They would rebuild. Of course, they would rebuild. Ailsa didn’t even have to communicate with Ewan or any of the other Buchanan men to know this. She could see it in the way their shoulders were determined, in the clench of their fists, even today, mere hours after their loss.
But that didn’t mean it wasn’t still a clear loss. It didn’t mean it didn’t hurt.
And that hurt was material as well as emotional. She couldn’t even calculate how much work had been sacrificed to a vicious madman and the torch he’d thrown.
Distilleries could be rebuilt. But people could not be brought back.
“I don’t know,” Ailsa said, sighing. “I understand what you’re saying,” she added when Vaila opened her mouth, visibly outraged. “But… I dare not risk you. I dare not risk our people. Not yet. Not until we know more.”
Vaila’s jaw clenched, but she nodded. Ailsa felt a tiny bit of the tension in her muscles relax. The last thing she needed was for her sister to rush off into danger.
Mairi stood, her bleak expression matching how the rest of them felt.
“I had best go check on Father,” she said. “He was nae as active at the distillery as Ewan, but he will still be feeling its loss. I want to make sure he’s had something to eat.”
She crossed to where the men were still gathered around the food and loaded a plate high with choices for the Laird. As sheheaded out of the dining hall, Ailsa decided this was as good a time as any to finally go get herself cleaned up. With some effort, she hauled herself to her feet.
“I’m off to have a wash,” she told her sisters. “I’ll be back.”
They nodded glumly but stayed where they were. At least Ailsa would know where to find them after her bath and perhaps a short rest.
She had only just arrived at the main staircase when a shrill scream rang out from the back of the house, followed by a crash. Ailsa bolted toward the sound on instinct.
“Help!” Mairi screamed. “Papa! Someone help!”
Copper and heat. Ailsa smelled it before she saw it, and, in that horrible heartbeat, she knew what she would find. But she couldn’t stop, couldn’t abandon Mairi.
And so she plunged right into a scene that was a horrible combination of memory, nightmare, and reality.
Mairi kelt over her father’s prone form, sobbing as she cradled his head in her lap. Blood trickled from his mouth, and his eyes stared sightlessly up at the ceiling.
Dead. Laird Phileas Buchanan was dead.
“Mairi,” she said, her voice too soft.
Ewan was only steps behind her; he raced into the room, his face going pale as he took in the sight before him. He did not freeze, however.
“Who?” he demanded. “What happened?”
Mairi pointed a shaking finger toward the open window, which led onto a short expanse of lawn before meeting the trees of a nearby wood.
“The attacker,” she said, her voice shaky and wet. “He went that way. When I came in, I saw him. He’d cut Papa’s hand.”
Ailsa glanced down and saw that the Laird’s arm was extended, like he’d raised a hand to defend himself. And there,on his palm, was a small cut. His fingers had turned black around the wound.
It was the same poison that had killed her parents, that much was clear. But her parents had ingested it, while the Laird had suffered a poisoned blade, putting the toxin directly into his blood.
“He was—” Mairi hiccupped out a sob, but made herself keep talking.
Ailsa dropped to her knees and put her arms around the girl. She wouldn’t ask Mairi to release her father, not yet, but she could offer this small bit of support.
“Papa was choking. I tried to stop the attacker, but he shoved me.” She turned her head toward an overturned table, papers spilled where it had been knocked over, a figurine snapped in two. “And then he was gone, and Papa was… He was…”
Ailsa pulled Mairi’s head down into her shoulder and let the girl’s sobs soak her collar as she stroked Mairi’s hair. Ewan, who had been standing very still, looked at the window and the woods beyond. There would be no catching the assailant now and, even if the blackguard could be caught, there was no good sense in stumbling blind after a man known to be wielding a blade dosed with a fast-acting and deadly poison. If Ailsa knew this, Ewan knew it, too.
Then, he turned his gaze onto his father’s body. He crossed silently to kneel beside his sobbing sister. He guided the Laird’s head off his daughter’s knees and gently closed Phileas’ eyes for the last time.
“Ewan…” Ailsa said, her voice scarcely more than a whisper.
