MacGregor sucked in a deep breath then doubled over, coughing. “No’ me. Da. Uncle. And Alain.”
“Alain? Who is that?”
“Was…hunting master…all killed at Flodden.”
Annie had told the truth about that much.
“What did ye see?”
Alasdair shook his head again. “All of it.” He sucked in a deeper breath. “Ye kent the lass, did ye?”
Jamie swung at Alasdair, roaring, “She was my sister, ye sick bastard. And yer da…yer uncle…” Jamie stopped and spat. “They cut her. Raped her. Then they killed her. And they let ye watch it all?”
Alasdair rubbed his jaw. “Aye. Made me. They were going to let me have a go at her, too, but she was dead by the time all three of them finished with her.”
Jamie bounced Alasdair’s head off the wall, hard. Nay, he couldn’t kill him yet, though he wanted to. Ach,howhe wanted to. His poor sister, dying that way. He was beginning to regret learning the truth, but he knew this much, he needed to hear the rest.
“And then Alain kept her comb as a memento? He gave it to his wife?”
“Nay. I saw Da take it off her. Once they’d…done. But Ma might’ve suspected something. All those years, she never asked what he did when he left her. He never told her. He kent she wouldna have anything he brought her,” he said, gesturing to the comb. “So Da gave it to Alain. I havena seen it for years.”
“Yet ye recognized it.”
“Do ye expect me to forget something like that?”
“And I saw it yesterday in the hair of the lass ye assigned to care for Caitrin.”
“What? No’ I. The steward assigns the servants.”
“Alain’s daughter gave it to her. She claimed she didna ken how her da came by it.”
MacGregor grinned. “I doubt he spoke of it.”
That grin earned him a blow that knocked him to the floor.
****
Caitrin gasped, appalled at the savagery in Jamie’s reaction to MacGregor’s taunt. MacGregor’s blood marked the wall where Jamie bashed his head. Jamie’s pounding had opened other wounds as well. Alasdair deserved every pain, every torment Jamie could inflict on him now. He was bloodied and bowed, but Caitrin doubted he would remain that way. MacGregor had too much cunning, too much meanness, to stay down for long. Did Jamie know that? She should tell him.
Would Jamie have to kill him? Not that she would object. MacGregor had hurt her, many times. Today was by far the worst—and the last, if she read Jamie’s fury correctly. How much strength did it take to dangle a man Alasdair’s size from one hand? How much fury fueled such inhuman strength? Aye, this savage Jamie would kill him, but her gentle Jamie was still in there somewhere and he would only kill MacGregor if he had no other choice. She hoped it came to that.
As much as she longed to go to Jamie, she stayed on the floor, out of the way. In truth, she wasn’t sure she could get up. Her thigh burned and stung at the same time. It felt slick with seeping blood under her hand, as did her breast. She clutched the tatters of her dress to her chest, wanting to be covered and trying to stop the shivering that suddenly beset her. She laid her skirt over the wounds in her leg, hoping to staunch the bleeding.
Pain washed through her, the worst Alasdair had ever inflicted on her. Her breast and her thigh throbbed with each beat of her heart. Would it ever stop? Would she ever escape him? She felt weak and dizzy and cold, but determination kept her sitting up, paying attention to the story Jamie dragged out of Alasdair. It explained so much. Both of Alasdair’s behavior and Madeleine’s anger. Jamie’s history. And perhaps hers, as well.
She could hear men moving around outside the croft house. Shouting orders, shouting epithets. The Lathans must be sorting out the living from the dead.
She wanted to call for help, help for her and help for Jamie, but no one outside this croft would hear her, even if she could summon up more from her voice than a croak. And she might distract Jamie, who likely would not welcome the interference. Alasdair was his to deal with, and she sensed he wanted it no other way.
But Alasdair might be pretending to be more beaten down than he truly was. He lied about everything. He would lie about that, too. She would not be the one to give him an opportunity to turn the tables on Jamie.
She could not risk Alasdair winning. The blade Madeleine gave her lay in the dirt outside the door, so she lacked even that for protection. Not that it had done much good the first time she’d tried to use it on Alasdair. And his thin blade, the one he’d used on her, lay on the floor near Jamie’s feet. So near. Yet too far away for her to retrieve it. Jamie might need it. She might crawl closer, or even force herself to her feet, if she must, to give it to him or to use it herself. But even dazed as she was, she knew if she got too close to the men, Jamie’s attention would shift from Alasdair to her. Nay, that could lead to disaster as well. She could only sit and bleed and pray Jamie got what he needed from Alasdair quickly, before she passed out.
Chapter Twenty-One
“I should cut off yer balls before I kill ye,” Jamie snarled. “Tell me what happened. The longer ye talk, the longer ye will live.”
Jamie felt Caitrin’s wide-eyed gaze on his back, but he couldn’t spare her his attention right now. As bad as they looked, her wounds were not life-threatening, and Jamie was not about to let MacGregor try anything.
