A cry sounded in the corridor before he could begin to unpack what had just happened. He exchanged confused looks with Duncan, and they both watched as the door opened wide.
Fiona stumbled in with her cloak wrinkled, and both hands gripped the frame to prevent a fall. The momentum shook the lock, but she did not cross the threshold. She only looked around as if she had run the length of the wall.
“Jack,” she panted. “The bairn. She willnae stop crying. She keeps reaching for Emma. She keeps sayin’ Mama. She kens that Emma is gone.”
Jack’s heart clenched hard. “Where is she? Give her to me.”
“Down with yer maither,” Fiona said. She took two steps forward and caught herself on the back of a chair. “Listen. There is more.”
“Say it.”
Fiona lifted her eyes. Tears shimmered there but did not fall. “Arthur,” she whispered. “He is gone. I tried to stop him, but he left before dawn.”
The name hit him like a boulder, and everything suddenly clicked into place.
“Fiona?” Jack prompted, taking a step toward her. “What did ye do?”
“Ye must forgive me.” The distress in her voice was clear as day. “He said it was the only way. That this was the best way Moira could get peace. I tried to stop him. Believe me, I did.”
Jack looked up at Duncan, whose eyes were just as wide.
“‘Tis Arthur,” Duncan murmured, still in disbelief. “’Twas him who sent the intruder.”
Jack crossed to the wall and took down his sword. The leather hilt felt right, and the old weight steadied his hands.
Duncan hurried to bar the door with a forearm. “Jack, where are ye going?”
“To get me wife back,” Jack thundered.
CHAPTER 35
Emma ranlike her life depended on it.
Because it did.
Branches bit at her forearms as she ran, and wet ferns slapped her shins. The ground rose and fell under her feet, and she sped down the path with as much fervor as she could muster.
Boots pounded behind her, steady and unhurried. Arthur did not bother to hide in the trees. His breath came strong, and his voice carried like a blade in clear air.
“Run faster if ye like; nay one is coming for ye. Ye might as well make this easy for all of us and end this now,” he called.
Emma panted hard and continued to run anyway.
“Ye ken, I sent a man once. Thought he would finish it. Ye should thank yer Laird for keeping a stricter watch than I expected, and curse that wee blabbermouth at the gate who almost spoiled the game.”
The words struck as hard as any branch.
She did not look back. She could not. The path sloped ahead, and the mist made every trunk look like a man with a spear. The fear settled low and cold, then climbed her spine and set her teeth on edge.
“Ye wrote it,” she wheezed. “It was ye.”
“Aye,” he answered, closer now. “A letter is a clean tool. A kind one, if a lass listens. Thought it was only fair, since that was howhebroke the news to me.”
“Ye blamed him,” she said, stopping to catch her breath. “In the hall. In the gallery. Every time ye opened yer mouth, ye cut him, and I thought it was grief speaking. All the while, ye were planning this.”
“Grief is a rather great motivator, do ye nae think?” he said, his voice low. “Step out of the shade, Emma. We will finish it quickly.”
She backed into the woods even further, and then the ground fell without warning. Her foot slipped on a root, and she felt the fall coming before she could even hit the ground.
