Page 57 of When the Laird Claims
Victoria was never going to forget the sound that the smaller blade made as it lodged itself in Charles’ throat, so clean and precise that, at first, there was no blood. There was just a gurgling sound as the man staggered backward into the hallway wall, but it was quickly overshadowed by the loud groan of pain from her father.
That sound spurred life back into Victoria’s limbs.
She did not have time to think about the fact that Arran might have actually killed the Earl. Certainly not while her father was slumping slowly to the ground as Charles’ grip around his neck faltered, both fighting for life, though one seemed to be rushing toward death much faster.
Arran just barely managed to catch the older man before he hit the flagstone floor and injured himself further on that cold, hard stone. With the utmost care, the Laird carefully laid Victoria’s father on his side, his large hands already searching out the spot of injury.
“No… Oh… Oh, no, no, no…” Victoria caught the flash of something silver winking in the low light as she continued her slow approach, weaving through the soldiers who were still fighting.
It was a small blade, pulled from her father’s back and slicked with red.
The pain must have overwhelmed the older man, as he passed out in Arran’s arms, his body going limp. To Victoria, however, that awful stillness looked the same as death.
She did not even make it all the way across the room before her knees gave out, and she found herself slumping to the floor, her shaky hand covering her mouth as she stared at her father and willed him to get up. In that moment, none of his transgressions mattered; she just needed him to be alive. He had evaded debt collectors and thugs and furious gentlemen demanding their money; surely he could evade death, too?
The sounds of fighting around her were already starting to fade, as if the small battle was over just as quickly as it started. The men who had been in Charles’ employ all seemed to stop their combat the moment that their patron was no longer alive. Later, she might reflect on the fickleness of it all. But for now, she could not tear her eyes away from the rapidly paling face of her father.
If he died… what was she going to do?
Would she ever find Melody again? Was Melody safely with Emma, or had Charles managed to get his hands on her? The two men who might have been able to answer were both lying on the same floor, their blood trickling across the dusty stone.
She might not have thought of her father fondly of late, but she had not wished him harmed. She had not wanted him dead.
And Charles had stuck a knife in his back.
Suddenly, the phrase “an eye for an eye” made so much more sense to her. When the insults and the torture and the suffering had all been her own, she had not wanted anyone killed for her sake. But now that Charles had done this, she could better understand why Kristin and Arran had leaped to killing as their primary choice for vengeance.
But now was not the time to apologize for the way that she had been behaving. No, she struggled back to her feet, staggering the rest of the distance toward Arran, as he lifted her father’s limp weight as if it were nothing, and he started to hurry down the hall. Arran did not seem aware that she was there, so she had nochoice but to follow him on her unsteady legs. Behind her, she could hear Kristin yelling for her maid to come and take Ruby to safety at once.
Victoria’s feet would not move quickly enough as she lumbered along behind Arran as he moved over to the next unoccupied room and laid her father out on a table that he cleared to the best of his ability. Neil, his man-at-arms, popped up behind Victoria, poking his head around her body, frozen in the doorway. He wore the blood of another, and muttered something about fetching a healer—and then he was gone.
Meanwhile, Arran’s hands seemed to dance across her father’s body, tearing fabric, wrenching at clothes, pressing down hard upon the older man’s back as if he meant to crack her father’s shoulder. She stared, unable to truly conceive of what Arran was doing.
In fact, she could not seem to make it past the doorframe.
The room tilted, her vision swimming once more—and then everything went black.
26
Victoria dreamed of a moonlit lake that glossed her body in silver as she swam through the breathtakingly cold water. She dreamed of a cèilidh where shapes blurred around her and lively music played, though distorted, as if she were hearing it from underwater. She dreamed of shadows attacking and wet grass soaking through a wedding dress, and of her lithe body swaying to the rhythm of guiding hands on her hips, and the brush of someone kissing her lips.
“Ingrid! Ingrid, I think she’s waking up!” A voice pierced her strange dreams, her heavy eyelids struggling against the weight of slumber.
Someone shook her gently by the shoulders, the jolt of it dragging her further and further from the realm of peculiar things and thoughts that blended into one another. Yet, she did not know if she wanted to emerge from that whirling realm, some inner sense compelling her to stay in the darkness a while longer.
“Victoria? Victoria, can you hear me?” The voice belonged to Kristin; the sound of it opened Victoria’s eyes at last. She would not have been much of a friend if she had not responded when the woman called to her.
The dim light of lanterns illuminated a vaulted ceiling and a large stone room with six narrow beds arranged within it, including the one Victoria was in. It smelled of herbs and earth and wood smoke. The mattress beneath her was not nearly as comfortable as the one in her bedchamber.
“I kent it wouldnae be long until ye awoke,” Kristin said in a voice so relieved that Victoria felt a little relief too. “Ye gave me quite a fright when ye keeled over like that. I thought ye’d been caught by a blade or somethin’.”
“I do not knowwhathappened, in truth,” Victoria admitted, for her head was a little foggy.
She looked toward the figure in one of the opposite beds, the graying hair and pale face bringing back an immediate tide of memory. Her father had a knife in his back. Charles was on the ground, dying, but not without one last act of violence against the woman he could not possess.
“The Earl is dead,” Kristin said with a nervous smile. “The mercenaries left shortly afterward. One or two dared to ask who would be payin’ them what they were owed, but our soldiers saw to it that they were booted out without a single coin. It’s over, Victoria. Ye’ll never have to worry about him hurtin’ ye again.”
There should have been more relief upon hearing that, but Victoria could not feel anything. Where she had previously thought of all the ways she wished she could take revenge on Charles, there was just a sea of nothingness, as though his death had cleared out that corner of her mind and left numbness behind.
