Chapter Twenty-One
Grace rolled over in the bed and nuzzled into the warmth that still held Keir’s scent. She sighed, a smile spreading over her lips. Ravished lips, she thought. She smoothed her hands down her naked body under the blankets. Ravished everything. Rolling onto her back, she glanced at the window where the sun was overpowering the dawn’s gray pallet.
Their night was over, and they had to face Rab and his lethal judgment of Dara. Grace’s sigh turned to a groan as she slipped her feet out of bed. The fire was kindled yet looked to have burned low again, indicating that Keir had left before dawn. Had he even slept?
Grace stepped out from behind the privacy screen and found her smock, throwing it over her head. Next came the day dress she’d borrowed. As she worked at pulling the cording closed, she stared at the portrait of the woman on the mantel. She had the same dark eyes as Keir and his siblings. This was surely his mother, Margaret Mackinnon. Picking it up, she met the woman’s gaze. There was something sad about it, as if she pleaded from the thin canvas. “I won’t leave him,” she whispered, setting it down. “I promise.” She pivoted, searching for her slippers, suddenly anxious to find Keir.
The corridor was quiet as if everyone had already dressed and departed, ready to get on with the day. Grace hurried down a level to Lachlan’s door, knocking lightly.
“Aye,” came a voice, and she pushed in to find the boy sitting up in bed, eating cooked eggs and pork.
The sight lifted a bit of dread she was carrying. “You look well this morning.”
He nodded, swallowing. “Better each day.” His smile faded. “When I’m not being poisoned by my aunt and her lover.”
Good God. Grace sat down on the edge of the boy’s bed. “I don’t think your aunt had anything to do with it. Normond MacInnes is the villain, and he has paid for his sins.”
Lachlan shook his head like a typical stubborn boy and tipped his chin higher. “My da said Aunt Dara carried the poison to me that the bastard MacInnes gave her.”
Grace frowned. Rab had certainly made up his mind about Dara, and had held nothing of his judgment back from his young son. She patted Lachlan’s arm. “You concern yourself with getting well and strong again while we adults worry about who is to blame.”
He shrugged, but Grace picked up on the wetness in his downcast eyes. “Aunt Dara will follow MacInnes to Hell tonight.”
“Tonight?” The word fell out of Grace’s open mouth.
“Aye,” he answered, meeting her gaze. “When the Devil of Dunakin lops off her head.”
…
The great hall was empty as Grace flew into it from the stairs. Had Keir known last night? Been given the order to kill his own sister? Was that why he’d been physically chilled, the cold reflecting his pain?
Bloody hell, where are you? She jumped when Brodie seemed to appear from the dark entryway.
“Ballocks, Brodie, you scared the breath from me,” she said. “Do you always lurk at the door?”
He smiled, but it didn’t hide the tension in his eyes. “Only when I’ve been ordered to carry ye to safety.”
His words shot through Grace, choking her. She coughed. “Safety? Meaning…”
“Aros or Kisimul, your choice.” He moved closer, crossing his arms like a sentry.
Completely alert, she tucked her arms to imitate his stance. “And who would give you an order that would see you slain, or at least horribly maimed?” Of course, she knew the answer.
Brodie’s smile broadened into near authenticity. “’Tis a good thing I am a brave warrior, or your threat would surely make me quake.”
Grace stared directly into Brodie’s eyes. “Where is he?”
His smile faded. “Either at the bloody execution circle or sharpening his claymore at the smithy.”
Was he trying to frighten her? “So Keir is going to kill his own sister?”
“Nay,” Brodie said, his jaw set. “The Devil of Dunakin will carry out the order of his chief.”
“How could Rab order his own sister killed?” Grace asked, although her mind was already on to solving her immediate problem. She had absolutely no intention of going peacefully with Brodie away from Dunakin and Keir. After all, she’d just made a promise to his mother.
Brodie rubbed his jaw as if it ached. “She’s only Rab’s half sister.”
Grace stared hard at him, wishing she could pluck from his brain all the information that the man possessed. “Half?”
“Aye, Aonghus Mackinnon isn’t her father,” Brodie said, lowering his voice. He scanned the empty hall and shifted his feet like he regretted bringing up the topic.
Grace narrowed her eyes. “I think you are very bad at keeping secrets, Brodie. If Dara isn’t the descendent of a bloodletting chief, I’m guessing neither is Keir. And yet, he was thrown into the job from the cradle.”
Brodie pinched his lips tighter as if to say that she couldn’t pry anything else from him. She waved her hand. “It doesn’t matter anyway. Even if they were linked by blood to Aonghus Mackinnon, it doesn’t mean they must become warlike tyrants, too. And being only a half sister doesn’t make an innocent woman guilty.”
“We should go,” Brodie said.
