Page 51 of Bride of Mist
“Kirkoswald?”
He turned fevered eyes on her in accusation. “And ye…ye were part of it. How could ye have…” His voice broke. “God’s eyes! There were lasses inside the church. Children. A newborn.”
“Bloody hell, what are you talking about?” she burst out in frustration. “You’ve only had a nightmare. I’ve never even heard of Kirkoswald.”
For Dougal, threads of the nightmare clung like the sticky web of a spider. But he knew very well it was more than a dream. The images burned into his brain were all too real. The scorched clothing. Gaping mouths. Smoldering corpses. The stench of charred wood and melting flesh.
When he’d first wakened from the hellish landscape, his heart had sunk like a dead lead weight. It was all his fault, he realized. The tragedy at Kirkoswald had happened because of him. The villagers’ deaths were on his head. And he would be haunted forever by their wronged spirits.
If only he hadn’t lingered at the castle, compelled to spar with Gaufrid’s knights…
If only he’d gone to the christening instead, like Gaufrid should have done…
If only he’d never promised the people of Kirkoswald his protection from the beginning…
The torment of his failure sat like a yoke upon his shoulders, a yoke from which he’d never be free.
For a few brief moments as the lass held a dagger to his throat, death had seemed like a welcome friend. An end to his suffering. Payment for his sins.
He might not deserve heaven. But he could fight his way through purgatory. Forfeiting his life as penance, he believed he might make peace with the victims he’d failed. Find redemption in the realm of the dead.
Now, however, the lass’s lies were filling him with affront and outrage, dragging him back to the land of the living.
How dared she deny the massacre and her clan’s part in it?
How dared she refuse to acknowledge what he’d witnessed with his own eyes?
How dared she erase the fallen as if they’d never been?
That kind of denial went far beyond villainy. It was cruel. Inhuman. Infuriating.
His temper rose, and his blood began to boil.
His longing for death disappeared. He suddenly felt a fierce need, not to be punished for his sins, but to seek redemption for them. He had to stay alive, to protect the remaining villages from her bloodthirsty clan. To watch over Darragh’s vassals.
Vassals his brother had abused and abandoned.
Vassals who looked to Dougal for protection, as a champion to keep them safe.
Vassals who could so easily fall prey to the torches of an enemy clan, like Feiyan’s.
And now she had the gall to claim she’d never heard of Kirkoswald.
He shuddered with fury.
“Do not lie to me, wench,” he bit out. “Your kin was there only days ago. Do not feign ignorance.”
“I’m feigning noth-”
“Your clan badge was found there. One o’ your marauders dropped it.”
“That’s impossible. The entire clan has been busy planning the tournament.” She added pointedly. “The tournament you ruined.”
“Is that so?” he challenged. “Not a single mac Giric rode to Kirkoswald to burn the village?”
“I told you, I don’t know Kirkoswald. But nobody burned any village.”
Her disavowal enraged him. And now he sought to punish her. Tightening his grip on her wrist, he chewed out the words with nasty malice.
