But it didn't come.
When she opened her eyes again, he was holding the knife out to her, handle pointed toward her, offering it as a weapon.
"Do it," he said. "Strike me. I'll fight back, dinnae mistake me, but I'll let ye take yer shot." His voice was acid, the pain and self-loathing dripping from every syllable. "Do what ye came here for, Abby."
It was the pain that broke her. Neala felt the last of her resolve break. She knew that she could probably overcome him if she took that knife now, but she also knew that there was no way that she could ever do it. Hehadtrusted her. Hehadsuspected her, yet chosen to bring her here anyway. And she'd seen a side to him that she could never have imagined.
"Me name isnae Abby," she whispered.
He laughed again, that same manic, self-hating sound that held no humor whatsoever. "Aye, that I ken already. Am I tae ken yer name before ye try tae kill me?"
"Abby was me sister," Neala told him as evenly as she could. There was no shake to her voice now, and a strange calm settled over her. If she wasn't going to kill him, if she was going to save him—save them both—then she needed to make him understand. "Ye asked why I was sobbin' over McNair memories? Because this notebook was me own mother's."
She held out the still-open page, and watched as his confused eyes darted over the entry she was indicating.
"Me mother was right. I wasnae a lad—I was a lassie, their youngest. Me father still named me for his uncle, but the name became Neala." She breathed out slowly. "That's who I am. Neala McNair. I survived yer father's attack that night twenty years ago, me savior takin' me away an' raisin' me tae get me revenge. Ye were right—the Sparrows sent me here. An' I intend tae see me family back on the throne."
Ansel's eyes focused sharply on her face, so many emotions swirling in them that she could not place them. She could tell one thing for sure, though. Somehow, for whatever reason, he believed her.
"Ye ken it, dinnae ye?" she asked softly, stepping closer. "Ye ken that he's real, even if yer father is too dim tae understand the threat. Ye ken that Cailean McNair, the true king of Scotland, is comin' tae yer door."
She reached a hand out to touch him, but he jolted back as though her presence burned. A gap opened between them, and Neala ached from his physical absence.
"Stop this. Stop all of it. Ye wanted tae trust me? Trust me now," Neala urged. "I ken ye disdain yer father. I ken ye arenae the cruel man he wants ye tae be. I've seen ye be kind. I've seen ye be gentle, nae just tae me, but tae those men ye were trainin'. Ye said yer mother was everythin' that yer father isnae. She loved beauty, and ye do as well. Ye're wise, an' brave, an' strong, aye, but ye've also got a good heart under that mask."
"Be silent," Ansel commanded, but he didn't move, his eyes fixed upon her, something burning behind them.
"Do ye even support his rule?" Neala challenged. "Do ye even believe in what he's done?"
"It doesnae matter what I believe!" The sudden fury in Ansel's voice was so strong that Neala took a step back, blownaway by the power of the righteous frustration he was projecting toward her.
She knew, then, that her desperate hope was right. She knew, then, that his heart leaned another way from how he had been raised his whole life. Neala had heard that the next generation of the False King's supporters were already crumbling away from him. The whispers told them that two of James O'Sullivan's daughters had fled in favor of the rebellion. And everyone knew that the son of Kyle Darach had defected to the returned prince's side.
Could the same happen here? Could Neala say the right words to bring Ansel to freedom?
"Stop the ambush," she pleaded. "Then leave with me. Let's meet me brother together. Let's allow ourselves tae trust one another fully, and we can overthrow yer father once and for all."
"Overthrow me father?" Ansel repeated. He laughed then, a horrible sound that made Neala think of a horrifying tear through the air itself. He sounded half-deranged, and pain wept from him like a sore. "Ye're delusional."
"I ken ye want this!" Neala urged. "Please, just?—"
"Ye kennothin'about me," Ansel growled. He gave her a dark look. "An' it seems I kent nothin' about ye. I'll nae make that mistake again."
He took a menacing step forward again, her knife still glinting in his hand.
Neala swallowed. "Will ye kill me, then?"
His eyes blazed, and the air seemed to still.
Silence. Nothing but the sounds of their breath and their heartbeats.
A loud blare shattered the silence before either of them could act, a deep blast of sound that seemed to shake the very walls of the castle. Someone was blasting the warning horn, drawing the attention of every soul in the castle, signaling an emergency.
Neala's blood ran cold. The attack was starting.
Ansel seemed startled for a moment, more out of control than Neala had ever seen him. Then the coldness settled back over his expression, and he seemed to stand taller.
"Stay here with yer memories, then," he told her, ice in his voice. "I'll return and let ye out when it's over."
