Page 95 of Bride of Mist
Dougal had convinced himself the daily battles were only a matter of soothing his brother’s wounded pride. But, goaded by his Fortanach companions, Gaufrid had increased the prize to a ridiculous amount, attracting more skilled and vicious warriors every day.
To what lengths would Gaufrid and his scheming minions go to be rid of him?
Was his brother aware he’d driven Dougal straight into danger? Into the swords of the most fierce border clan in all Scotland?
He shuddered.
That kind of betrayal—by his laird, by his brother—was too painful to accept.
Instead, he grasped at slender threads of hope.
Perhaps Gaufrid, conspiring with the Fortanachs, had simply failed to consider the consequences of his actions. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d acted without forethought.
Perhaps he hadn’t realized Dougal could be killed if he faced off against the combined forces of mac Giric and Rivenloch.
Perhaps in his drunken fog, he’d figured once Dougal was out of sight, he could banish him from his thoughts as well.
Perhaps it had all been a careless miscalculation on Gaufrid’s part.
But with one gently whispered truth, Feiyan snipped all those threads.
“He sent you to an almost certain death.”
The breath deserted his lungs.
She washalfright.
“He didn’t send me,” he said, shaking his head in sad revelation. “He didn’t have to.”
Everyone in the clan knew Dougal couldn’t resist coming to the rescue, whether it was defending the clan castle, saving a crofter from the tax collector, or coaxing down a wildcat stuck in a tree.
She nodded, understanding at once. “He must have known you’d have no choice but to avenge the villagers.”
Even in the midst of devastating betrayal, he was struck by Feiyan’s words.
“How can ye know that?” he said. “Ye barely know me.”
“You’re a man of honor and chivalry,” she said, tugging him along to continue walking. “Fighting for what’s good and just. A champion of the common folk.”
He gave her a rueful smirk. “Two days ago, ye said I was a monster who needed killin’.”
“I was wrong,” she decided. “You’re a hero.”
“A hero?” he scoffed. “What sort o’ hero lets a village burn? Brutalizes a tournament? Knocks a woman to the ground? What hero is haunted by hellish nightmares from what he’s done?”
“Only a hero would ride alone halfway across the country to avenge the death of innocents,” she said, ticking off his qualities on her fingers. “Only a hero would make a gift of his horse to a family of poor crofters.” She held up another finger. “Only a hero would offer to pay half a year’s lodging to try to reform an outlaw lass.”
He frowned. This kind of praise made him flush.
“There’s just one problem with being a hero,” she said, bringing her gushing speech to an abrupt end. “You’re predictable.”
Her insult felt like a bracing slap in the face and humbled him at once.
“So if we’re going to succeed,” she continued, “you need to forget acting like a hero. You can’t just march up to your brother with your head held high and your sword unsheathed and boldly demand the truth.”
He bit the inside of his cheek. Damn the lass. That was exactly what he’d planned to do. Which only proved her point. Hewaspredictable.
He arched a brow at her. “I suppose ye have a less heroic plan?”
