No, but if these bastards didn’t fear him, they wouldn’t talk. Sometimes brutality was necessary. War had taught him that.
A long moment stretched between them. The thrushes kept warbling. Fowl clucked. A goat bleated.
Finally, Archie’s shoulders sagged. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“The crone.”
Craeg scowled. “What?”
“She’s a seer on Ulva.” Archie’s throat worked. “Macquarie’s been having … strange dreams … so he went to her to find out why.”
“And?”
“She told him …” Archie’s gaze flickered to Hazel, lingering on her for a moment, and then back to Craeg. Fear gleamed in his bloodshot eyes now. “She told him the seed of his loins … born of rape … would be his downfall.”
Hazel’s sharp intake of breath behind Craeg made him still.
“He wants medead?”she asked. Her voice, although steady, was brittle.
“Aye,” Archie replied roughly.
“He decided to kill his daughter,” Craeg said slowly, measuring each word. “Based on some old woman’s ravings?”
“Not. Ravings.” Archie’s voice cracked. “The crone’s never wrong. Everyone knows it. Macquarie fears her prophecies, far more than he does God’s wrath.”
Silence crashed down over the barmkin. Even the thrushes paused their song.
Craeg rose slowly, his hands clenched into fists. Fury pounded against his breastbone. These whoresons would take Hazel’s life on the word of a madwoman. He wanted to draw his blade, wanted to end these men where they knelt. But that would be too quick. Too clean. And these warriors were merely puppets. Spilling their blood this morning wouldn’t punish the man responsible for this.
“Throw them in the pit,” he ordered Black. “I’ll decide their fate later.”
The solar was too quiet. Hazel stood at the window, staring out at the water sparkling off the sea loch beyond the castle walls without really seeing it. Her fingers gripped the stone sill hard enough that they ached. The morning sun streamed in, warming her face, but she felt cold all the way through.
The seed of his loins, born of rape, would be his downfall.
The words kept circling in her mind like buzzards. Her father—a man she’d never met, never even known existed until days ago—wanted her dead. Not because of anything she’d done. Not because she’d wronged him or threatened him.
Because a seer told him to fear her.
“How can someone be so” —she stopped, her voice breaking, and swallowed hard— “so easily led? So superstitious that he’d murder his own blood?”
Behind her, Craeg moved. His boots whispered on the oak floorboards, but she was acutely aware of every sound he made. The creak of leather as he crossed the room. His breath sounded slightly uneven, as if he too was struggling to contain his emotions.
“He’s a coward,” Craeg replied. “Frightened men do terrible things.”
A hot tear slid down her cheek. She dashed it away angrily. No, she wouldn’t weep over this.
All the same, it was too much. The lies. The loss. The guilt over the doomed woman who’d birthed her. Pain over a murderous father she’d never met.
“Hazel.”
Craeg’s voice was closer now. Right behind her. The heat of him radiated through the space between them, and despite everything—the anger, the shock, the sorrow clawing at her throat—she was painfully aware of him.
“I’m well,” she lied, keeping her gaze fixed on the water. “I suppose it’s a relief … to know the truth.”
“Aye.” His hand touched her shoulder, gentle but firm, turning her to face him. “But that doesn’t mean ye don’t have the right to be upset … or angry.”
And God help her, when she met his eyes—those dark eyes that saw too much—something inside her cracked.