“He doesn’t want me to see him do the misdeed,” she answered. When Brodie didn’t say anything, she continued. “You do know this will kill him.”
“The Devil of Dunakin—”
“I’m not bloody talking about…that thing in the mask who walks around in winter half naked,” she broke in, her hands flying with her frustration. “I’m talking about Keir, your best friend. The man who protects baby wolves, and hungry men, and foolish lads.”
Brodie’s gaze shifted past Grace, so she stepped over, putting herself in his view again. “Killing an innocent woman, his sister, possibly his only kin left…” Grace blinked back the tears swelling in her eyes. “He remembers every person he’s killed, etches them on his skin. If he slays Dara, it will kill his soul, Brodie. You know that as well as I do.” She caught his gaze. “Don’t you?”
His voice seemed clogged in his throat. “There…is no choice.”
Grace’s mouth dropped open for a long second. Throwing her hands in the air, she stomped her feet, something she hadn’t done since she was a child. “Of course there is a choice! What the bloody hell do you mean?” She deepened her voice and frowned, imitating Brodie’s words. “There is no choice.” Pivoting on the heel of her slipper she turned, paced, and turned again. “That’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard. He can choose not to kill his sister. What will happen if he says no, sir idiot chief, I will not kill an innocent woman who is also my sister?” she asked, using a very poor Scottish accent.
Grace knew her face was red. It felt flushed with her fevered pulse and gesturing arms. She stopped, taking two large breaths, in and out, to gain control. Brodie stood there watching as if he wasn’t sure what to do in the face of a shrieking female. She propped her hands on her hips, giving up all her formal upbringing.
“Listen to me, Brodie Mackinnon,” she said, her words coming through clenched teeth. “I am not leaving here without talking to him, even if that means I must scratch your eyes out and kick your ballocks up into your throat.” She watched his eyes open slightly. “Is he really where you said, or is he at the cabin on the border?”
Brodie’s eyes opened even wider. “He took ye there? Inside?”
“Yes.”
“That was his mother’s cottage, where she would escape to be with Keir’s father. He lets no one in there.”
“Well, he let me in there,” she said. Could Brodie tell from her flaming cheeks that Keir had done much more to her than merely giving her a tour of the interior?
Brodie’s shoulders lowered with his exhale. He rubbed a hand at the back of his neck. “Keir ran off. He does that sometimes, likes to run. Says it helps him stay fit.” He shook his head. “But if I were in his position, I might keep running.” He met her gaze. “Aye, he goes to the cabin to think. Ye talk to him, but as soon as anything looks dangerous, I’m hauling ye off Skye even if it means my ballocks.”
Without a thank-you, Grace dodged around him and out the door into the clear winter air. With all the turmoil at Dunakin, she expected mist or storm clouds, but the sky was blue, the sun shining. She ran to the stables and spotted Little Warrior still in his stall. Grabbing his tack from the wall she walked over with a handful of oats. He nuzzled her palm, lipping up the treat. “You remember your way back to that cabin, don’t you,” she said, looking up into the black face of the warhorse.
Grace had been around horses since she was a young girl, but none this large. Steeling herself with a breath, she opened the stall and slid the bridle over Little Warrior’s face. There wasn’t time for a saddle. She threw on a saddle blanket and clicked her tongue, leading him to an overturned bucket to use as a step.
“There now,” she whispered, fisting a bunch of his mane while hitching her skirts high. With a quick thrust she threw herself up, her leg swinging over the tall horse’s back. Her muscles strained, but Little Warrior stood completely still while she righted herself.
She exhaled, her heart pumping wildly. Step one completed. Now, to find Keir.
…
Keir stood inside his mother’s cottage, his gaze on the bed where he’d shared the day with Grace. His gut was full of twisting eels, and his chest clenched. Duty before everything. The words of the man he’d always thought of as his brutal, warlike father slammed around in his head. Aonghus Mackinnon may not have sired Keir, but he’d raised him as his second son, to be the Devil of Dunakin. Until the day Keir had killed him.
The Mackinnon chief had molded Keir’s heart into cold stone, approving of him only when he killed or defended. It was all Keir had ever known, until Grace.
He let his sword tip touch the wooden floorboards, his arm suddenly weak as he thought of the beautiful Englishwoman who had treated him like a man and not a devil. She named herself a coward, yet she was the bravest person he’d met in his nearly thirty years. He exhaled, feeling the crush of her loathing even before she condemned him, for she would certainly hate him for the task he must do.
He was an executioner. Grace argued that Dara was innocent, based on his sister’s reactions that Keir hadn’t seen and Grace’s perceived feeling about Dara’s goodness. But Rab was certain she’d colluded with Normond MacInnes, marrying him in secret so he could rule the clan with her upon their deaths. Keir had argued, but his brother would not be swayed.
