Lana bolted to stand again. “Youmarriedher?”
Duncan grabbed Lana’s wrist and pulled her to sit without admonition, but prompting Lana to swing round and cuff him sharply on the head, all the same.
“Dammit, Mam!”
“Shame on you for keeping this from me, Duncan MacKerrick!” She turned back to Conall expectantly.
“Ididmarry her, with every mean intention of destroying this evilness unleashed upon our clan by that…that old witch,” Conall growled.
He wasn’t expecting his own cuff to the temple, precisely where Eve’s stool had found its mark.
“Mam! Dammit!”
“You’ll nae speak that way of”—Lana hesitated, stuttered—“of the dead.”
Conall rubbed his head and glared at his mother. Then his indignation fell away as despair consumed him once more. “I thought—when Duncan first came to the hut after the storm, I thought ’twas working. The news from town was good, hopeful.”
“Better days than we’ve seen in many a year,” Lana agreed, her tone gentling. “But where is this woman now, Conall? Why have you nae brought your wife home to us?”
“I left her. At the hut.” Conall’s throat constricted as he thought of his sweet Eve alone in the vast darkness, as well as the fact that she was likely much safer there on her own with Alinor than anywhere near Conall. He struggled to clear the emotion from his throat. “And I hope she is nae longer my wife—I renounced her.”
Lana gasped and the next instant Duncan had rammed into Conall, tackling him from the stool. Duncan raised up and drew back his fist. “You son of a bitch!”
“Stop! Stop!” Lana screamed, wrapping an arm about Duncan’s neck and dragging him, flailing, from atop Conall, much as she had done when they were lads. “Stop it!” She turned Duncan away and shoved him from her. She stood over Conall and stared down, the rippling fire in her brown eyes warning of her ire. “Conall MacKerrick, you explain to me why you would do such a dreadful thing.”
Conall pulled himself up slowly, his cooling muscles singing agony now. He righted his stool and sat upon it with a grunt, ran his hands through his hair, and glanced up at his furious brother, having already forgiven him.
“I love her, Mam. I do.”
“Yer a fuckin’ madder, you are,” Duncan spat. “There’s nae good reason for you to have left Eve, in her con—”
“She lied to me, Dunc,” Conall interjected.
Duncan stopped abruptly and stood for a long, quiet moment, digesting the blunt statement. Then the blood seemed to drain from his face and a wiry arm shot out to steady himself against a wall.
“Ah, glory. Nae. It canna be.”
Lanna appeared immensely confused and frustrated. “You’d better explain fully to me, Conall, for I doona ken why you would renounce your wife, leave her to fend for herself if you love her as you claim. Why not bring her back? Have you nae looked about the town? Whatever has happened, the curse is lifted.”
Duncan had forsaken his mug for the whole jug of spirits and turned its bottom toward the ceiling.
“It’s nae lifted, Mam,” Conall said.
“Itis,” Lana insisted. “Look—”
“She’s nae Buchanan, Mam. She’s English.” But Lana did not seem moved by this piece of information.
Duncan at last lowered the jug. “And she’s pregnant with Conall’s child,” he added bitterly.
That at last caused Lana to sit, stunned. “My…my grandchild?”
“I left her—renounced them both—hoping that…” Conall was unable to continue. Duncan crouched at his side and placed a bony palm on his shoulder, until Conall found the strength to finish. “I doona want them tainted by the curse, Mam. She is carrying”—he took a ragged breath—“my bairn. If anything would happen to them because of me…if I would have only told her…”
Duncan squeezed his shoulder.
In a moment, Conall continued. “I will set out for the Buchanan town at first light, to beg mercy from Angus Buchanan.” He turned his head to look at Duncan. “You’ll go with me, Dunc?”
“Damned right, I will.”
