Page 80 of Married to the Ruthless Highlander
“Out!” the healer barked.
Although Doughall did not appreciate being ordered about, he would not put Freya’s life in jeopardy. He pressed one more kiss to her hand and then got up, storming out a second behind the others, who were quicker to obey. He slammed the door shut behind him, just to let Sorcha know of his disapproval, and marched off without a word to anyone.
They should have been watching Freya in his absence, and if she did not make it, he would not forgive any of them.
As he walked, not really sure where he was going, one thought swirled around and around in his head like a jagged mace.
Who would dare to poison me bride?
He had let his guard down. He had thought that Freya was safe because he had rid the world of Lewis Brown, but someone had swooped in and attacked, stealing his happiness at the very moment he had begun to feel joy again. And he would find out who; he would not let it become a festering mystery, devoid of justice, like the murder of his mother and father. No, he would not make that mistake again.
“M’Laird!” Ersie ran after him, drawing level with him. “M’Laird, where are ye goin’? Do ye nae think ye should wait outside the healer’s chambers?”
“I’m nay good to her there,” Doughall replied tersely, a destination coming to his mind.
Lewis had two men with him at the loch. They died, aye, but what if there were more? What if these were his instructions, in the event that he didnae return?
Fear froze the blood in his veins as he hurried onward, convinced that he had missed something, that there must be something in Freya’s chambers that would give him answers.
Perhaps the culprit had not realized that Freya would be getting ready for the wedding somewhere other than her bedchamber. Perhaps there was another note that had gone unread, hidden away. Perhaps it had been left out for Freya to see, but in her rush to prepare for the wedding, she had missed it.
Doughall had to be sure.
“Who would do this, Ersie?” His voice cracked, a furious growl covering it quickly. “I need names, ideas… anythin’ ye can think of.”
“If I may,” Flynn called from behind them as he hurried to catch up. “I reckon it must’ve been that bastard who attacked her by the loch. The one who was sniffin’ around the other day.”
Doughall rounded on his uncle. “Have ye naught but air between yer ears?” he snapped. “Where have ye been, eh? Ikilledthe bastard. Split him in two. But that’s nothin’ compared to what I’ll do to the devil who did this. There are nay words for what I’ll do.”
Flynn seemed confused, furrowing his brow as he looked at his nephew. “When did ye kill the brute?”
“Two days ago,” Doughall said, continuing on to Freya’s bedchamber. “Ye’d have kenned that if ye werenae holed up in yer distillery, samplin’ the stock.”
“For ye!” Flynn protested. “I was makin’ preparations so ye’d have somethin’ special for yer weddin’.”
“Aye, well, I could’ve used ye here. Another set of eyes to watch for anyone who might hurt…her,” Doughall growled, kicking open the chamber door. “Someone has come into me castle tonight. Someone has poisoned me wife’s drink. Someone has tried to kill her, and I swear on the memory of me ma and da that I willnae let them get away.”
He started rampaging through the bedchamber, not at all certain of what he was looking for, but the aggression of his search was soothing his frayed nerves. He wrenched open drawers, threw the mattress and tore at any parts that might be hiding notes, shook books and sheaves of paper violently, desperate for a clue.
Flynn stood in the doorway, while Ersie went around the room in a more orderly fashion, searching with greater care and putting back things that Doughall had thrown.
“It has to be here somewhere!” Doughall hissed, clenching his fists, digging his fingernails into his palms.
He could not endure this again. He could not lose Freya, not when his heart—despite itself—had already decided to cherish her.
“What does?” Flynn asked, staring at the chaos with bewildered eyes.
“I dinnae ken!” Doughall barked, feeling as if he was transported back to twenty-one years ago when he had attempted to search for the men who had killed his parents.
There had been no clues back then either, every avenue swiftly becoming a dead end.
Ersie suddenly crouched in front of the fire, which had cooled to faint embers, and reached for something underneath the grate.
Puzzled, Doughall watched her, but he could not see what she had found, her hunched upper body hiding it from view.
“Do ye think this might be somethin’?” she asked, getting up and walking toward him, her eyes trained on the singed square of paper pinched delicately between her thumb and forefinger. Yellowed paper. Old and time-stained. “It must’ve fallen through the grate.”
Doughall took it from her, reading the words etched on the aged paper that had somehow escaped the heat of the fireplace… as if it had known it might be needed. As if a force beyond his beliefs had preserved it for that exact moment.
