Page 72 of A Virgin for the Vicious Highlander
George did not know her, but he probably knew her well enough to understand that she was not lying.
“Did ye really think this would work?” she continued, straining against her shackles once more. “All ye’ll achieve is yer death, sooner than ye probably anticipated. Tara will be devastated, hearin’ that ye were killed while kidnappin’ and threatenin’ her friend, and the rest of the council will think ye a terrible fool for riskin’ so much for nothin’.”
“Shut up!” George snapped, grabbing the poker by the hearth and jabbing it into the fire. “Shut up, or I’ll burn ye!”
Cecilia laughed. “Thingsreallyarenae goin’ as ye planned, are they?” She turned her head to stare at him. “Yer desperation is showin’. But, ye ken, ye could just take me back to Castle Moore before ye’ve done somethin’ ye cannae undo. I’ll tell Murdoch ye were escortin’ me back when we got lost, or we were set upon by brigands. Ye dinnae need to lose yer head if ye just free me and return me now.”
“Shut up!” George roared, wrenching the poker out of the fire and stalking over to her.
A tremor of fear ran through her. She had hoped she was getting through to him, changing his mind, making him see that this was all a colossal mistake that would not end well. But one could not reason with a madman, and she had clearly pushed him too far in the wrong direction.
“I swear, if ye dinnae shut yer mouth, I’ll—” George froze, the poker raised above his head, the end of it bright red with singeing heat.
“Ye’ll what, George?” a deep voice rumbled from behind Cecilia as all the color drained from his face. “Aye, that’s what I thought. Cecilia, ye should close yer eyes. Ye’re nae goin’ to want to see what’s about to happen.”
CHAPTER 31
Murdoch longedto free Cecilia from her bonds, swoop her up into his arms and carry her out of there, but that would have to wait. For now, he preferred to use his anger—his unbridled fury. George had not only stolen his wife away but had also intended to harm her. Indeed, George might have taken Cecilia away from him altogether if Murdoch had not arrived in time.
And to think I doubted her for a second, thinkin’ she might’ve fled from me…
“Close yer eyes, lass,” he demanded more firmly. He did not want her to see just how beastly he could be.
She did as he asked, though she trembled on the table George had bound her to. She was not properly attired for the weather, her cloak was removed, and she was clearly frozen to the bone.
I’ll warm ye soon enough, lass.
“I trusted ye, George,” Murdoch grunted, stalking toward the older man.
George was frozen in fear, the poker shaking in his hand. It was always like that with councilmen—they talked as if they were courageous and would take up arms if there ever was a battle to be fought, but the truth was, they were all cowards when it came to actual fighting.
“As I trusted ye,” George retorted, snapping out of it. “Ye were supposed to wed me daughter. Ye betrayed me. This lass isnae even of our clan. She’ll die, M’Laird, and ye’ll only have yerself to?—”
He let out a scream as Murdoch drew his broadsword and brought it down hard on the poker in George’s hand. A warning of what was to come, a fate that George would not be able to escape.
A visible ripple vibrated through the metal rod and down the older man’s arm, a wince contorting his face. But there was one other thing about councilmen. When theirlives were threatened, they could always muster some bravery.
George swung the poker wildly, stumbling backward as if some distance would make a jot of difference. He swung again and again until he was red in the face, his watery blue eyes wide with terror. All Murdoch had to do was walk slowly toward him with his broadsword raised.
“I told ye I would never marry Tara,” he said coolly. “It cannae be me fault if ye didnae listen when ye were told over and over.”
He swung his broadsword, the clang of metal on metal echoing through the cabin as it struck the poker. This time, George could not keep hold of the trembling object. It fell from his hand and clattered on the floor.
Murdoch moved quickly, swiping up the poker and driving it into George’s shoulder. It did not pierce the flesh—it did not have to. Murdoch just wanted George to feel the burn, to feel what Cecilia would have felt if that poker had touched her precious skin.
George howled, his hand flying to the hole in his shoulder. And as he did, Murdoch raised his sword and drove it through the man’s stomach.
Despite his reputation, Murdoch did not revel in prolonging people’s agony. He was no torturer. But George had to die for what he had done.
“Ye fashioned yer own noose when ye let yer ambition drive ye to do this,” Murdoch growled as he drew back his sword.
Spluttering and falling to his knees, George glared up at his Laird. “The council… will oust ye… for this.”
“The council willnae say a word. Only yer daughter will suffer, but nae at me hand. Ye’ve disgraced her today, George, andye’ll go to yer grave kennin’ that. Ye should have never touched what’s mine,” Murdoch replied, driving his sword into George’s chest. A blow that no man could survive.
Bloodied and severely disappointed in the man he had once trusted, Murdoch sheathed his sword and searched George’s limp body for the key to Cecilia’s shackles. Once he had the key in his hand, he hurried to his wife’s side.
Her eyes were still closed.