Ye will do your duty, Devil of Dunakin. Dara is a traitor. His brother’s words echoed in his ear, sending ice through his body, ice that only Grace’s tender touch could melt. But if she witnessed this act, she’d never touch him again, and he couldn’t blame her for condemning him.
Rab’s haunting words faded as the thud of hoofbeats broke through. Keir opened the door, his sword raised, and his breath hitched. Grace. Couldn’t Brodie follow a single bloody order?
He stood in silence as she nearly fell from Cogadh’s tall back. Magairlean! She’d ridden his warhorse bareback.
Keir’s frown nearly broke as she cursed her way across the yard to him, her fists swinging. “Leave? You want me to leave without even saying good-bye? After last night, all night, and this morning?” She punctuated her words with wild gestures. Grace’s cheeks were red, her bosom heaving. She was angry and glorious.
“Aye,” he answered.
She waited, but he didn’t say anything else. “Aye?” she yelled. “That’s all I get?” Stepping forward she poked him in the chest with her finger. He wore black leather, the devil’s suit, and barely felt her attack. “Dara is innocent,” she yelled.
“Ye don’t know that, and Rab has decided.”
“Rab is mad, and you know it.” She grabbed his leather vest in her fists. “You are not a killer, Keir. You don’t have a legacy of murder like Aonghus Mackinnon. Break away from the Devil of Dunakin. In truth, this isn’t even your clan.”
Her words struck him hard. “Brodie told ye,” he said low, but she ignored him.
“Even if he were your father, you don’t need to follow his dictates. He’s dead.”
Keir inhaled through his nostrils, filling his lungs before they could freeze with his next words. “Aye, he’s dead, and I became the Devil of Dunakin the day I killed Aonghus Mackinnon.”
Grace stared up at him, her gaze shifting along his features. He could almost see the truth surfacing in her eyes. “He killed your mother, didn’t he?” she said. “When he found out you and Dara weren’t his children.” Her eyes narrowed as if she were deciphering small script. “You were there, and you tried to stop him and killed him because of it.”
Memories flashed to the surface like dead fish floating up from the depths, exposed by the sun. He’d never talked of that night ten years ago, not even to Brodie. Only Rab knew some of the truth. But something in Grace’s strong face made his lips part.
“She was gentle and kind,” he said. “And perfectly miserable married to a cruel man.” He stepped to the cold hearth. “This was the only place she was happy, a sanctuary where she would escape Dunakin with my real father, Graham MacLeod. This cottage was his before Aonghus killed him.”
Grace kept silent, and the words continued to tumble from his mouth. “Dara and I are bastards. When Aonghus found out, he sentenced our mother to death. I was ordered to execute her.”
“Good God,” she whispered.
“I could hear him yelling in their bedchamber at Dunakin, and when I went in, he ordered me to kill her right there.” He forced the words out. “Finish her off.”
Grace touched his arm, but he wouldn’t look at her. “You didn’t kill her,” Grace said. “No matter what everyone thinks. You loved her. Still do.”
He raked a hand through his hair. “Aonghus lunged for her when I wouldn’t. His sword was drawn… I grabbed his thick neck and gutted him. He died cursing my name.”
Several heartbeats passed before Grace’s words broke the silence. “And your mother?”
Keir glanced up at the sky, which was a lighter shade than his mother’s eyes. “Her wounds were great. I held her while she died.”
“But you let everyone think you’d done your duty,” Grace said. He listened for the condemnation that he felt, but he didn’t hear it. No pity, no judgment. Just a statement.
“When I came out, covered in blood, Rab announced that I’d executed both for treasonous acts against Dunakin and that he was taking the chiefdom.”
Grace’s pretty cheeks rounded, and she let the air out in a puff. “Damnation,” she whispered. “That’s bloody awful.”
Her words were like knives, but he pushed past the pain. “I am damned, and ye need to continue on your journey.”
“What? No,” she said, her brows gathering. “You need to tell Rab that you won’t kill your sister, whether she’s guilty or not. And she’s not, by the way. I can tell, like I can tell that you are not damned and not a killer in your heart.”
With two clicks of Keir’s tongue, Cogadh trotted toward him. He looked one last time at the beautiful woman whom he realized he loved, loved too much to withstand the look in her eyes after he completed his duty to his clan and chief. “Ye do not know people like ye think, Grace Ellington. Go home.” He swung up onto the saddle pad. He turned the horse toward Dunakin. “I will send Brodie to fetch ye here.”
“And where will Dara’s cross be etched on your skin, Keir?” she asked. “Not with the hundreds you’ve killed. You will etch her over your heart, because killing her will surely skewer it.”
Without looking at her, he leaned forward. Cogadh leaped into a gallop, leaving Keir’s heart standing before his mother’s cottage, hating him as much as he hated himself.