Her whole body was shaking, but Neala did not move away. She opened her eyes in time to see Ansel moving back again, slowly dropping his hands away from her. He took a step back, and the two of them stood apart.
"Yer father gave ye orders before we left Blackthorn Castle," she said. "He ordered ye tae bring back McNair or nae come back at all. But ye're still obeyin' his orders, Ansel. Ye're bringin' me. Ye ken who I am now. Tell him that."
Ansel smiled, and she'd never seen a smile so sad before in her life. That smile tore at her already hurting heart, and tears suddenly sprung to Neala's eyes. He shook his head, running his hands through his hair.
"He'll make me do it. When he's done hurtin' ye, torturin' ye—claimin'ye—then he'll force me tae kill ye." Ansel's voice was hoarse. "I cannae do it. I cannae bear it. An' I think–I think if I saw him try tae touch ye—I might killhim."
A ringing sounded in Neala's ears, her heart thrumming like a hummingbird, and she felt lightheaded. It was difficult to breathe.
"Ye lied tae me. Ye're me enemy. I cannae trust ye. But for whatever reason, whatever accursed impulse, I cannae see ye harmed. I need tae ken ye're protected." Ansel let out a shaky breath, and for the first time, the mask was completely gone. He looked younger and more vulnerable than he ever had. His hand reached toward her again, his fingers gently brushing her neck. "I made ye bleed."
"It's just a graze," Neala whispered.
"It makes me sick." Ansel suddenly dropped his hand, moving further away.
Neala's instincts screamed at her to approach him, to bring them back into proximity. She saw the agony in his eyes, and remembered the feeling of his body against hers. She wanted to hold him, to whisper reassurances in his ear, to give him comfort. She wanted to persuade him that he wasn't trapped—that he could still choose to be free.
But when she took a tentative step forward, Ansel backed up several steps. Neala stopped still, knowing that anything else she did would just make things worse.
"Take the horse," he told her. "My men will collect me shortly. Go back tae yer brother and live."
Neala just stared at him for an endless moment. She desperately wanted to return to Cailean, but her feet somehow remained rooted in place. She didn't want to leave without Ansel. Shecouldn'tleave without him.
"Ye said ye'd kill him if he hurt me. Ye ken he needs tae be exterminated. Ye?—"
"I told ye tae go," Ansel interrupted, though the mask did not reappear. He watched her with that same, open vulnerability. "I willnae give ye another chance. Take it."
Shakily, Neala approached the horse and mounted, but she did not ride off. Instead, she looked back at Ansel, who had moved to her side.
"Come with me. Please, come with me." She held out her hand. "I want ye by me side. Ye're nae him, and this proves it. Ye could be free."
"Free," Ansel repeated, and the yearning sounded so strongly that tears fell from Neala's eyes. He laughed softly. "Farewell, Neala."
"Please," she begged one more time. "Please, I've seen the real ye. I ken ye. I think I'm startin' tae?—"
"Ye really kennothin'about me," Ansel said, then slapped the flank of the horse.
The creature let out a loud whinny and reared up, causing Neala to grip the reins, as they set off at speed—back toward McNair Castle and Cailean—leaving Ansel behind.
24
It had only been two or three hours since the power balance of the rebellion had shifted on its axis forever. The rain had stopped, and the sun was peeking through the clouds above McNair Castle. The castle itself, the nearby village, and the land all around it were now officially in rebel hands—inMcNairhands once more—and the last of the False King's men had gone.
In the courtyard and in several parts of the castle, men and women were celebrating. They had fetched the injured and waiting rebels from the forest camp, and Ferda and another scout had gone ahead to take the news to Bruce Castle at top speed. Someone had called for a feast, and it was already underway in the kitchen, and the whole atmosphere of the world around them was one of pure celebration.
Standing on the battlements of his home—his family's home—Cailean knew that he should be overjoyed. This is what he had fought long and hard for. This was everything he had yearned for, for more than twenty years.
But it felt hollow. Cailean felt hollow. It was as though someone had taken all of the spirit out of him, leaving only an empty husk behind. It had been a victory, a huge one, but for Cailean, the cost had been far, far too great.
He heard footsteps on the stone behind him, but he did not move from his position staring out into the horizon. He knew who it was—he would recognize her gait anywhere. Sure enough, Maeve slid her arm around his waist, leaning against him, and he wrapped his arm around her shoulder without even thinking. It was a natural position for them, standing together side by side, supporting each other with their every breath.
"Everyone is movin' inside," Maeve told him softly. "They're all findin' a place in the great hall for the feast. We should join them. It's a celebration for ye, after all."
"I dinnae feel much like celebratin'," Cailean replied.
Maeve sighed. "Me love, there's nothin' ye could have done differently. This is the best possible outcome based on the cards we were dealt."
Cailean shook his head. He didn't often disagree with Maeve, but now he believed she couldn't be more wrong. "I could have accepted the duel. I should have. I should have cut that smug bastard down where he stood."
