Paden’s eyes narrowed at Reade as he dragged Blair backward.
“Ye are as big a fool as your cousin. ‘Tis fair that ye shall meet the same fate,” Paden cursed at him.
Behind him, Reade heard scuffling, which had lessened. The voice of his father Seamus carried to his ears, not shouting but commanding. Paden couldn’t hear what Reade heard — that the Gordons had fallen to the mightier power and numbers of the MacDonalds. The side of Reade’s lips curled up as he bided his time and waited for his moment.
This was the single time that he couldn’t be rash. His attack had to be measured and precise. Any miss and Blair would meet the edge of his blade. Daylight was fading, and Reade knew the near dark would work in his favor.
Paden surely expected Reade to attack at Paden’s right side, as Reade’s claymore balanced in his left hand. Reade twitched his hand, and Paden took the bait, thrusting Blair to the right. In that moment, Reade moved, rushing to Paden’s left side. Holding Blair as he was, the man couldn’t maneuver as well as Reade, even with the immense weapon.
Instead of attacking Paden’s left side, which was the next thing the Gordon man would presume, Reade continued around Paden, and as Reade came to Paden’s backside, Reade swept the heavy, deadly edge of his sword across Paden’s lower back, severing his spine and blanching Reade in a spray of hot blood.
Paden uttered a guttural, cringing gasp and released Blair. His hands jerked toward his back, as if he might hold his destroyed backside together. Then he crumpled to the earth at Blair’s feet, his mouth opening and closing a few times like a fish out of water, before his eyes glazed over and he stopped moving completely.
Reade stood fully upright and flipped his blood-soaked hair off his face. His brother and Hewie stood next to Blair, buttressing her as she stared at the gruesome scene. Reade spat to clear his mouth and lips of any traces of blood, then proceeded to wipe his blade across Paden’s shoulders, where his tunic was untainted by the blood flow that stained the lower part of his tunic and his kilt dark crimson.
“Are they dead?” Reade asked his brother.
Maddock nodded, his own blood-flecked face as hard as stone. “No’ account of ye, ye reckless fool. What possessed ye to ride here and meet the man alone?”
“I would ask the same,” Seamus announced as he strode next to Maddock. “Ye risked your life, and for what? To end up like your cousin? Cause your mother to lose her heart? To show that your rash ways aren’t a character flaw but a way of life?”
Reade shook his head. Using his aching right arm, he reached down and wrestled Paden’s sword off the sheath at his waist. Then he looked straight at Blair.
“I did it for her.”
Blair’s heart stoppedin her chest.
For her?
What did he mean,I did it for her?
Reade did it because Paden threatened his sister and mother. He did it because the Gordon’s were aligned with the Campbells! He did it as a way to avenge his cousin’s death.
Why did he announce that he did it for her? What did she benefit if Paden was dead, other than not having him stalk her to convince her to spy on the MacDonalds?
Which would be yet a difficult task to achieve. While he hadn’t made any comments about it and had apologized for throwing her in the dungeon, surely Reade had not abandoned his suspicions about her completely.
Blair’s mind was in a state of shock, and that emotion only increased, overwhelming her, when Reade stepped over Paden’s body. Her husband was a mess of bruises and blood from his torn, blood-stained kilt up to his stained tunic and etched, expressionless face mottled with blood. A huge gash tore the sleeve of his tunic and hung open, exposing the equally jagged gash in his upper arm that pulsed with wet blood. His entire right sleeve had bloomed in a blackish-red, and he barely moved the arm, weak and injured as it was.
Once he was in front of Blair and the rest of his kin, Reade dropped his claymore to the ground at his side and switched Paden’s shorter broadsword to his left hand. Then, as Blair watched with a gaping mouth and a pounding in her chest, Reade knelt on one knee, bowed his head, and palmed the sword, holding it out to her.
“I did it for ye, Blair. My suspicions at your motives, all the MacDonalds’ suspicions, your flimsy connection to the Campbells, and even the treatment by this cousin, have dictated the course of your life. So much so that ye were forced into marriage no’ once but twice, both times to men who failed to protect ye, failed to trust ye, failed to keep ye from harm. I killed this man to set ye free. With no more connections to the Gordons, and under the protections of the MacDonalds, ye can leave to find your own way. If ye wish, I shall have our marriage annulled, and ye can finally live a life of your choosing.”
Her choosing.
The chance to choose her own fate.
Just what she wanted to do when Mungo had been murdered. When she had tried to escape the Glenachulish on her first night here. At the midday meal when she had studied Adaira.
Blair reached a shaky, trepidatious hand out to the blade. It was chipped, but clean, unused. Not the blade of a warrior, of a Highlander. The blade of a scoundrel. The sword might look fine, but the reality of it was something much worse.
Her fingers lingered on the upright blade as her eyes flicked to the man kneeling in supplication before her. Reade had made his confession to her, before his men and God, without her asking, without prodding. Blair cursed to herself. She had been so wrong in her estimation of Reade. He did not still harbor hatred or animosity or mistrust toward her.
Nay. He was willing to sacrifice his emotions, his right to her body in marriage, his pride, so that she was a prisoner no longer.
And for a moment, the prospect was so heady it made her dizzy.
Reade remained perfectly still, kneeling, his head bowed and the sword upraised as she considered.
