Kill the bastards.”

“Run them through.”

“Make them pay for what they’ve done.”

“Anderson forever. They forget who they’ve crossed swords with, the bastards.”

Their words sent chills up Caitlin’s spine. She pressed herself to the wall running the length of the corridor, not daring to venture from the deep shadow in which she’d hidden herself when it became clear there was nothing else for her to do.

They hadn’t recognized her when she escorted Sarah to and from the kitchen, which was certainly a blessing—though if they had, what could they have done? She was an Anderson by marriage, in spite of her having run from her husband. Their clan was hers.

Even so, the very thought of bearing the weight of their rage had they stared at her, muttered, whispered vile threats toward the clan which had been hers since she was a child…

She shivered, running her hands up and down her arms in a weak attempt to warm and comfort herself.

There was nowhere for her to go, really. Nothing in the world could have convinced her to sit at Alan’s deathbed, not even if Rodric had begged her to join him. She had no wish to watch a man die, even a man who’d caused her so much pain.

And there was no telling what he would say to her. What he’d accuse her of.

Because, once again, she’d brought death upon the head of another. It may have been Connor McAllister’s dirk which had slid into Alan’s body. It may have been Connor’s hand which held the weapon, his arm which had delivered the force which drove the blade into the soft, yielding flesh.

But it had been she who’d put the dirk in his hand, because she’d been the one to break the agreement. If only she’d seen into the future, if only she had seen the string of events which would lead from her escape.

At the time, in the room which had been prepared for her the day of the wedding ceremony, there had only been one concern: escaping before he had the chance to put his hands on her. Escaping before he could truly solidify the bonds of their marriage.

Nothing else had mattered. Nothing else had even entered her head.

Fool! For she’d known Alan well. She’d known her stepfather, too. She should’ve seen what might come of her hasty escape.

She’d behaved selfishly, and now Alan was near death.

What would Rodric think of her once his brother had passed on to the other side? It was one thing for a rivalry or bad blood or whatever it was which stood between the pair to stand strong while both parties were healthy and vital. Let one or the other die, and suddenly, everything in the past might fade away until brotherly love was all that remained.

He might blame her for his brother’s death.

And then what? He would no longer love her. She would truly have no one. No clan, no stepfather’s protection, no protection from the Andersons as Rodric would surely assume leadership as the second-born son.

She might live with Sorcha, but how long could that last? While she loved her aunt, life with her would be cold comfort compared to the brief promise of paradise which Rodric’s love had afforded. If he loved her no longer, nothing could make up for that loss.

A tear escaped her eye, one which she knuckled away before willing no others to follow. If she was on her own—she hoped not, prayed not, but had learned how unfair life could be and wished to be prepared—she had to harden herself against emotion. Wallowing in self-pity would not serve her.

It would only make her suffering more unbearable. A winter of starvation had taught her this lesson.

Padraig walked past her without seeing, rounding the corner after climbing the stairs from the entry hall. She waited until he was inside Alan’s chambers before deciding to follow him. Her curiosity was too great to ignore any longer.

Also, she needed to get away from the vicious talk downstairs.

She hovered just beside the door, allowing only half her body past the doorjamb in order to cast an eye upon the scene inside. Sarah was just in the act of opening the draperies, allowing light and air into the room; all the while, she shook her head and muttered to herself.

While they were in the kitchen, she’d told Caitlin about the many mistakes the healer had made in treating Alan. “I do not believe the mistakes were intentionally made,” she was quick to point out. “I once treated a man who it was clear from the start had been deliberately poisoned. That is not the situation here. I believe ignorance and laziness have played a part. And, having heard all I care to know about Alan Anderson, stubbornness from the patient.”

Caitlin had merely nodded in agreement. She could just imagine Alan refusing the proper treatment, calling for his ale and his food while his body was dying from the inside out. He’d always been reckless, pretending to care little for the wisdom of others. She would have just bet he’d gone against the healer’s orders just to be contrary, to prove what a strong man he was.

The fool.

His foolishness was about to kill him.

