Page 112 of Taming the Highland Misfits
How would the rest of her family feel if she committed suicide? Aidan, of course, would not lose a wink of sleep over it, and she no longer cared about her father, since he was about to murder the love of her life.
The only one who would really mourn her would be her sweet young brother, Bearnard. Even now he was trying to comfort her, and had laid a hand on hers on the table to squeeze it gently in a tender gesture of solidarity. It gave her a little solace to know that someone was on her side; Bearnard would always be her best friend.
She gave him the faintest hint of a smile, then made another attempt to eat her meal, but it seemed that every mouthful of the tender beef she was eating tasted of ashes. Eventually, she put her fork down, drained her glass of wine, and was about to stand up when her father spoke to her.
“Freya,” he said gently. “I know you are upset, and of course I understand why, but you must realise why I am executing Alex.”
At the word “execute”, Freya flinched and Bearnard squeezed her hand a little harder.
Seeing the sister who was so dear to him in such a state of distress was breaking his heart, and he glared at his father, hating him for his lack of sensitivity. How could he bring up a subject like this, especially in front of his hostile elder brother?
“He fooled us all, Freya,” the Laird went on. “All this time he was plotting against us as he masqueraded as my most faithful man. We were all taken in by him, me especially. I always prided myself on being such a good judge of character, but it seems I was not. I know you will hate me for a while, but you will get over this, I promise you. Now, Alex has made a very strange request. He says that he would like to be executed close to the stables. When I asked him why, he gave me no answer. Do you know, Freya?”
At the other end of the table, Aidan gave a loud, cynical guffaw. “He probably feels more at home there,” he sneered. “Close to all the other animals.” He carried on laughing heartily at his own unpleasant, unfunny joke, and a shaft of pure rage pierced Freya.
She was about to leap to her feet and slap her brother hard across the face when she realised why Alex had wanted to breathe his last breath in such a strange place. The realisation made her freeze in the act of standing, and she gasped before slumping back into her chair again.
The spot he wanted to die on was the very place where they had first seen each other, and the place where, in her girlish sense of superiority, she had tried to prove how important she was all those years ago. That had made him laugh many times since, although it was also a sacred place to them, and they had often lightheartedly talked about marrying there.
Freya had suggested it one day when she was brushing Lance and Alex had come up and joined them. “We could ask Lance to be best man,” she had suggested. “He is a very reliable sort. And very handsome.” Lance nodded as if in agreement.
Alex had laughed heartily. “Indeed he is!” he had agreed, stroking the horse’s sleek neck. “The most handsome horse I ever saw!”
But that had been then, when they were not yet seriously discussing the subject of marriage, and this was the present day. She would never be able to marry her love now. Then, she was abruptly jerked back to reality by Bearnard, who was shaking her roughly.
“Freya? Freya!” He asked fearfully. “What is wrong? You are trembling.”
Freya had not even realised she was quaking. “N-nothing,” she replied. She took a deep breath, then gulped and looked up at Aidan, her eyes blazing with hatred. “I wish it was you they were hanging,” she ground out. “You have always hated me, but I have never felt that way about you until now. Do. Not. Speak to me. Ever. Again.” She enunciated every word separately as if she were talking to a child or a simpleton.
Despite himself, Aidan was shocked. The truth was that he had never hated his sister; she annoyed him in many different ways, and he thought she acted with complete stupidity sometimes. Yet, he had never loathed or despised her.
However, he could not come out and say these things at the table, where he would be immediately contradicted and possibly laughed at, so he lapsed into a stunned silence.
“You said you had spoken to Alex,” Freya said to her father. “And he denied everything. Have you considered the possibility that he denied it because none of it was true, Father? Have you not even entertained the thought that you might be wrong? Can you not give him a little more time to prove himself to you?”
The Laird sighed and shook his head. “All the correspondence was in Laird MacNeill’s handwriting, Freya,” he said patiently. “I saw it myself.”
“Where are the letters then?” she demanded. “Because no one has shown them to me. Are you sure they exist, Father? I cannot believe he is guilty.”
“I am not wasting any more time on this!” The Laird was furious. “If you are calling me a liar, Freya, then come right out and say it. I am trying to protect you from a man who I think is very, very dangerous. All I ask is that you let me do what I think is best for you.”
“And you think that what is best for me is murdering the man I love?” Freya’s voice was high with indignation and anger. She was fighting for her beloved’s life with every weapon she had. She thumped her fist on the table and glared fiercely at him. “If you must kill him, Father, then grant him his wish, because then everyone will be able to see what a heartless man you are.”
“Very well,” the Laird agreed. “The execution will take place at dawn.” He looked at Freya’s stricken face and tried to tell himself that he was doing the right thing, but privately he wondered if his daughter would ever forgive him. He tried to convince himself that she would, because Alex MacNeill had to die–he was convinced of that. The correspondence proved it. But where was it now? The letters seemed to have vanished as if by magic.
He looked up as he realised that Aidan was speaking to him, and tried to concentrate on what his son was saying. He had changed the subject completely.
“I think we have enough muskets now, Father,” Aidan said thoughtfully, “but attacking Cairnheugh will be no easy task. We do not wish to be forced into a situation where we have to besiege it.”
“No,” the Laird said grimly. “That would be a last resort indeed.” He covered his face with his hands for a moment then peered out at the older of his two sons. Aidan had an expression on his face that could only be described as dark glee; he was actually looking forward to the bloodshed and mayhem. Laird Murdaugh wondered where he had gone wrong with raising that young man as he compared him to his other gentle son and his fierce but loving daughter.
As they began to speak about weapons and tactics, Gerald Patterson was admitted to the room. He flicked a triumphant glance at Freya. He was about to execute his enemy and her spirit would be crushed. He had achieved everything he wanted.
At the sight of Patterson, Freya could stand no more. She stood up and left without excusing herself or saying another word.
Patterson looked after her for a moment, then he and Aidan exchanged a furtive smile. Everything was working out perfectly.
Bearnard looked on with disgust, but forced himself to listen to the war plans, and the longer he listened the more afraid he became. There had to be a way to stop this.
