Page 63 of The Highlander's Twisted Deal
She withdrew a sheaf of crumpled letters and pushed them towards him. He grabbed them reflexively, some of the pathetic sheets of paper drifting down to the ground.
“End it here, Marcus. Please, if ye love me, end it here,” she pleaded softly and then turned on her heel, leaving without waiting for an answer.
Marcus stood where he was for a moment. He stuffed his letters into his pockets, angrily crumpling the paper into balls. He would finalize things with Moira tomorrow, he decided. Before the announcement of the heir came.
Marcus paused for breath, closing his eyes. Ava breathed out, realizing that she’d been holding her breath.
“Ye loved Callum’s maither, then?”
He nodded. “Before she married me braither. Those two were almost made for each other, everyone said so. They were perfect together. I wish I hadnae loved her. I would have given anything to make it stop. But at the back of me mind, there was a kind of jealousy, resentment. After all, whyshouldshe nae love me? Just because I was the second son and he was the eldest, he had everything. He had the woman we both loved, the throne we both coveted. Me life seemed to cruelly mirror his. We both had devoted wives, sons about the same age, and a life of plenty and authority. But I was a shadow of him. I should have left, really. Moira would have come with me anywhere. But I couldnae. Keep McAdair was all I’d ever kenned. It was bound to come crumbling down, in the end.”
Ava leaned forward. “So, what happened, then?”
He sighed. “The inevitable happened.”
Marcus’s head was pounding. The feast—he could barely even remember what they were celebrating, now—was over and had been for hours. The Keep was quiet and dark.
And somebody was shaking his shoulder, none too gently.
“Moira?” he managed. “What is it?”
“I am nae Moira. Wake up, ye fool.”
Jane.
Marcus was wide awake in a moment, struggling to sit upright. He was sleeping on one of the hard wooden benches in the hallway, and everything ached. He felt sick. How much wine had he drunk? Too much, of course.
He had his bone-handled knife, the one that Angus had carved for him when they were children, strapped to his belt, and it had dug painfully into his hip and left a nasty bruise. He pulled it loose from its sheath to reduce the painful pressure, rubbing his thumb over the carved patterns on the hilt.
Jane was leaning over him and backed away when he sat up, her lips pressed together, her arms tightly folded. The years melted away, and Marcus was a moon-struck youth again.
“Jane,” he repeated, the name sounding like a breath and a prayer all at once.
“Ye didnae burn the letters,” she said, and her voice dripped with bitterness and rage. “The letters ye sent me. I gave them back, remember, when I was pregnant with Callum. I should have destroyed them meself.”
Marcus swallowed. It was true, he had not destroyed the letters. He couldn’t. He’d kept them in his study in a box under a table.
“What about them?”
“Angus found them,” she said, her voice clipped and hard. “He saw ye flirting with me all night at the feast. Ye were so drunk that ye could barely stand. Later, he went to yer study and opened that box. He must have been suspicious. He thinks that we have been having an affair all these years.”
White-hot fear coursed through Marcus. Jane had always been lost to him, he knew that, but his brother…
He stumbled to his feet, ignoring the nausea and dizziness. “I’ll deal with this,” he managed. “I’ll tell him that ye had nothing to do with it. I’ll tell him, I swear.”
Jane sagged with relief. “Thank ye, Marcus.”
* * *
Jane and Angus’s rooms were alight, the fire burning in the grate and countless candles lit wastefully everywhere. Nerves surged in Marcus’s gut, and his fingers tightened on the knife.
Angus was in the middle of it all, a half-full bottle of whiskey perched precariously on a table at his elbow. He got unsteadily to his feet when he heard footsteps approach, and Marcus realized that he was drunk, too.
“Ah, there ye are,” Angus slurred. “What have ye to say for yerselves, eh?”
“Yer wife has never been unfaithful to ye,” Marcus said, lifting his chin. “Never.”
Angus swallowed, glancing shamefacedly at Jane. “Aye, aye, I… I ken that. I’m sorry for what I said, Jane. I was angry and drunk.”
