Hutch had some skill, but he’d never be a great warrior. Like Luke, he was a skilled fighter who often let his temper lose him fights that he ought to have won. Both men could have been better warriors than they were, but they’d let bitterness and spite stunt and twist their talent, and too often, they sought other, often underhanded means, to gain the prestige they thought they’d earned.
Hutch, like Luke, was a fool. And he probably wouldn’t have been a match for Blake on a training field with full weaponry. In a knife-fight, there was only ever going to be one winner.
Blake dodged another blow aimed at his throat, then went under Hutch’s guard. There was no hesitation in his movement as his dirk punched into the flesh between Hutch’s ribs and slid upward into his heart.
Hutch sagged against him, coughing wetly as his knife slid from nerveless fingers. Blake took his shoulders and dropped gently to his knees so he could lay his dying cousin on his lap.
Hutch glared at him. “What are ye…” He coughed again.
“Tae get an answer.” Blake’s voice was grim. “Why Hutch? Why would ye dae all this?”
His voice cracked. “Ye would have always had a place o’ honor in the clan. We were friends. Me faither and yers had always been close. I would have given ye all the honor me faither gave yers. ‘Twas all yers fer the asking.”
“Shut up.” Hutch coughed up blood and grimaced. His blood formed a pool on the floor with every rattling, forced breath, but it didn’t dim the disdain in his eyes. “Ye never deserved tae be the laird. That’s it. I didn’t want ye tae have a position I was better suited fer by accident... o’ birth... while I sat... and got yer crumbs... and hand-offs. I... deserved... the position... o’ laird. Nae ye…”
Hutch’s eyes closed. His body relaxed and Blake felt the final breath leave his cousin’s chest, as his heartbeat thumped one last time and stopped.
Hutch was dead. He’d avenged his father, and his uncle.
And no victory had ever felt less like one.
