Davina froze where she stood. The world narrowed to the scent of lilies, the crackle of candles and the thundering in her ears. Malcolm’s stillness was unbearable. She wanted to move, to speak, but her voice caught in her throat.
Then someone screamed.
Davina couldn’t move. Her hands shook as she lifted her veil. “What… what’s happening?” she whispered.
Chaos erupted. Shouts filled the air while the solemn order of the ceremony shattered like glass.
“Stand back!”
The voice belonged to the man with the scar, and only then did she realize who he was. Baird Kincaid’s voice cut through the confusion like a blade. He jumped up from the front row and reached his brother’s side, dropping to one knee. His large hands were now gripping Malcolm’s shoulders.
“Malcolm, speak tae me!”
But there was no answer and no movement save the slack fall of his arm.
“Fetch the healer!” Baird shouted, and a servant bolted through the chapel doors.
Moments later, the healer burst through, with his satchel clutched tight. He knelt beside Malcolm with practiced speed, pressing his fingers to the fallen man’s neck, then his wrist. His brow furrowed.
“Clear the space,” he said curtly. “Nay one touch him.”
“Ye heard the man!” Baird shouted to those who were still too close.
Davina watched desperately as the healer drew a small vial from his bag, opened Malcolm’s coat, and pressed a hand to his chest. “He still has warmth,” he muttered. “It may nae be too late.” He poured the contents between Malcolm’s lips, then began pressing rhythmically against his ribs, muttering a prayer under his breath.
The hall was silent but for that steady, desperate motion.
Davina clasped her hands together. Her mother had appeared at her side, whispering her name, but Davina could not hear her. Her eyes were locked on the scene at the altar: the healer’s hands, Baird’s face and the awful stillness of Malcolm’s body.
“Come on, lad,” Baird urged through clenched teeth. “Breathe! Breathe!”
But no breath came.
The healer stopped at last, his movements slowing. He pressed his ear to Malcolm’s chest, then drew back with a long, weary sigh.
“It is of nay use,” he said quietly. “He’s gone.”
The words struck the room like a physical blow. A woman sobbed aloud; another fainted near the front. Baird’s head bowed. For a moment he did not move. Then, very slowly, he lifted his brother’s hand and let it fall again, lifeless.
“God have mercy,” he whispered.
Davina felt her knees weaken. Her father’s arm caught her before she fell.
“Steady, lass,” Ramsay murmured, though his own face had gone pale. “Steady.”
Suddenly, the alarm bells tolled in the distance, and the sound rattled through the hall. Servants shouted in the corridors. A soldier burst through the side door, breathless and pale.
“Me laird, an intruder’s been sighted inside the castle!”
Baird turned with blazing eyes. “Where?”
“Near the west stair, me laird… armed.”
A curse escaped him. He looked to his brother’s still form, then to Davina. “So it’s nae enough tae strike him dead, now they hunt the rest of us.”
Davina’s heart jolted. “Ye think this is connected?”
“I’d stake me name on it,” Baird said. “Whoever killed Malcolm’s nae done.” His tone left no room for doubt. He strode toward her. “Ye cannae stay here.”
