Rodric couldn’t believe it. It couldn’t be real. And yet, he knew it was.

Sarah washed her hands again, shaking her head. “I’m sorry,” she said again with a sigh. “I wish there was more to be done for him. I’d like the chance to speak with the healer who treated him. Perhaps they can be instructed against allowing something such as this to happen again.”

Her words hardly registered with Rodric, sounding as though they came from a great distance. She might as well have been shouting to him from the Duncan manor house.

He’d been through this before. The finality of watching a man die.

But he’d never watched his brother die. He’d not known until that very day that there were further horrors in the world.

When Rodric did not reply, Padraig cleared his throat. “I’ll send for her, and for her apprentice. They ought to both learn of the mistakes made here.”

“Do not be too hard on them,” she warned. “As I told Rodric, if the liver was punctured there was not much a healer could have managed. And I do believe that was the case, judging by the placement of the wound to his lower back.”

Connor had stabbed him in the back, the coward. Banishment wasn’t enough for him. He should’ve died for what he did. To murder the leader of another clan…

“Rodric.” Sarah touched his shoulder, her voice stronger than before. “You need to wash, and I believe food and rest would do you a world of good.”

“There’s far too much to manage,” he replied, still staring at the dying man stretched out before him.

“You’ll manage it much better when you’ve taken care of yourself.” The hand on his shoulder tightened. “I’m the wife of the laird. I’ve spoken those words many times, and I’ve always been correct.”

“She makes a good point,” Padraig agreed. “You ought to refresh yourself. There’s nothing to be done at the moment, while he sleeps.”

“I do not wish to leave him.”

“I won’t leave his side,” Sarah promised. “Now, please. You’ve been traveling for many days with little food and even less sleep. I do not wish to have to treat you because you’ve run yourself into exhaustion.”

It was as if her words sank into his bones and weighed him down. Yes, he was nearing the point of exhaustion, and she only reminded him of this.

He nodded at Padraig. “I’ll go to my old room, then.”

“I instructed one of the maids to prepare it for you when you arrived,” Padraig replied.

“You always think ahead.” He shared a long look with his brother, rivers of thought and feeling and regret flowing between them. It would go unspoken, as it always did. It was there nonetheless.

His feet were heavy as he walked from the room which no longer held the thick stench of death, likely thanks to Sarah’s opening of the window curtains. Or he’d grown accustomed to it that quickly.

His clan. Within hours, it would be his to do with as he pleased. By blood and by law.

He wanted none of it.

The sensation of a rope slowly tightening around his neck was strong enough to make him touch his fingers to his throat, as though rough, coarse fiber would be there instead of skin. Every breath his brother took put him one step closer to losing his freedom.

Some men would consider it gaining power and strength. Alan certainly had, and their father had before them. What was wrong with him, then, that he saw it as being just the opposite?

Caitlin wasn’t waiting in the corridor, as he’d assumed she would be. Judging by the sounds of it, she wasn’t downstairs with the men—they were ready to rush from the house and cut down any McAllisters who came into view, and like as not were merely waiting for word of their leader’s death to do so.

He supposed she’d gone to rest and was glad of it. She had been running for too long. They both had.

It occurred to him that once Alan breathed his last, she would be free. She could be his. He’d waste no time in making it so. They had already nearly missed their chance.

Only the thought of their marriage could lift his spirits, but it did, and it carried him the rest of the way to the room in which he’d spent so much of his life.

The bed was the same, still sitting by the window which overlooked the breadth of Anderson territory. From where he stood, the Grampians looked like little more than foothills. To his left, too far off to see clearly, was the River Nevis and the farm where Sorcha lived her solitary life. To the right, beyond the lands his clan oversaw, were thick woods populated by any number of animals and birds and wandering stragglers.

So much of it would be under his control, and so soon.

A yawn wide enough to split his head open reminded him it was well past time to sleep. There would be much to address once Alan succumbed to his wounds.

The bed was still soft, at least, and the linens clean. He sank into it without removing his tunic or trousers, exhaustion overtaking him before his head touched the pillow. The full weight of all that had transpired seemed to catch up to him at once.

He fell into a deep slumber.

* * *

When he woke to the sound of knocking at the closed chamber door, he knew what needed to be done. It was all so clear.

Much to his bemusement, Sarah had been correct, in order to manage the matters before him, he needed first to attend to himself. Nothing was as murky as it had been before after even a short sleep.

No wonder Phillip Duncan managed to keep his clan in line and the activities of the manor house running smoothly, with a wife such as herself behind him.

There was no need to ask why Padraig waited on the other side of the door. The light outside told Rodric that he’d slept for hours, meaning enough time had passed that Alan could only be dead.

Padraig nodded, wordless.

“Och, it’s for the best that he be out of pain now,” Rodric murmured, though his heart ached nonetheless.

“Aye, so it is.” Padraig drew a deep breath, as though to steady himself. “I suppose you ought to speak to the men, then.”

“You haven’t told them?”

“It isn’t my place to make such a pronouncement. Also, I was certain you’d want to know first.”

“Aye, so it is,” Rodric replied. None of it mattered just then, however, something he didn’t expect the younger man to understand. The finality of Alan’s passing left him wanting no one but her. She was free, for good and all.

Free to be his, if she pleased.

“Where is Caitlin?” he asked, rubbing the sleep from his eyes as they walked side-by-side. They were nearly the same height, he noted, and both walked with high heads and a long stride.

It struck him once again how his brother had grown, the man he’d become. A natural leader, intelligent, able to look ahead and foresee problems in order to address them in advance.

The way he’d ordered the bedchambers prepared, for one. He’d anticipated their needs even in the midst of a crisis.

Such a gift had to be born in a person, for Alan hadn’t possessed it in spite of his birth order and the great pains Ross Anderson took to shape him into the man worthy of clan leadership.

Rodric possessed perhaps a small portion of what Padraig exhibited regularly.

The obvious solution was in front of them, clear and plain.

First, he wished to speak with Caitlin.

Padraig offered only a blank stare. “I have not seen her since your arrival. I thought she might had been with…”

Rodric scowled. “She was still our brother’s wife, man.”

“I meant no disrespect. When I traveled throughout the house without sign of her, it was the only conclusion I could come to.”

“She certainly was not with me.” His mind darted to and fro, possibilities flying past.

“None of the McAllisters breached the borders of our land,” Padraig assured him, the two of them hurrying down the corridor to the room which had been prepared for Caitlin. It was empty, the bed smooth and untouched.

“And we know for certain that none of them were here? Absolutely for certain?” He went to the window as he spoke, looking out toward…

Sorcha’s. The farmhouse was small from a distance, but visible.

He knew her well enough to know what had been going through her mind as she gazed out the window. She would have wanted to escape the men downstairs, the house workers dashing back and forth to attend to their needs, the gut-twisting hours spent waiting for her husband to die.

She would have wished to spend the time somewhere more pleasant, peaceful, where she might rest easier.

“Rodric, the men will want to hear from you.”

He turned from the window, shaking his head as he did. “They’ve been up all night, drinking heavily and telling each other of the heroics they’ll perform on behalf of the clan. They’re all asleep now—note the silence.”

It was true. What had been a steady roar of male voices raised in oath swearing and calls for vengeance had turned to the occasional snore echoing off the stone floors and walls.

“Even so, I’d rather we not wait very long. Once they begin to wake, they’ll be hungry to learn what transpired. If you aren’t available to them, they’ll be certain to share their… frustration.”

Rodric sat at the foot of the bed, hands on his knees, smiling in spite of the serious nature of the situation. How had it taken him so long to see what was so plain?

“Perhaps you and I ought to speak first,” he suggested.