Page 83 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
Ye’ll nae call me ‘dear’ once ye hear this…
“Ye should go up to Freya’s bedchamber and say yer farewells,” he replied, wishing he could take her imminent pain from her, wishing there was another way to do this.
Isla frowned. “Farewells? What do ye mean?”
“Flynn… is dead,” Doughall answered, hardly able to believe it himself. “He was the one who poisoned yer sister. He was the one who killed her and killed me faither. He was obsessed with me maither, it seems. I’m sure there’s more evidence to be found, but I’ll have to help ye find it another day. But he confessed to what he did and confessed to poisonin’ Freya because she was on her way to uncoverin’ the truth. So, I killed him.”
The cup of tea dropped from Isla’s hand, shattering on the cold floor. The color drained from her face as the liquid seeped into the flagstones, her eyes widening to the whites as a gasp slipped past her lips.
“I was just tellin’ yer aunt that it couldnae be a coincidence,” Sorcha interjected, drying her hands on a cloth as she walked over to Doughall. “What ails yer wife is exactly what ailed yer maither some thirty years ago. The mix of poisons was identical.”
Isla trembled where she stood. “And I was just tellin’ Sorcha that… I needed a moment to think because…” she trailed off, covering her mouth with her hand.
“Because the poisons were distilled together to form one,” Sorcha finished for her. “And ye cannae make one so refined—and so potent—without a thorough knowledge of distillation. It’s what made it a miracle that yer maither survived thirty years ago, and why I kenned how to help yer wife this time.”
Isla gave the smallest nod. “It was like… seein’ clearly for the first time in a… long, long time. I didnae want to believe it, didnae ken what to do, kept tryin’ to think of how I might be mistaken, but… I suppose I wasnae.” She hiccupped. “Yer ma always insisted that she… just drank somethin’ she found, and I believed her. I cannae believe I… Och, I cannae believe I ever loved that… that bastard!”
It was the strongest word Doughall had ever heard his aunt say, tears streaming down her face as anger burned in her eyes. Hehad expected that she would be torn about the news, but he had not anticipated that she might have suspicions of her own.
“I didnae ken,” she said suddenly, looking horrified. “I swear to ye, I didnae ken. If I had any notion that he’d… hurt me sweet sister or Freya, I’d have killed him meself. Och, Doughall, I’m sorry I didnae see it sooner. I’m sorry I was so blind.”
Doughall smiled sadly up at his aunt. “We all were. He planned it that way. I’m sorry thatyedidnae end up with the man ye deserved.”
Letting go of Freya’s hand for a moment, he got up and went to his aunt, pulling her into his arms. For twenty years, she had been like a mother to him, doing her best to replace the mother he had lost.
He had not always appreciated it, nor had he always returned the constant affection his aunt had shown him. Now, it was his turn to offer her the comfort she needed, being the grown son that she had never had, bonded always by what they had lost.
She sobbed into his chest, holding him tightly in return, as Sorcha poured fresh tea and declared, “Let’s have some of this. It’s goin’ to be a long night for us all.” She paused. “For what it’s worth, I never liked him.”
Freya wasn’t aware of much, surrounded by darkness, uncertain of where she was or if she was still alive. There was one constant, though—a gentle motion that seemed to draw her closer to familiarity, a motion of someone stroking her hair. And a voice whispering things she could not quite understand, tender and compelling.
I ken that voice. I ken it as well as I ken me own.
She wasn’t certain if it was the words or the caresses that finally opened her eyes, or if her body had merely decided that it was time. Either way, her eyelids fluttered open, low candlelight and the rafters of a vaguely familiar room greeting her.
“Freya?” A face appeared in her field of vision, lupine eyes crinkled with concern.
She blinked a few times to be certain of what she was seeing, her throat dry as she attempted to reply, “What… happened to me? I… remember tryin’… to get to ye… but I couldnae do it. I think… I fell.” Her head pounded, her eyes gritty, her mouth dry and bitter. “Did I drink… too much?”
“Of the wrong thing, aye,” Doughall replied with a nervous smile. “Though nae enough to get ye out of marryin’ me.”
She frowned. “But I… wasnae tryin’ to get out of it.”
“I ken. That was a poorly timed joke,” Doughall said, grimacing. “If it makes ye feel better, ye should ken that ye’ve officially won yer wager with Ersie.”
Her frown deepened, everything jumbled up in her hazy mind. “What do ye mean?”
“Well, love, I’ve never felt fear like that in all me life,” he replied with a softer smile. “I didnae ken I was still capable of bein’ afraid, but then… I thought I’d lost ye, and… I almost lost me mind along with ye.”
She tried to sit up, but Doughall rested a strong hand on her shoulder and pushed her back down on the bed.
“Dinnae try to get up yet,” he told her with some of his former sternness. “Ye’re still weakened from the poison. Sorcha said that if ye woke up, it’d be days before ye could be up and about.”
Freya’s eyes went wide. “Poison?”
“Flynn,” Doughall said simply.
“Flynn? I… dinnae understand.”
