Page 81 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
If I can’t have you, neither can he.
It was the note Freya had told him about. The note she had found in his mother’s library, tucked inside Ovid’sMetamorphoses—a book his mother had often read to him as a child.
Perhaps hehadmissed something, just not what he had thought. What if the clue had been there all along, left there by his mother to be found by him if anything happened to her? For all these years, it had beenright there.
After all, the handwriting was unmistakable. Doughall knew it as well as he knew his own.
32
Doughall’s gaze rose slowly to the figure in the doorway. “Yewrote this.”
It wasn’t a question.
Flynn frowned, sweeping a hand through his hair. “Wrote what? I dinnae ken what ye’re talkin’ about.”
“This note.” Doughall held up the singed paper. “The note me wife found in me maither’s book.”
Flynn gave an infuriating shrug. “I dinnae ken about any note. I never wrote aught to yer maither.”
“Ye would choosethismoment to lie to me?” Doughall seethed, prowling toward his uncle. “I’d ken yer handwritin’ anywhere—I’ve signed enough of the correspondence ye send out for the distillery.”
That eerie calm washed over him as he continued his approach, realizing from the cornered look on Flynn’s face that the man would keep lying, that he thought he could talk his way out of the truth.
“Explain yerself,” Doughall said, his voice unnervingly calm. “Ersie, could ye put the poker in the fire while I talk to me uncle?”
Ersie bowed her head and moved back to the fireplace, stoking it up until the fresh logs began to crackle. Flynn watched her, sweat beading on his brow.
If ye run, I’ll catch ye.
Doughall had already anticipated that his uncle might flee through the open doorway, but Flynn was older and likely knew that he could not outrun his nephew.
“It’s nae what ye think it is,” Flynn said, his eyes furtive.
“Explainthen,” Doughall snarled, now no more than two steps away from his uncle.
With the fire now restored, the flames dancing merrily, Ersie took the poker from the stand beside the hearth, her movements slow and practiced, and jammed the end of it into the heart of the fire, heating the metal.
Flynn’s throat bobbed as he observed her, his eyes darkening as he looked back at his nephew. “I loved her.”
“What?” Doughall hissed.
“It should have been me,” Flynn replied in a grim tone, his face contorting into a mask of pure bitterness. “Ye should have beenmeson. I loved her like nay man has loved a lass before, but yer pa bewitched her, stole her, took what wasnae his. She should have beenmine, but instead, I ended up with her sister just to be close to her.”
A strange fog of confusion descended over Doughall’s mind, his ears hearing his uncle’s words, but it was as if they were being spoken in a different language. Not a bit of it made sense, for he had watched Isla and Flynn for years. He had lost count of the times he had rolled his eyes at their obvious affection for one another.
He lunged forward, seizing Flynn by the front of his shirt. “What did ye mean by that note?” He pulled his uncle further into the room, kicking the door shut so the man could not escape. “When ye said that if ye couldnae have her, neither could he, what did ye mean?”
A sad voice in the back of his head suggested that he already knew the answer. But this was Flynn, this was his uncle—a man Doughall had relied on for so many years, who was so dear to him. Not a father figure, but certainly someone he would have given his life to protect.
How can this be?
Flynn’s eyes were wide and wild, his expression crazed as he tried to wrench himself free. But even as Flynn’s shirt tore, Doughall put a hand around his uncle’s throat—not squeezing yet, but warning him of what would happen next if he did not explain himself.
“I poisoned her first,” Flynn said darkly as he ceased struggling. “Isla saved her life, the wee dolt. Found her in the library and got her to Sorcha in time. Yer ma didnae tell a soul, fearin’ they’d think it was yer da who tried to kill her. She didnae ken it was me. I cannae remember who took the blame in the end.”
The awful realization took hold of Doughall’s throat in a vice-like grip, furious heat rushing to his face as he resisted the urge to strangle the life out of his uncle right there and then.
“I wasnae deterred,” Flynn continued, his eyes burning with a madness that made Doughall believe devils might be real, after all. “I was patient. I let me beloved marry that unworthy beast ye called ‘Faither.’ For ten years, I made meself essential to yer faither. I built me reputation, earned me honor, and waited. Ye were born, and I saw how happy ye made her. I made meself essential to ye too, teachin’ ye things yer pa didnae have time to, bein’ the faither ye should have had.”
