Page 7 of The Highlander's Twisted Deal
Laird MacCarthy was not listening. He was muttering to himself, shooting quick, terrified glances at Callum and his men. Then, abruptly, he paused, his eyes glazing. He gave a scream of rage and flew forward into the crowd.
Callum flinched, glancing back at Lachlan as if for an explanation.
Laird MacCarthy reappeared, hauling a woman by her hair. It was the red-haired woman Callum had spotted earlier, who’d warned him about the Laird’s underhanded plans. Laird MacCarthy had his hand tangled in her hair and pulled as if he were trying to tear her hair from her scalp. There was a strangled cry, but not from the woman. An older woman rushed beside her, dressed as a healer, and tried to pry the Laird’s hand off the girl’s hair.
He shoved her back with ease, pushing her roughly back into the crowd. Another woman appeared, pale and dark-haired, and clutched at the older one, holding her back.
Very wise.Nae much they can do here.
For the first time, Callum noticed that the red-haired girl had the stained-green fingertips of a healer. The green was a little faded, of course, but still distinctive. Healers—good ones, at least—spent so much time crushing up herbs for pastes, powders, and tinctures, so much time plucking them from their mulchy beds, that their fingers were permanently discolored. It was said that the older and more talented the healer was, the further up the fingers the green would spread.
Some considered it a mark of great honor, and Callum agreed. The girl was fighting, digging her nails into the Laird’s hand until he let go with a shriek, shoving her to the ground.
She went down heavily, and he drew back his leg to kick her.
“What is going on here?” Callum spoke up, and Laird MacCarthy paused, wobbling on one leg, his foot still poised to kick. The woman froze, glancing up at Callum from the corner of her eye.
“This woman is a murderess,” Laird MacCarthy hissed. “A traitor. A treasonous wench. Oh, I ken all about her. She fled, but I ken where she went.”
The woman stiffened, sucking in a breath. She hadn’t known that she was being followed, then.
“A traitor, is she? What for?” Callum asked, resigned.
Laird MacCarthy shot him a look of pure hatred. “None of yer concern, is it? Contend yerself with kenning that she is a vile creature, and now that I have her back in me grip again, she will be punished. Oh, she will be punished. I’ve had years to think of what I’ll do to her, and now, I have her. Oh, Ava, ye stupid lassie, ye shouldnae have come back.”
3
Ava stared up at Patrick, feeling her heart clench with fear and rage.
She’d been a fool, she knew that now. Stupid to think that she wouldn’t get caught, that she could just skip around her old village and never run into trouble.
She shouldn’t have called out to warn the enemy laird, shouldn’t have lingered on the edge of the crowd, watching the business with the enemy laird and the boy. She remembered Marin, although he was only ten or eleven when she left. He was growing up lanky but with every ounce of his mother’s bravery in him.
Ava’s heart had leaped into her mouth when she thought the enemy laird would kill him, and she felt Niamh’s fingers tighten on her arm, too.
But Marin had been spared. Ava didn’t think that he would be so lucky. The moment when Laird MacCarthy, dragging out pretty women—and a few pretty men for variety—had spotted her in the crowd, and their eyes had met… she shivered. The hatred in his eyes, hatred and triumph, was not something she would not easily forget.
The tip of his sword lingered by her nose, cold metal sliding under her chin to tilt her head up. Ava made it a point of honor not to lower her eyes, to look him dead in the eye.
“Ye will beg for death before the end,” Laird MacCarthy hissed, gloating. “Oh, ye will regret ever raising yer eyes to me faither. He was a good man, a good laird—”
“He was a murderer who forced himself on innocent lassies!” Ava hissed back, louder than she’d expected. “I’m glad he’s dead.”
Laird MacCarthy’s eyes bulged, and the hand holding his sword shivered as if he were fighting the temptation not to cut her throat right there and then. Perhaps that would be the best thing for everyone, really. Ava would die a quick death, and all the worry would be over.
Paisley might never ken what happened to me.
Her mild-mannered English friend did not deserve that, but there was no helping it.
“Wait!” someone burst out, and Ava’s heart sank.
Ma, dinnae. Please, just stay out of it.
Niamh pushed forward into the circle that had formed around the key players in the scene. She spread out her hands placatingly and smiled hopefully at Laird MacCarthy.
“Me Laird, please dinnae punish me Ava. Whatever happened to the old Laird—God rest his soul—I’m sure it was an accident. Accidents can happen, ye ken. A pinch of wolfbane when it ought to be hound’s tooth, and so on. I work hard in the community, Me Laird, and I’m proud to do so. If ye banish her, I can promise faithfully that she willnae return. Never again.”
Ava found herself holding her breath, even though she knew Laird MacCarthy would never agree to it. She could see Elsie hovering in the background, pale-faced, her head lowered.
