She frowned. ‘I fear it is not. I saw Elene. I think it was her, up there, in the trees, watching.’
Peyton gripped Cecily’s arms, staring at the blood all over her. ‘What did she do to you?’
‘Nothing. She just glared at me. She was watching the fight.’
‘I must find her. Bring me a horse.’
‘No, you cannot. You are injured.’
He cast Cecily aside and went over to Eaden, who was still on his back, groaning.
‘What hole does Elene crawl into?’ Eaden blinked up at him and said nothing. Peyton sat on his chest. ‘If you do not tell me, I will make you suffer. I’m sure she has ridden away and left you to your fate. Why take the pain when the bitch did not even wait around to see if you would survive? Where is her bolthole?’
‘Go to hell,’ said Eaden.
‘After you,’ said Peyton, sitting on Eaden’s arms and pressing his fingers against his eyeballs. ‘I will push your eyes back into their sockets and blind you. Now talk!’
Chapter Thirty-Five
Peyton’s body was one big bruise. Bile rose in his throat, and with every jolt of his horse, he wanted to vomit it up. Only rage kept him conscious – a searing need for vengeance against a bitch who had aimed a blade at his heart.
Selby and MacDougall hung back, fearful of the raging, blood-soaked man he had become. But still, it was good to have them at his back. When Moor Cottage came into view, he was surprised to see the faint flicker of light seeping from its windows. So, the bitch was not cowering, and no wonder. The cottage was well-hidden, deep inside ancient woods. It had lurked there, tumbledown, lonely and abandoned, for years.
Peyton dismounted and walked up to the decrepit door, every step making him wince. He pushed it hard, and it slammed open, hitting the wall with a crash. She did not even flinch from where she stood before a table lit by a flickering candle, which sent an eerie light about the dark room. It was a desolate, miserable hole, but fitting for Elene.
‘Ah, so you’ve come at last,’ she said. ‘Walk into the light so that you may glare at me better.’ When he drew close, she winced. ‘You’ve seen better days, Peyton Strachan.’
‘So have you, Elene Sawfield.’
A slight narrowing of her fine eyes was the only sign he had discomforted her. ‘I am no Sawfield. I spit on that old maggot’s name.’
‘How ladylike. Is Lord Sawfield not your husband?’
‘Only because I had no choice, thanks to you.’
She turned around. Peyton’s hand went to his knife. When she turned back, Elene had a bottle in her hand. She placed it on the table. ‘Shall we drink a toast to your poor departed cousin?’ she said.
‘Eaden is not dead. He is in a cart headed for the East March and a noose.’
She giggled. ‘Oh, that is a shame and a mistake. He’s a slimy one. Surely, he will slip straight out of that noose and return to put a knife to your throat.’
‘And then you could take over Clan Strachan.’
Elene shrugged and sat down. She stared at him, unblinking and smiling.
‘What makes you think they’d want a devious bitch like you, Elene?’ he said.
‘What makes you think they want an ignorant peasant like you - a bastard, a low, belly-crawling mongrel?’
‘Because at the end of all this, I will be the last one standing,’ said Peyton.
His threat was clear, but she did not flinch before it. ‘You don’t have it in you to kill a woman. You are not that monstrous.’
‘Are you sure? Perhaps I will take you back and let Bannerman and Glendenning string you up like the witch you are.’
‘Do your worst,’ she said with a defiant tilt of her chin. ‘Sir Henry will find out, and he will take revenge on you for killing me.’
‘Like he did when I killed his son?’ said Peyton.
