodline.”
With surprising agility, he leaped over the pew, drawing a concealed dagger from his boot. He was out in the aisle in aninstant, sprinting like a feral creature toward Gordon, the blade glinting in the beautiful rainbow light that splintered through the stained-glass dome above.
Everything slowed for Gordon, as it always had done when faced with a fight. It was as if Beathan was moving through water, allowing Gordon the time to draw his own hidden dagger, tucked into the back of his belt.
Whispering an apology under his breath, Gordon pushed Anna backward with as much force as he could, sending her flying into the priest’s panicked arms. The man managed to get hold of her, dragging her further backward onto the dais, meaning to pull her behind the meager safety of the altar. It left Gordon clear to destroy the real devil: the monstrous beast who’d been so close, all this time, thinking he would get away with taking everything from Gordon.
“Ye should have killed me twenty years ago,” Gordon snarled as Beathan hurtled closer.
“Now will have to do!” Beathan roared, his arm shooting forward in a frantic jab.
Gordon sidestepped the attack, the point of the blade skimming past his right arm with a faint tear of sharp metal shearing cloth. But as he whirled around to make his own strike, panic struck him like a blacksmith’s hammer to the heart. Beathan wasn’t slowing, his momentum carrying him onward to the altar, his blade still outstretched, as if drawn to Anna.
Lurching into action, urging all of his strength into his legs, Gordon hared after his uncle, catching up to the man an arm’s length from the altar where Anna and the priest were taking cover.
Roaring his fury, Gordon grabbed Beathan by the scruff of his shirt and hauled him backward with all of his might. His uncle wasn’t a small or feeble man, by any measure, but the wicked devil went sailing across the floor as if he weighed nothing at all, sprawling onto the smooth flagstones with a wheezing gasp.
Gordon was on him in an instant, wrestling to rid the older man of his weapon.
“I could forgive ye for tryin’ to kill me,” Gordon seethed, as Beathan bucked and wriggled and writhed, desperate to be free. “But for darin’ to touchher, ye die here: in me faither’s castle, in the very chapel where he married the woman he loved, and who loved him.”
Shifting his weight, Gordon kneeled on Beathan’s arms, ignoring the frantic thrash and strain of those muscular limbs, ignoring the wide-eyed panic on Beathan’s face, ignoring the jarring movements as Beathan tried to kick out and weasel his way to freedom.
“I… raised ye up,” Beathan rasped. “I took care of ye, for her.”
Gordon shook his head. “She’d be alive if it wasnae for ye. Ye did nothin’ for me maither but ruin her life, then end it.” He leaned in closer. “Her blood will always be on yer hands, and I praythat’s yer punishment when ye reach Hell: that ye can never, nay matter what ye do, wash ‘em clean.”
With all the anger and sorrow and pain of twenty years thrumming into his knife-wielding hand, Gordon brought the blade down in a swift, sweeping arc, straight across Beathan’s throat. An echo of what those “ thieves” had done to Gordon’s brother, all those years ago.
But as the blood sprang free, spraying upward like the crash of a wave against the cliffs, a horrified gasp swept away all of his fevered, vengeful, agonizing thoughts.
His gaze flitted up, to find Anna standing there on the edge of the dais, her beautiful, tormenting gown splashed with a slashing grin of visceral red.
CHAPTER 36
As far asweddings were concerned, Anna suspected this might be one for the history books, detailed beneath the simple heading:Catastrophe. She couldn’t think, couldn’t speak, staring down at the streak of blood that seeped into the fabric of her gown, spreading out as if she were the one bleeding.
Well, that’s that ruined,was the only thought she could muster in her abject shock, uncertain of where or how to begin processing all that had just happened.
All of a sudden, she felt arms around her, strong and reassuring and warm. She hadn’t even seen Gordon move, but they were definitely his arms, holding her tight in a comforting embrace.
“Ye need air,” he said, promptly sweeping her off her feet, carrying her down the aisle as though the ceremonyhadn’tbeen interrupted by the death of a man, and the revelations that had come before it.
She didn’t protest or fight as he guided her out of the chapel, though she heard him give some manner of instruction to his m an-at-a rms as they passed, to “take care of the mess.” Like it was just a cup of wine that had been spilled, or a bit of sauce dropped on the floor.
Outside, what appeared to be a sea of soldiers parted for the couple, allowing their Laird and his unwed bride to pass through. And Gordon didn’t stop until he stepped out into the quaint gardens, the fresh salt air caressing Anna’s fiery cheeks, where he finally set her down.
But he didnotlet her go, his hands curved around her upper arms, holding her steady.
“I’m sorry, lass,” he said thickly, his steely eye searching her face.
