Page 15 of Tangled in a Highland Conspiracy
Ailsa was murmuring softly to John as Ramsay dismounted and knelt down next to them.
“John? John?” He bent over his brother and shook him, looking into John’s eyes with dread and disbelief. “Do not die, my brother. Look, it’s me, Ramsay. I will take care of you if only you stay with me.” He was begging the spectre of death not to take his brother, even though he knew it was too late. Nothing was going to help him now. “Don’t leave me, John. I love you, my brother.”
John’s eyes opened for the last time and a faint smile appeared on his lips. “Love you, Ramsay,” he whispered, then he sighed out his last breath and was still.
“John?” Ramsay’s voice was full of anger as he shook the lifeless body. “Stop this, it is not funny. Speak to me!”
Ailsa closed John’s eyes and said softly, “Ramsay, he is gone, and he is not coming back. At least you were here with him, and he had a chance to say goodbye. He did not die alone, and the last thing he said was how much he loved you. Say goodbye to him.”
Ramsay looked down at the face of the brother who had shielded, protected and loved him all his life. John was the one who had stood up for him, had fought for him until he was old enough and tough enough to stand up for himself, and had shown him in a hundred different ways how much he loved his half-brother. He had never allowed anyone to call him a bastard, or a by-blow, or any other such demeaning names. John had been Ramsay’s hero.
For a long time, Ramsay squatted on the ground next to John. The only time he moved was to break off the arrow near where it had entered John’s chest so that it did not look quite so grotesque. Then he began to stroke his hair and talk to him softly as if John could still hear him.
Ailsa was becoming sore from sitting in one position for so long, and she knew that the lifeless body on her lap would soon begin to cool down. She had seen her mother laying out corpses and knew that in a few hours, John would be stiff and as cold as the earth around him, and she did not want Ramsay to see him like that.
“Ramsay, you must go back to Balmuir,” she said gently,” so that you can bring someone to fetch him.”
Ramsay nodded slowly. He bent down to kiss John’s forehead, which was not as warm as it had been a few moments before. Up until that moment he had been numb and unable to comprehend what had just happened, but as his lips touched his brother’s flesh the reality of it all came crashing down on him.
John was dead. John was dead.John was dead.
The words thrummed through his head like a loud, incessant drumbeat, but he tried not to hear them for a while. It was hopeless, however, and the truth sank in like the stump of the arrow that was still protruding from John’s chest.
Ramsay gathered the limp body to him and burst into a storm of weeping.
Ailsa had never seen a man crying before, but she knew that most men regarded it as a sign of weakness, and she was deeply moved to see the amount of distress that Ramsay was displaying. When she felt tears pricking her eyes, she did not try to stop them, but let them flow freely down her face.
She had not loved John, even though they were engaged to be married, but she knew that he was a good man and had stood up for Ramsay through thick and thin. Loyalty was a quality she valued highly, and John had clearly possessed an enormous amount of it. Ailsa might have grown to love him, but now she would never know.
Ramsay was holding his brother’s corpse, rocking him to and fro as if he were a baby, even though the stump of the arrow was sticking into John’s chest, and she felt infinitely sorry for him. What would she do in the same situation if her sister or mother died in the same circumstances?
Ramsay gradually stopped crying and laid John’s body on the grass after kissing his forehead once more. He looked at his brother for a long time, and Ailsa came and draped her cloak over the still form.
Now that he could not see John’s face anymore, Ramsay felt a little calmer, but as he looked up at Ailsa his anger rose again. “You made him come here,” he growled. “This is all your fault, and I am going to make you pay for it.”
“I did nothing,” Ailsa’s voice was a squeal of terror. “I received a letter from John telling me to meet him here. I came but then we found out that we both had letters written by the same hand with the same signature. Someone tricked us! We were both duped into coming here, Ramsay, and I swear I had nothing to do with it. I would never have harmed a hair on John’s head, or anyone else’s, and I do not consort with those who would.”
She pulled out both the pieces of parchment, which she thrust at him, then said accusingly, “Is this John’s handwriting?”
Ramsay had to move into the full cold glare of the moonlight in order to see the writing, but when he studied each page his jaw dropped open with amazement. The text of each letter was different, but the handwriting was identical.
“This is not John’s writing,” he said, frowning. Then he glared at her. “So is it yours?”
“No!” Ailsa snapped. “I would prove it to you if I had a pen and paper, but I do not. Do you not think that if I wanted to kill your brother I would have chosen some method that was not so messy or dangerous? Do you think I would have come out in the dark, alone and unprotected if I had wanted to kill him? Do you not think I would have chosen a more subtle method?”
They stared venomously at each other for another long moment before Ramsay’s eyes came to rest on the body underneath the cloak again, and a tidal wave of grief swept over him. It was so intense that it brought him to his knees, then he fell onto his face on the grass and a fit of weeping that was even stronger than the one before overtook him.
Ramsay was not only grieving but furious. Why had this happened, he wondered, when John’s life was only just beginning when he still had everything to look forward to? Who had wanted him dead?
He began to beat his hands on the ground so hard that darts of pain began to shoot up his arms. However, it was only physical; it would fade and disappear, then all would be well again. The anguish he was suffering in his heart was a different matter. Unless this had all been some horrible nightmare, he knew he would never see the living face of his brother again.
They would never box, wrestle, or fight each other with swords again. He would never see John’s lopsided grin again or swap playful insults with him. Worst of all, he would never again be able to talk through his problems and uncertainties with his brother, because no one was as patient, or understood him as well as John did. Ramsay would never be able to replace him; indeed, he had no wish to. There would never be another John.
Presently, he felt a gentle tap on his shoulder. He shrugged the hand off, then turned his head to find that Ailsa was gazing at him with such sympathy and compassion in her eyes that he did not have it in his heart to be angry with her any longer.
Ailsa took out a handkerchief from her pocket and held it out to him. He sat up and took it from her, then scrubbed his face mercilessly before trying to hand it back.
“Keep it,” she instructed, pushing his hand away. She had no wish to use a soiled handkerchief, but she could hardly tell Ramsay that at a time like this. “You will likely need it.”