And yet he looked somewhat at peace as Sarah guided a cup to his lips. Rodric sat on one side of the bed, facing Caitlin, and he turned his head away from the sight with his face contorted in a grimace she could not make sense of. Why did he appear so pained by what was going on before him?

Padraig stood at the foot of the bed, his head bowed. He’d done what he could with the men downstairs, placating them with food and drink, answering what questions he could with authority in his voice. She admired his courage and level head, neither of which she was certain she’d exhibit in such a situation.

Alan patted Sarah’s hand with a tenderness Caitlin never knew he possessed. He was a changed man—or perhaps pain and the knowledge of his impending death had stripped him of everything which had once made him insufferable.

“I thank ye,” he breathed.

Sarah nodded, smiling softly. “It won’t be much longer now.”

“I cannot believe I’m bearing witness to this,” Padraig whispered.

Caitlin noticed for the first time that his fists were clenched at his sides.

“It is for the best,” Sarah murmured. “He has already suffered much and would continue to suffer. Now, he’ll sleep until the time comes. He’ll feel no pain.”

“Padraig.” Alan stared at his younger brother. “I want it this way.”

“You always have to have your way, do you not?” There was no lightness in Padraig’s question—almost accusation, more like.

“Aye, and I know what you’re thinking,” Alan muttered, grimacing when he shifted slightly.

A spreading patch of reddish-brown ooze on the linen sheet caught Caitlin’s eye, turning her stomach.

“Because I had to have my way, I’m in this position. Like as not you’re right. Too late to do much about it now.”

He closed his eyes, taking as deep a breath as he could. “I see it all. Everything. I was cruel to you, Padraig, and I’m sorry for it. I hope you’ll not remember me uncharitably. I hope you’ll forgive me.”

“You’re forgiven,” Padraig murmured as a tear dripped from his chin.

Caitlin wanted to look away, suddenly uncomfortable at witnessing such a show of emotion.

Still, she remained.

“And you,” Alan grunted, turning his attention to Rodric.

Rodric who sat as still as stone, his face unreadable once Alan had finished the drink Sarah prepared. He met his brother’s gaze.

“The clan will be yours now.”

“I never wanted it.”

“I know. I always wished you did,” Alan snorted. “It would’ve been much sweeter if I’d taken something you wanted.”

Caitlin’s heart seized. So he admitted it. Was this what people did when given the chance? Did they unburden themselves so?

She held her breath, waiting for Rodric’s reply.

“Aye,” he breathed, a smirk touching the corners of his mouth. “So you kept trying, did ye?”

“I did.” Alan winced—was it pain or guilt? “I did, and it was wrong of me. Why didn’t I see it when there was something for me to do about it? It’s haunted me the entirety of my time in this bed, making it damned impossible for me to sleep. I canna stop thinking.”

“It’s in the past now,” Rodric offered, taking Alan’s hand.

“Aye, it will be for you—and for the lass.”

Her? Caitlin held her breath. He was talking about her! Admitting why he’d wanted to marry her! She leaned against the wall for support, her chest suddenly tight, tears threatening to choke her.

“Tell her for me…” Alan took a breath, smiling slightly. “…it doesn’t hurt, oh, thank you… Tell her… I’m sorry…”

“I will,” Rodric promised.

“And I’m sorry to you,” Alan added, squeezing Rodric’s hand.

“I know. You’re forgiven.”

Alan’s smile grew. He was at peace, at last. For the first time in his life, he was at peace. His eyes closed, his breathing slowed.

Sarah touched his chest, the side of his neck. “He’s sleeping,” she whispered. “It won’t be much longer before his body can take no more. Before dawn, I would imagine.”

Rodric rose, placing his hand on the top of his brother’s head. “Sleep well, then, brother,” he said in a tight voice.

The way he held himself, the tension in his arms and shoulders, spoke of how he fought to keep himself together.

Caitlin backed away from the door, not uncertain as to what he’d do. There was so much tenderness and affection in the way he spoke, in the way he touched his brother’s head. So much love there which had never found expression before.

What would that love do to the love he claimed to feel for her?

Even the thought of being without a clan to protect her was nothing compared to the stark, cold, lonely expanse of nothingness which came to mind when she imagined being without Rodric.