Aila winced, then winced again when the trumpets blared so loud she would have thought them an inch from her ear. The procession arrived and at the most opportune moment for her. A quartet of heralds on horseback and equal number of bannermen led the way. They turned off in front of the castle to reveal a dozen men on horses, what looked like a hundred more behind them on foot, followed by wagons and more still out of sight. None appeared the worse for wear despite the sporadic bouts of misting rain. Even though the skies had cleared somewhat, they must have stopped recently and changed clothes to look so fresh.
One of the men at the front of the pack was bedecked in a jacket of crimson velvet covered with silver braid and buttons with a royal blue sash that crossed his chest. Over it, he wore a matching red cape. White breeches disappeared into tall black boots and she noticed a sword belted around his waist. Most notably, he wore a wig. Rather than the sort barristers wore, his had full rolls of white hair that framed his long angular face and fell past his shoulders. He waved a gloved hand at the people with a lofty smirk.
She’d seen that face among the oil portraits inside. “The Duke of Argyll, I presume?”
“Aye.” Finn’s tone was hardly complimentary. Given the conversations they’d had, Aila was well aware of his opinion of the nobleman who’d chosen to support the wrong side of the Jacobite rebellion. Perhaps not the losing side, but the wrong side, nonetheless.
The duke’s horse sidestepped as he approached the end of the drawbridge. Behind him, a flamboyantly dressed — aye, even more garish than the duke in shades of blue and gold — man with a toothsome smile and slashing dimples smoothed back his head of golden hair as if he were a male model in a cover shoot. He was handsome enough if one liked flash, swagger and obnoxious levels of narcissism.
“Who is that with him?”
By her side, Finn stiffened. “That is the Earl of Etteridge.”
Such scathing hatred suffused the words, she looked up at him in surprise. His focus remained affixed to the earl, filled with uncharacteristic malevolence. “The man I’ve been waiting for all this time. The man who raped my wife.” Finn looked down at her and Aila couldn’t help the shiver that ran down her spine. “The man I’m here to kill.”
Chapter 28
“Finn, wait!”
Having turned his back on the crowd lest he act without thought or weapon, Finn strode away at a clipped, furious pace. He shouted for his children to take Rab to the nursery. Spurred into action by his unyielding tone, they scurried ahead of him to the postern gate without argument. Rounding the corner of the castle, out of sight of his nemesis yet far from being able to purge Etteridge from his mind, he ignored Aila’s continued calls.
She’d said her anger with him was misplaced. His with Etteridge was not. Whatever burst of annoyance she roused in him was nothing when compared to the wrath he harbored in his mind and heart for John Addair, Earl of Etteridge. Whatever love he might nurture for her, it was unable to flourish in the savage wasteland of his heart.
This was what held him back. Deep-seated abhorrence for the man who’d in essence killed his wife. Guilt for having failed to protect her. It gnawed at his soul. How could he welcome such a shining light as Aila Marshall into his heart when there was only darkness to greet her? God knew, she wouldn’t like it there any more than he.
Until he purged it by executing his revenge, there was no hope for him. No return to Elgin to rebuild his home, no life where Marta no longer haunted him. No future.
Once this was over, he could move on. He could be happy.
Regardless of what Ian had to say.
Resolve carried him without hesitation to his chamber. To his trunk.
To his destiny.
Aila was right behind him. “What are ye doing? What is that?”
Finn swept a hand over the object in question. The polished mahogany box held the instrument of his revenge. The time had come. He closed his eyes to savor the moment, ignoring the lack of satisfaction the knowledge brought him. Opening the lid, he revealed a basket-handled broadsword cushioned in blue velvet. The same damned shade as the cloak Etteridge now wore. Providence. Soon he would add a blossom of red over the bastard’s heart.
“Oh, my days,” Aila gasped behind him. “Are ye off yer head?”
Ignoring her, Finn lifted the weapon from its bed. He’d kept it polished and honed, prepared for this moment. The time was nigh. All he had to do was reach out and take it.
“Ye think ye’re going to do this thing right now?” A rare moment. Her voice lost the sweet composure it normally bore, rising octaves in astonishment. “Just walk out there and stab this man in broad daylight?”
If it were only so simple. It would take finesse. A rational mind he didn’t possess at this moment.
“What then?” she persisted, grabbing his arm to get his attention. He refused to give it. “Ye think ye’re going to ride off into the sunset? This is what Ian was talking about. Ye willnae be happy until ye’re hauled off to prison, will ye?”
Out of the corner of his eye, he got another glimpse of her…thatthingshe had become and his lip curled. “Ye dinnae ken a thing about what makes me happy, lass.”
Amid the masculine ruin of her face, blue eyes dimmed and Finn knew a sharp stab of regret for his harsh words. This was what hatred manifested in him. He hardly recognized himself.
“I thought yer bairns made ye happy. I thought yer friendship with Ian made ye happy.” She crossed her arms over her manly chest without including herself in the short list.
Another pang struck him that she felt the need to exclude herself. Because of his thoughtless words. More guilt to weigh upon him. Nay, he couldn’t let sentiment stop him now. Not when the end was within reach.
“Do ye think sitting in a prison cell for the remainder of yer days is going to make ye happy? Or even better, a hangman’s noose? That’s what ye’ll get. Murder is generally frowned upon in any century.”
