Page 56 of Highland Sword
Morrigan realized the heaviness was beginning to lift off her. The fist squeezing her heart was beginning to ease slightly. She knew Isabella understood that no one could make the past go away. No one couldfixit, as Archibald had intended to do. Morrigan needed help, but the decision of what to do had to be hers.
“I want Wemys to suffer.”
“He is.”
“I want him to die slowly and painfully.”
“He will. There is no escape for him.”
“I think I know why he wants to speak to me.”
“Knowing that death is imminent triggers regrets in many people,” Isabella said, wiping the tears from under Morrigan’s eyes. “They want to be forgiven for the sins and the crimes they’ve committed.”
“I won’t forgive him,” she said passionately. “Never. And I don’t care to hearwhyhe did it. Or why he felt he had the right.”
“Never think you need to see him or speak to him. Just say the words and I’ll have him moved back to the village.”
Morrigan shook her head. “He’s dying. That’s enough.”
“There must be something I can do for you.”
There was. Morrigan had already thought about it. “I’d like you to make a deal for me.”
“What kind of deal? With whom?”
“With Wemys,” Morrigan told her. “I want you to tell him that I am not playing his game. Whatever is left to his miserable life, he can spend it alone, stewing in his fearsof what lies ahead for him. I’ll not spend it at his bedside, listening to him drone on and on. He gets only one visit from me. One.”
“Are you sure?” Isabella’s brow was furrowed with concern. “You don’t need to do this.”
“But I do. I can’t let the Chattan brothers hang because that horrible man isn’t willing to reveal information he has,” Morrigan told her. “The deal I am asking you to make is that he give Mr. Grant the information he needsfirst. Those are my terms. I’ll not speak to him unless he helps.”
“And if he agrees?” Isabella asked, still sounding unsure. “You’re willing to see him?”
“I will,” Morrigan decided. “I’ll meet with him. But, devil take me, I’ll never forgive him.”
On Hallow-Mass Eve…
The Lady she sat in St. Swithin’s Chair,
The dew of the night has damped her hair:
Her cheek was pale—but resolved and high
Was the word of her lip and the glance of her eye.
She muttered the spell of Swithin bold,
When his naked foot traced the midnight world,
When he stopped the Hag as she rode the night,
And bade her descend, and her promise plight.
He that dare sit on St. Swithin’s Chair,
When the Night-Hag wings the troubled air,
Questions three, when he speaks the spell,
