Page 82 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

“So ye used Brighde, is that it? All along?” James rumbled. “Ye whoreson!”

“Nay think for a moment that we were friends,” Tormund retorted, but grew serious and notched his chin westward. “Go back to Tioram and take her home—”

James’s knife whipped out and he lunged toward Nykr. “And walk into yer ambush with my sister, whom ye dishonored, in tow? Ye’d put her at such risk? Fok no!”

Tormund’s claymore unsheathed, swung down, and halted James beneath the chin, freezing him, as their men lunged forth. Both he and James raised a fist to stop them.

“Take the North Pass,” Tormund ground out softly. “Swear ye will,” Their eyes locked, and a lump so large thickened his throat, he had to clear it. “To keep her safe.”

Their staring held. Finally, James seemed to relax, his shoulders lowering, and he stepped back. Tormund dropped his sword. James nodded.

…

As Tormund’s men rode away from Laird Rose’s lands and they found Ghost’s trail, they gathered in a nearby glen as nighttime fell and secured their surroundings. Settled in the darkness with men taking watch of their makeshift camp, Tormund pulled his mantle over his chest on the ground. It still smelled like her lavender from when they’d lain beneath it by the water, and like a glutton for punishment, he drew it close to his nose. Imbibed a heavy inhale and closed his eyes.

“Ye’re just too much of a coward…coward…” Her scolding, her disappointment in him, resonated in his head like those damned bells tolling, as he drifted fitfully.

“It’s about pondering the beauty of life and basking in its glory, no’ being afraid to carpe diem, and dividing us is what he wants…” Brighde was saying, as they lay tangled together beneath his mantle, naked limbs languid and sated, bellies full of berries and fingers stained purple from them. He nuzzled into her warmth in the sunlight, so comfortable as his palm cupped her belly and her fingers toyed with the talon piercing his ear. Traced the curse scarring his chest. “It’s about sailing away for a year and nay looking back.”

He rolled over toward the hearth as the monks chanted like a breeze upon the summer air, where his mother sat. Her dark eyes, the ones he’d inherited, finally looked up from her letter, the parchment in hand, as she twirled a lock of hair with her finger.

“You met that fille who makes you smile as much as yer sire does for me. But you’ve nay been bold in your love. You threw it away. You were a coward…a coward… Ye’re just too much of a coward—”

Tormund bolted upright. Scrubbed his face to rid his mind of those memories, all swirling together now. Her body flinging into the sea. His brother sinking to his knees. His parents’ happy union was one to be lauded, for such happiness didn’t happen to most people in their lifetimes. But he’d had it with Brighde.

Owen had also found it. He’d taken that advice she’d doled out so long ago and had laid down his sword for his bride. A frightened wolf did bite, and aye, he’d finally bitten. Bloody hell, he was fearful. He’d armored himself in fear for so long, he no longer saw it, but Brighde had. She’d slapped the truth in his face and still given him a chance.

“All right?” came a soft, deep whisper, laden with concern.

Niall clasped him on the shoulder, but he shook the touch away. He wanted only one person’s hands upon him, and she was no longer offering.

“Fine.”

“Bollocks.”

His eyes flashed up to his uncle who only shook his head at him. “Ye give Brodie exactly what he seems to have wanted all along.”

Tormund shoved to standing and stalked away, taking watch instead. There’d be no sleep tonight with the devil spinning tricks with his dreams and Niall watching him with such disappointment.

But when daylight brightened the eastern horizon, and the sun finally broke and shot rays into the sky like his angel’s long tresses, Brighde’s words cut through his heart over and over, scoring it in ways that would never heal. And a growing determination to finally bring the culprit for Marjorie and Owen’s fate to Highland justice burned within him.

For seven long years, Tormund had kept council with this cousin. Included him in his inner circle of trust. A fierce warrior who’d been just as hell-bent on vindicating Owen as Tormund had been. Ghost was going to beg for mercy by the time Tormund was through with him, for threatening his woman and lying to him. For harming Marjorie and luring Owen into a trap. For using everyone.

He gritted his teeth. Clenched the armband Brighde had given him as he inspected the surrounding deer paths offshooting the main high road, questioned folk as they passed through villages, and met back up with Niall and his men at their designated spot in a nearby hamlet.

“Any sign of him?” he asked, for they’d lost his trail earlier.

Niall shook his head. “No indication that he passed through any of these parts. Naybody I’ve spoken to has seen any unusual travelers.”

“Neither for me,” Tormund replied.

Something wasn’t right. That same feeling of unease, as if he’d missed the most pertinent thing of all, continued to brew. She’d said Ghost had spoken of them walking into a trap. He’d threatened her with his ambush, and with the knowledge that he’d tear Brighde apart from him forever.

Tormund squinted up at the stark morning light now breaking the eastern horizon, racking his mind, when the distant plodding of horse hooves roused his attention.

“Is it Ghost?” Reaper whispered, as they all moved off the path, settling their horses among the huts and alehouse. “We’re still over an hour’s ride from Kiliwhimin.”

“He has to get there, too. He was just at the faire yesterday evening, if he accosted Lady Brighde, and his trail led south,” Niall pondered out loud. “Mayhap we’ve overcome him and are now ahead of him?”