‘Gilbert.’ There was sadness and shame and a plea all in one name, but his father’s mistake was in thinking that there was some mercy in this man.
‘You should hate the Mackintoshes more than I do, boy. Robbie and I came upon three of them having their way with his betrothed. During one of the last battles. Three Mackintosh warriors, fresh from the fight, found her and took her. Used her right there in the road. Killed her maid and her guard while she watched.’
Everything around him stopped in that moment.
Was he saying that...? One glance at his mother’s pallor told him it was true. She had been raped. Violated by three men. And he was the product of that attack.
‘I see you understand now. You are nothing more than a mongrel Mackintosh bastard, raised by a man too soft and weak to put her aside as he should have. No man who takes a soiled woman like that in marriage was worthy to be chieftain.’
No one spoke. No one seemed to breathe or move.
‘And no one will accept you because you carry no Cameron blood at all in your veins. My brother knew it and took the shame in exchange for his place as my steward.’
His uncle laughed again and a nervous titter ran through those listening to the shocking disclosures.
‘He took whatever I would give him in exchange for me allowing you and your soiled mother to live with among us. ’Twould have been better if we’d put you both down the day we found her in the road, covered in her own blood and their seed.’
It made everything so clear to him. Every slight against his parents, every mean and crude gesture, every insult and demeaning action—they all made sense now. Though he was horrified to learn of his mother’s past and to hear her exposed before everyone she kenned, it lightened his heart and gave him new purpose.
He was not beholden to this man. He was not related to him and held no oath of loyalty to him. He was not honour bound to uphold his commands. In good conscience, in good faith, for those who had died meaningless deaths at the hands of Gilbert Cameron and for those betrayed by his actions, Alan was freed from any constraints now.
‘Mayhap you should have, Gilbert,’ he said quietly as he rolled on the balls of his feet to get his balance. ‘But you may have another chance to do that right now.’
‘You have no standing here. You are the bastard of some nameless Mackintosh warriors who we killed when we found them over her,’ Gilbert said, pointing at his mother then. ‘And you have no proof with which to accuse me of anything.’
‘He may not, but I do.’
A voice he never thought to hear again whispered across those gathered. The crowd parted to allow her through. Sorcha MacMillan walked to confront Gilbert Cameron with his crimes.
Dressed in the fine raiment of a lady of high standing, she nearly glowed. Jewels on her hands and at her neck. Costly gown and tunic. Her hair had been arranged in swirls around her head before the length of it cascaded down her back, the fine golden chains woven through it sparkling in the light of the candles around the chamber.
‘You cannot be here,’ Gilbert yelled. ‘You are...you are...dead.’ He lost all the colour in his face and wobbled unsteadily on his feet at the sight of her.
‘I would be if I had not escaped.’
‘Who are you?’ Alan’s father asked.
‘This is Lady Sorcha MacMillan,’ Brodie said as he stepped to her side. Spread out behind him were the same Mackintosh men he’d faced that morning when she left him. ‘She has some things to say that you all might find interesting. Especially you, Colum, and you, Duncan.’ He’d spoken the names of two of his unc—two of Gilbert’s most trusted cronies. ‘Your days are numbered in his plans as well.’
‘No woman will ever betray me,’ The Cameron said, grabbing a sword from the nearest guard and running at Sorcha.
Alan was too far and Brodie was unarmed and under truce. He screamed out her name and watched as Gilbert lifted the sword to strike her.
‘Nay, Brother, you will not!’
The man who’d raised him as his beloved son stepped in front of her, sword raised and held, and protected her from the death blow. Two years older and just as skilled, he pushed back against Gilbert’s frenzied attack on her as Brodie pulled her to safety.
Now, it was up to Alan.
Whatever he’d expected this moment to feel like, this was not it. Instead of anger and fury filling him, a cold calmness flowed through him. This man who had struck down his friend Agneis and who tried to kill the woman he loved just now must die. For shaming his mother before all there. For all the innocents who’d died at his hands and all of their kith and kin who would fall in his vainglorious attempts to destroy the Mackintoshes, Alan would strike him down. Gilbert regained his footing and faced Alan.
‘Come then, mutt,’ he goaded Alan. ‘If you think you can...’
Alan did not wait for the taunt, he attacked. He took the man on his own terms, determined not to let him set the pace or path of this fight. But he did not fool himself that he would win other than by wearing the older man down and killing him.
The crowds moved back, giving them room to move, and Alan became a relentless force against the man. Some cheered for one or the other, but Alan ceased noticing anything but his quarry. When Gilbert moved to the left, Alan spun and met his blow. When he feinted right, Alan struck with the strength of his sword. He kept the man moving, pushing, kicking and shoving with his elbow and body to tire him out.
With grim determination, he used every move that Brodie had taught him and he could tell from his lack of counterattacks that Gilbert was not expecting them. Alan could not help the smile that lifted his mouth then. He would defeat this man who would bring dishonour and death to everyone about whom Alan cared.
