Page 73 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

It wasn’t often he was stunned silent, and yet his mouth felt suddenly like chalk, as James postured around him further. Yet for once, he didn’t want to draw his sword. Stood rooted to the ground as the ewer of his secrets, long kept, tipped and spilled a splash of accusations out of Brighde’s mouth, revealing the only reason he had for living.

“I saw the records. I ken Goraidh died. I ken I am his godmither and that ye are his godfaither,” she said.

Her tears fell anew. How in the hell had she seen what was hidden only in Inverness? The MacDonalds had been at camp all day. He’d kept watch.

The pain in her voice lanced him so hard, he could no longer bear it. “Aye,” he finally croaked, his grip tightening upon her arms.

She nodded, as if confirming to herself what she’d suspected. “I was angry at first. I felt so betrayed when I left Blackfriars, that my sister bore an issue and ye kept him from me, but then I realized—”

“Leave us,” he growled to his men, regaining his senses and willing her to quiet. Damnation. She’d likely gone to research the documents she’d told him about. She’d proven this past sennight, sneaking away with him, that when given freedom, she was determined and so bloody smart. “Reaper, return to yer orders.”

“Like hell I will when the Devil stands before ye with a score of men and murder in his eyes, laird,” Reaper rumbled.

The small token of loyalty meant everything right now, and he couldn’t be angry at the defiance, but his men didn’t know the whole of Goraidh’s existence, either. That had been the biggest secret of all.

“Brother, please sheath yer knives and give us berth. I beg ye.” Brighde turned to James, imploring him.

Aileana emerged beside James, taking his hand in hers and distracting him. Finally, James backed away, his men following suit, though they didn’t go far, remaining just behind the central fire.

“My brother is furious,” she finally said, “at me for going to Blackfriars alone, and at ye.”

“Ye told him about Goraidh?” Tormund growled. “Dammit, lass, this is why I never told a soul. Because every enemy will come out of the woodwork, some with the lad in their sights, some with me in their sights.”

“I’m sorry, but how could I nay, Torm? He’s my brother. He has a right to ken that he, too, is an uncle. That we are all family—” He scoffed, as she emphasized the word loudly enough for her brother to hear. “I want to ken my godson—our godson,” she beseeched, gripping his arms in return, “and if ye all fight, I’ll never get that chance, for ye’ll hide him away even harder to find next time after ye leave me on the morrow and—”

His arms banded tightly around her, dragging her against his bare chest. He knew he was sweaty, knew he likely smelled from searching and riding across the glens, but he’d been so conflicted and didn’t want to feel so anymore. Wanted that bloody peace. Wanted to put her at ease. He’d known if she went to Blackfriars and saw the lad, she’d figure it out. She swallowed and coughed a cry, and then banded her arms around him with no regard for his dirtiness, with such desperation, he cupped her head to him and buried his nose in her hair.

“I wanted to tell ye,” he murmured softly. “I… I never thought I’d meet ye, let alone get tangled in this web we’ve woven.”

He pressed her harder to his chest, enveloping her.

“But ye kept him secret,” she murmured, as if the two of them stood alone in a bubble as the world swirled around them.

“For good reason.”

She peered up his chest with those wide blue eyes, nodding. “I think I ken why.”

He pet back her sunshine hair, wild and wind-tossed like the Highland peaks. “Because I promised Owen I’d do whatever it took to protect the babe’s life,” he growled. “Because I’d do anything to protect the ones I love when I couldna save my maw, or my brother, as ye would do anything to protect yer own bairns from those who’d harm them.”

She’d said so herself.

“Him dying was the only way to save him, angel,” he rumbled, voice roughened and thick as he toyed with her hair, her talon, plucking free her lip that she chewed. It was his lip to nibble, dammit. “I’ve never wavered, keeping him secret…until ye danced into me at the bonfire and bewitched me with yer lavender spell. I never once considered divulging it. But I began to wonder, if mayhap”—he swallowed so hard, it felt as if he tried to dislodge a boulder—“we had a future together.”

Boots pounded in the distance. Grew louder. His men rallied and shouted for his attention when his sentry in charge of protecting the grains from the corn cutting came crashing out of the trees.

“Fire! Fire!”

MacDonald men clattering into defensive positions fell silent at his guardsman’s shouting.

“Fire, my laird!”

Tormund’s eyes followed a thin tendril of black smoke rising into the air, over the tree canopy in the distance. Where his camp was located. He ripped away from Brighde, ran to his man through the throngs of red, and steadied his horse.

“What’s burning?” he demanded.

“The barley winnings, laird, from the corn cutting,” the guard huffed. “I had no fire in our pit. I swear on a bible, man! No stray sparks. There was no way for it to accidentally burn. I was there the whole time. Only Reaper came to me, to tell me I oughts keep an eye out for Ghost, but it’s burning! The crops are burning!”

Tormund’s jaw set hard as he bolted for Nykr and leaped into the saddle, gathering up the reins. Betrayal and fury cut through him like swords through flesh. No stray sparks? The barley was well aerated, bundled neatly. It wouldn’t have combusted due to heat.