Page 80 of Beloved Enemy
Reid’s jaw tightened. “Why?” He asked, his voice low and dangerous. “What was promised to ye? And how does Bertram of Bothal fit into this?”
Lachlan’s face hardened, though he did not flinch. He stood straighter, resigned to the confrontation and possibly his fate. “Why do ye ken?” he said, his voice steady, nearly defiant. “They want a foothold here in the Highlands, aye.” He glanced over at the bodies in the wagon. “The baron approached me last winter. He wanted to impress his king by gaining control of this region. Loch Ness is key—strategically, it would give them accessto the western routes and cut off any reinforcements coming from the north. Kingswood is a perfect staging ground for their ambitions.”
Reid’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, fury simmering just below the surface. “And ye—what were ye promised for yer treachery? Gold? Lands?”
Lachlan met his gaze, his face stony. Little evidence remained of the amiable barber-surgeon. “Bertram promised me lands of my own. A keep to call mine, a title.” He paused, his voice tinged with bitterness. “Better than being the second son of a dead chief with nae house, scraping by with whatever honor ye might toss my way.”
Reid’s eyes narrowed, his voice barely restrained. “So ye sold us out—yer kin, yer people—for English titles?”
Lachlan’s mouth tightened, but his gaze didn’t waver. “Aye, and what of it? Do ye imagine I wanted to rot here, in yer shadow, forever?”
Tavish, who had remained silent, finally spoke, his voice quiet but pointed. “But this was nae just about ye,” he guessed. “Where does Fiona fit into this?”
Lachlan’s eyes softened slightly, but his expression remained guarded. “Fiona dinna want to marry Ewan—she dinna want the first marriage either, which nearly broke her. But ye dinna care about that,” he accused Reid. “Ye kent only of connections and power yerself.”
“I arranged for alliances and security,” Reid clarified harshly.
Lachlan snorted his disbelief. “She’s been trapped her whole life by what others wanted for her—and paid the price for it. She wants more than that.” He paused, exhaling slowly. “She found a way out. We both did.”
Reid’s nostrils flared. “So she helped ye betray us—betray me!—because she didn’t want the match I made for her?”
Lachlan’s shoulders sagged, the weight of his actions clear in his face, though there was no regret, only grim acceptance. “She dinna ken all of it, nae the full extent. But aye, she knew enough. She craved freedom, and I was nae going to deny her that.”
Reid’s anger boiled over. “Freedom at what cost, Lachlan? Ye’ve damned us all for the sake of yer ambition, for the English who would burn our lands and take what we’ve bled for!”
“Is there something afoot even now?” Tavish asked. “Some plan? A siege of Kingswood?”
Wearily, Lachlan shook his head. “Nae now, nae with them dead,” he said, eyeing the wagon. “Those were the agents of Bothal and his brother-in-law, Fitzpayne.” He shrugged. “Once ye hang me, they’ll have nae contact inside Kingswood.” He leveled Reid with a knowing glare. “The English will prevail, Reid. Ye’re simply too stubborn to accept it. I merely chose the side that would win.”
Seumas, quiet until now, inserted himself into the conversation, his voice laden with scorn. “Ye had to ken ye’d be caught? Ye and Fiona both.”
“Aye, we kent the risk,” Lachlan replied, his tone indifferent, though his eyes gleamed yet with a flash of rebelliousness. He turned his gaze back to Reid, a cold smirk forming. “But I always kent ye’d nae hang yer sister, which meant the reward far outweighed the risk.”
The words struck like a blow to Reid’s gut, his fury rising. Disgust churned in his chest, his teeth clenched so tightly his jaw ached. “I’ve heard enough. Seize him.”
Before anyone could move, Tavish snapped. With a roar of sheer fury, he swung at Lachlan, his fist connecting hard with his jaw. The force of the blow sent Lachlan staggering backward, his hand flying up to his face, a trickle of blood dripping from his split lip.
“Ye bastard!” Tavish growled, his voice raw with anger. “After everything—ye’d turn on yer own like this?”
Lachlan didn’t retaliate, simply wiped the blood from his mouth with the back of his hand, his expression one of weary resignation. There was no fight in him. He knew there was no escaping what came next.
Reid gestured sharply to the other men, and they rushed forward, grabbing Lachlan’s arms and forcing him to his knees, binding his hands behind his back.
“Get him in the wagon,” Reid ordered, his voice low, barely masking the storm of emotions inside him.
The soldiers obeyed, dragging Lachlan to the wagon that held the bodies of the slain Englishmen. Without ceremony, they tossed him inside, where he landed with a thud and grunt atop the Bothal man.
Tavish spat on the ground, the disgust on his face palpable as he mounted his horse. “He deserves nae better.”
Reid swung up into his saddle, his expression thunderous. “Move out,” he growled, turning his horse toward Kingswood.
The others followed, grim-faced and silent, the weight of Lachlan’s treachery settling over them like a dark cloud. They rode back to Kingswood, the wagon trailing behind, carrying the dead and the living traitor.
Reid’s mind churned relentlessly as they rode back to the keep. He'd faced countless battles, endured pain and loss without flinching, but the thought of confronting his sister—Fiona, of all people, his closest kin—gnawed at him in ways nothing else ever had.
How could she betray him like this? His own blood, plotting behind his back, siding with the English. It was unthinkable. He had never once questioned her loyalty. Now, he was forced to face the truth that she wasn’t the woman he’d believed her to be. The sting of it cut deeper than any blade ever could. A largerpart of his fury wondered how had he missed the signs. Perhaps he’d been too blinded by duty, too focused on leading his men, to notice the rot festering right under his nose.
Reid led the party through the gates of Kingswood, tension crackling in the air as they entered the bailey. Several loitering peasants and the guards atop the wall stood gape-jawed, their eyes fixed on the bound and beaten Lachlan sitting in the back of the wagon like common spoils of war. The rumble of hooves and the jangle of harnesses filled the bailey.
