‘You are a liar. All this carnage and evil comes from you, not your brother or Laird Hew.’
She laughed prettily. ‘You are such a hard one, aren’t you, Peyton. But you have always been honourable. I saw that in you, even from an early age. Why not set me upon a horse, and I will return to England?’
‘To Sawfield Manor and your husband’s rotting corpse?’
The colour drained from her face.
‘I’ve been there, Elene. They don’t want you back. In fact, you are a dead woman if you ever set foot there again.’
‘Then I will just disappear, and you will never see me again. I have little appetite to set foot in this midden again.’
‘No. I like to know where my enemies are.’
‘Oh, so you will lock me up and use me ill. Any other man would be torture, but with you, I won’t mind too much.’ Her slender fingers caressed his arm. ‘We might reconcile in time.’
‘An eternity would not be enough for me to forgive your villainy.’
‘You drove me to do what I did. I never had any quarrel with you, Peyton. Such a brave fighter, so strong and steadfast. It was only when you had the gall to take over Clan Strachan that I turned against you.’
‘Because I took your brother’s place. Or was it to be your place, at the head of Clan Strachan?
‘No. We would have ruled together. Robert and I shared everything.’
‘So I’ve heard,’ said Peyton.
She blinked rapidly, a sign of his arrow hitting its mark. So the rumours were most likely true. Peyton stared at the glass of amber liquid in front of him. ‘Father Luggan once gave me some advice. He said, ‘You have to slither on your belly with the snakes to triumph in the politics of the Marches.’ I did not believe him. I never thought I would get to such a dark place.’
‘What are you talking about?’
‘There must be an end to all this strife, once and for all. But he would want me to grant you some mercy.’
Elene stood up, expecting to leave, but Peyton remained seated as he pushed a glass of whisky towards her. She considered the glass, and her gaze flicked to his. ‘I don’t want it,’ she said.
‘I insist. Drink this, and then another, and then another. Several glasses should be enough to end your miserable path through this world, Elene.’
Her eyes welled. ‘I am but a woman - small, weak and defenceless.’ Her eyes pleaded with him. ‘Peyton, please. I am afraid to die.’
‘Then you’d best get it over with.’
Her lip curled in disdain, and tears rolled down her cheeks. ‘I thought you were an honourable man,’ she spat. ‘So did I, once’ said Peyton.
Chapter Thirty-Six
Peyton stood in the highest tower in Fellscarp and stared over the grey water stretching to the Solway Firth. He had to find an occupation, or he would go mad. When would it end - the grieving over lost friends and broken trust, the abject dishonour which gnawed at him? His body had almost healed from its savage beating, but his heart and soul had not.
When his feelings overwhelmed him, Peyton would often take refuge in the tower. He had to hide his distress from Cecily, who was still frightened over Lowri’s kidnapping. As for his sister, she was chastened by the ordeal and stuck close to Fellscarp. That would change soon enough, for Lowri would not be cowed for long. Her restless spirit would crave diversion and adventure. She was a hard one to hold.
The West March had slipped back into its old ways since the Warden’s departure, and the clans were back to their usual bickering and reiving, but in a less murderous way. His defeat of Black Eaden had sealed his leadership of Clan Strachan, and now, everyone looked to him as Laird. There were no more challenges to his authority, which made life a little easier.
He had done his duty by Cecily and taken her home to Fallstairs to see her father and announce their marriage. It had been a miserable visit. The place was rank and crumbling. Most of the servants and MacCreadie men had absconded. There was an air of desolation about Cecily’s home, and the moment Peyton laid eyes on it, any thoughts he had of being unworthy were banished. He had done Cecily a kindness by taking her away from Fallstairs.
He pitied the poor lass her father, for Rufus MacCreadie was a broken-down wreck of a man, hollow-eyed, stinking of drink, sunk by his own vices and greed. When Cecily told him she was wed, he had slurred, ‘Ungrateful wretch. You had Wymon Carruthers on the hook, and instead, you come here, fresh from your whore’s bed, with some lout in tow. I should thump you into next week, you filthy slattern.’
‘Cecily is my wife. Hold your tongue,’ Peyton had snarled.
‘She is no one’s wife until I say so. I gave her no leave to marry you. She shirks her duty to me. You, cur, have dishonoured my house and my name, taking my daughter in marriage when she was not free.’
Peyton had gone up to the man and said, ‘Your daughter is free, and she is happy, and she will never come here again. Go back to your bottle and drink yourself to death, for all I care.’ He had rushed Cecily out of that miserable hovel, and she had not protested.
