Epilogue
Dugan shot straight up. His body locked and his jaw froze. He had been sleeping, deeply, physically worn out from all the ad hoc tournaments over the past few weeks. But he had been determined to mark Cole and their faction of the McTiernay clan as the best.
Then he heard what had woken him.
Screams.
Not just screams of terror. He felt these. These were filled with agony. Anguish of the most intense kind. Etched in every note.
Without thought, he grabbed his sword and started running. Rocks and thorns cut at his bare feet, but he barely noticed. The grief was tearing at him.
When sleeping outdoors, he did not sleep nude as was his preference when a bed was available. Tonight he had collapsed fully dressed, tartan and all. It would not have mattered, however, not with those screams, and they were getting louder with each step. Pain like that did not care about your state of dress. It just needed to end.
Heads were starting to emerge from the tents, their sleep-filled expressions starting to be replaced with concern and then alarm. Some were starting to follow. Many of the soldiers were dressed like him, ready for battle, some were only in a leine, but more were preparing for battle.
All except one man.
He was running in the opposite direction of the screams.
Dugan hesitated. There was something about him that he recognized, and yet that was impossible. It was night and he was so far away he had not been able to discern his face before he was gone. And yet, Dugan’s instinct was to follow him. Then the intensity of the cries became worse. And they were coming from nearby.
Dugan’s head darted around as he saw another man dash by him. He was an old man for being so spry and agile, and Dugan recognized him as Laird MacInnes. Laurel’s grandfather and the McTiernay brothers’ godfather.
He turned to follow, catching up to the older man. “Do you know who? Where?”
MacInnes pointed to a tent that was set apart. “I know that scream. It’s Laurel.”
Dugan’s eyes widened and he sprinted ahead, arriving at the same time a couple of other soldiers did. One of them was Loman, who, along with Seamus and several other of the elite guard kicked out of the castle, had been sleeping outside with the soldiers.
Loman did not even ask. He yanked up the flap and entered, followed by Dugan, MacInnes, and a growing number of men.
Dugan had fought bloody fights. He had been in battles. He had killed men multiple times and seen men killed. He hated it. Loathed it. Knew sometimes it was a necessary evil, but not once had he almost physically become ill at the sight.
But what he saw had him green and shaking.
Conor, chief of the McTiernay clan, was lying lifeless in a pool of his own blood, which was draining from a dagger that was still protruding from his chest. His head was in Laurel’s lap, her hands clutching him, screaming, begging him to stay with her.
Realizing she was no longer alone, Laurel looked up, her face one of absolute terror that she was about to lose the man who was her very heart and soul. “He . . . he . . . came in. Said that Conan McTiernay could not be allowed to live. Adanel was pledged to another. And then, then he plunged the . . . the . . .” Then she looked down and started yelling at Conor. “Don’t you dare die on me! Don’t you dare! Don’t you leave me!” Then, with a sob and a wail, she began to beg. “Please. Please. Please, Conor. Don’t leave me. I need you. I need you. Please. Please. Oh, God. Please. Please don’t take him. He’s mine.”
People began to move all around Dugan. With so many pregnancies, midwives had been around, and some were well versed in medicines. He stepped back out of the tent and looked in the direction the disappearing figure had gone.
People were shouting, but Dugan blocked out all the sounds. He started to move in the direction where he had seen the figure running. Why was that man familiar? Dugan stopped. The man was not familiar. He had never seen him before . . . it was the hair he recognized. It was flame red, the same color that Conan described last fall after his attack, the same color as hers.
Dugan closed his eyes and gripped his sword, disbelieving his conclusions but knowing they were right. “Adanel,” Laurel had said. “Adanel was pledged to another.” Until now, he had not known her name. Soon she would know his. For after tonight, there was no place she, her brother, or her father could escape.
He was coming for them. And when he arrived, he was going to be lethal.
The Mackbaythes would pay for what they did to Conor with their lives. And that included Adanel, Laird Mackbaythe’s daughter and the only woman Dugan had ever loved.