Page 82 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
Doughall knew where Flynn’s story was heading, his fingers shaking as he fought against every burning desire to crush his uncle’s throat like a twig. He had to hear it. He had to hear it all.
“I dinnae ken how, but yer ma realized that it was me who poisoned her before her weddin’. I asked her to see me at the loch so I could explain meself. She brought yer faither with her, as I’d kenned she would,” Flynn sneered, his mad eyes suddenly brimming with tears. “The men I paid werenae supposed to kill her, just yer faither. I meant to marry her once yer pa was gone. But she must’ve put up a hell of a fight because when they came for their coin, they told me they had nay choice but to kill her too. Said they couldnae catch the boy, and… I’ve always been glad of that. I told ‘em so when I killed them.”
For what felt like an eternity, Doughall stared into his uncle’s eyes, right down to his soul, and saw how black and twisted it was. He urged words to rise to his tongue, to attack Flynn with everything he had always planned to say to the men who had killed his beloved parents, but there was only intolerable, agonizing silence.
For twenty years, ye’ve been right under me nose…
But there was one person who had become more important than Doughall’s parents—a woman, a wife, a beloved angel who was lying in the healer’s chambers, poison running through her veins. It was justice forherthat he cared about now, just as much as he had once cared about justice for his parents.
“And Freya?” he barked.
Flynn wrinkled his nose in disgust. “Isla asked me to fetch her somethin’ a while back. I saw her with that book in her hands, readin’ the note. I kenned she might figure it out, but I watchedand waited, just to be sure.” He paused, a sick smile curving his lips. “I had nay idea that yer maither kept me note. I wish I’d kenned. Deep down, she must’ve kenned it came from me, yearnin’ for me in secret.”
“Me maither loved me faither,” Doughall spat. “She never gave ye a second thought, though I bloody wish she had, so she could’ve seen ye for what ye are. A devil hidin’ in plain sight.”
Flynn’s eyes narrowed. “When ye lose Freya, ye’ll only ken half of what I felt when I lost yer ma. But at least yer lass only has herself to blame—she took that book and that note out of the library. I saw her with it, kenned she couldnae be up to anythin’ good, kenned she’d start askin’ questions. Figured it’d be easy enough to blame Lewis Brown. I guess nae.”
For a moment, Doughall was transported back to the peat mound at the northernmost point of the loch. He concentrated on all the things that Lewis had said before he died, one part repeating in a cycle of dawning understanding.“She got M’Laird killed because she couldnae let it lie. She deserves the same fate. But I dinnae see what concern it is of yers. What is she to ye, eh? As far as I ken, she’s nothin’ to ye other than yer ally’s sister.”
It was never Freya who Lewis was after. What happened at the loch had been an attempt to kill another Kane, but the real target had been Laura. Laura, who had disappeared, her location unknown. Laura, who had sparked the events that had gotten James Stewart killed.
In all likelihood, Lewis had been following Adam and Emily in the hopes of finding Laura and had been waiting out in the woods until they resumed their journey to her. Doughall wasn’t sorry he had killed Lewis, but he had assuredly killed the wrong man.
And now Flynn had poisoned Freya, just as he once poisoned Doughall’s mother.Thatwas what Sorcha and Isla had been talking about.Thatwas why Isla had been permitted to stay behind.
“Ye should’ve let those men catch me,” Doughall said and squeezed.
With all the force he possessed, every drop of his anger feeding his grip, every spark of his fury powering his muscles, he unleashed it all.
“This is for me parents… and for Freya. Ye should never have touched any one of ‘em. Ye should have never threatened my wife.”
Flynn’s eyes bulged, his face turning purple as Doughall’s other hand closed around his throat. The older man flailed and tried to hit his nephew, but it was no good.
Nothing could have stopped Doughall. Flynn could have stabbed at him with a blade a thousand times and he would not have faltered, for this had been festering inside Doughall for twenty years, becoming inevitable the second he saw Freya on the ground, unconscious.
A quiet crunch sounded in the room, and a look of surprise crossed Flynn’s face. His mouth opened as if to try and draw breath, but no air could reach his lungs. Still, Doughall did not stop, squeezing harder and harder until the light had long vanished from Flynn’s eyes.
A gentle hand came to rest on his shoulder.
“Ye can let go now,” Ersie said in a soft voice. “He’s gone. Ye got him, Doughall. Ye got him.”
33
“How is she?” Doughall walked into Sorcha’s chambers, not caring if the healer told him to leave—he was not about to leave Freya’s side again.
He strode to the bed where his wife lay motionless, her hands neatly folded on her chest, and kneeled at her bedside. Gazing at her beautiful face, willing her to wake up, he reached for her hand and held it tightly.
“We willnae ken for a while,” Sorcha replied, washing her hands in a basin while Isla sat off to the side, sipping some medicinal tea. Doughall could smell the bitter herbs from where he knelt.
How do I tell me aunt that her husband—the man she loved—is dead?
He had partially forgotten that Isla would be there, her presence like a thorn in his skull that he could not rip out.
Upstairs, Ersie and a couple of guards were dealing with the aftermath, removing Flynn’s body from Freya’s bedchamber. Fortunately, there was no blood, but the memory would assuredly stain the castle and the clan for years to come. Flynn had been well-respected, well-liked, and made the most delicious whiskey in at least half of Scotland. He really had made himself essential, carrying his dark secret all the while.
“Aunt Isla,” Doughall said quietly, concentrating on Freya’s face.
His aunt perked up, rising from her chair. “What is it, dear nephew?”
