Page 47 of A Wife for the Highland Wolf
Blades clanged and locked together, then wrenched apart violently as they attacked, parried, and retreated. Murdoch dodged some blows, struck aside others and watched for some sign that his uncle would regain his sanity.
He wanted to spare his uncle if he could, but he feared that Arthur was beyond saving. He was too maddened by rage, grief and guilt. Too lost in his bitterness.
And what, really, would he be sparing Arthur for? It was not as if leaving him alive would truly be any sort of mercy.
By law, a clansman who attacked his laird or endangered the life of the laird and heir would be executed or exiled. And if ever his first wife’s clan discovered Arthur was responsible for the death of his wife and the violence of the months that followed, they would not show him Murdoch’s kindness.
The realization was a grim one, but it was enough to make Murdoch cease holding back. He parried, then used his free hand to seize his uncle’s blade and slam it down against the desk. Arthur gasped in pain, his grip loosening. Murdoch took the opening and slid his own blade up under Arthur’s ribs and into his heart. He twisted the blade, and Arthur coughed and choked as blood spurted from the gaping wound.
Within seconds the blood flow had slowed and Arthur’s last breath shuddered from his lungs as he collapsed and died.
Murdoch lay his uncle’s body on the stone floor. He’d have to decide later how he would handle his uncle’s burial. Or rather, that would be something Gordon needed to decide, if he was well enough to do so.
The sudden realization made him sheath his blade and hurry to his cousin’s side. Gordon’s breathing was shallow, a deep gash in his shoulder, but he was not dying. Murdoch helped him stand upright and slung Gordon’s unwounded arm across his shoulder.
His cousin was barely conscious, but he still managed a soft word. “Faither?”
“I’m sorry. I had to kill him.” Murdoch kept his voice as low and kind as he could.
“Sorry.” Gordon looked stricken. “I dinnae…”
“Ye dinnae have any part of this. Ye’ve nothin’ to apologize for.” Murdoch guided his cousin into his rooms and helped him to the bed. He removed Gordon’s sash and shirt to look at the wound, then sent a serving lass for Irinia, the castle’s resident healer, while he gathered some rags and water to clean and staunch the injury
“Over?” Gordon’s tentative question broke the silence.
“I daenae ken, but I think so. I cannae imagine there were many folks involved in the scheme. Otherwise, I’d have kent somethin’ was going on much sooner.”
That fact that he hadn’t known would haunt him. Murdock had never suspected that Arthur held so much anger and resentment inside, nor that he would ever betray him. He felt he should have seen the signs of his uncle’s bitterness and done something to prevent it from going this far. There had to have been some way to keep his uncle from succumbing to his own madness.
But it was too late for that. Too late to do anything but continue with his task of upholding his lairdship.
Gordon’s hand tightened on his arm. ‘Ly-di-a?”
The word was like a knife to Murdoch’s belly. He swallowed hard. “I…I lost her.”
Gordon looked as though he wanted to say something else, but he was barely conscious. A knock on the door announced Evina’s arrival and Murdoch stepped away to let the healer do her work.
His tracks took him to Lydia’s rooms and he went inside. He didn’t know what he expected, perhaps a parting note or some other sign of her recent departure. But her things were gone. The only thing remaining was a single tome.
Murdoch moved forward to lift the book from the bedside table. The ache in his heart intensified when he read the cover. It was the book he’d bought for her the day before.
She’d been there less than a fortnight, and yet she’d left a mark on his spirit as deep and as real as the book he held in his hands. And because of him, she was as distant as the lands from which the stories had originated.
25
“Lydia?”
Lydia looked up at the sound of her sister’s voice. She’d been sitting in a quiet corner of the gardens, petting Hector and ignoring the dog’s attempts to get her to play. She felt listless and weary, her eyes sore from the countless bouts of crying that had overtaken her the past week.
It had been seven days since she’d returned to Nora’s home from Lochlann Castle, and she’d yet to find the strength or energy to do anything, lost as she was in the numb haze of hurt that filled her.
Waking and sleeping she was plagued by thoughts of Murdoch. She’d never thought she’d be like one of those pining maidens in stories, but the reality was that everything reminded her of the man she’d begun to love, then lost.
And she did love him, had loved him. She knew that to be true, just as she knew that if she had a chance to change the past, there were many things she’d do differently.
Why had she pushed so hard on the subject of his wife’s passing, particularly when she’d determined he was telling her the truth about his innocence? Why had she pressed him to know secrets that were obviously painful for him to speak about?
She wished she could go back and make it so she hadn’t been so cold to him, so demanding.
