Page 47 of Kilty as Sin
Barclay still glared at his father. “And the murder of my mother,” he repeated. “Surrender, so I may take ye to Scone.”
For a moment, it seemed as if MacGill would do the intelligent thing. But something in his expression changed a heartbeat before he swung his sword around and screamed, “Never!”
Barclay ignored the attack and thrust his blade through MacGill’s chest.
In the sudden silence, MacGill stared down at the sword extending from his body, uncomprehending, and Barclay released his hold on the hilt, stepping back. The laird stumbled, falling backward into a chair beside the hearth.
“Ye’ve…killed me,” he rasped.
Before Barclay could respond—if he was going to—Grace wrenched away from her father.
“Barclay!” she called, throwing herself into his arms. “Ye came!”
He wrapped himself around her. “Of course I did.” He pressed his lips to her temple. “I am so sorry. So sorry for leaving ye here with him!”
She squeezed him tightly, desperate to remind herself that he was safe, and so was she. “Ye came back, ‘tis what matters.”
“I doubted ye, and I’ll never forgive myself for that. ‘Twas no’ until the Mother Superior told me yer bridegroom’s name that I kenned ye’d no’ exaggerated.”
“I forgive ye,” she murmured, even as she pushed herself up on her toes to reach his mouth.
As their lips touched, a cackling sound came from behind, causing them both to swing about.
“Ikennedhe was the bastard who’d had ye!” MacGill rasped, thrusting himself from the chair to stumble toward the mantle, gesturing broadly. “I was right!”
“Aye…” Grace cocked her head as she studied the man, who had a sword extending from his chest. “Ye were right. I love Barclay, and I would happily give myself to him again and again.”
“Cheated out of the chance to deflower my wife!” MacGill groaned dramatically, sinking down to a bench.
“Deflower?” Grace repeated doubtfully, raising a brow. “What does that mean?”
“A metaphor!” the older man moaned, holding the sword which stuck out from his chest. “Plucking a rose so no one else may sniff it.”
Grace frowned. “Ye want tosmellme?”
“Should ye no’ be dead?” Barclay pointed out.
“I’m getting there.” MacGill toppled to lie along the bench. “Just bemoaning the unfairness of life.
“Unfairness?” Barclay snorted. “Ye had power, riches, beauty.”
“I just like to compla—urk.”
With that, MacGill jerked once, his eyes closing.
Grace blew out a breath.
“Well, that’s over. What a truly dislikable human.”
Barclay’s fingertips rested atop her cheek. “He hurt ye.” It wasn’t a question, and his eyes blazed with something fierce. “I wasnae in time to stop him from hurting ye.”
“Yer timing was perfect.” She captured his hand and brought it to her lips. “And I love ye for it.”
I love ye.
Slowly, his lips curled into a grin. Adazzlinggrin, one of pure joy. “Ye mean it, Grace?” he whispered. “Truly? I never thought ye would feel the same for me that I feel for ye—”
“Love?” shrieked a voice behind them. “What’s love got to do with it?”
