Page 3 of The Highlander's Virgin Widow
The man stumbled and crashed into the wet soil, a loud cough escaping from his lips.
Evander moved closer, his eyes narrowed. He studied the tartan of the man’s kilt—it was from one of the smaller clans in the south.
Red-hot anger surged through him.
The man twisted around, his face now streaked with dirt. Blood trickled down from his nose to his chin. He scrambled away from Evander, struggling to find his footing and get off the ground.
“Who are ye?” Evander asked, pointing his sword at him and taking a step toward him.
The man looked a bit older than Evander himself. His reddish-brown hair glistened in the fragmented rays of the sun that filtered through the leaves above.
“I said,” Evander growled, taking another step and pressing the tip of his blade against the man’s chest, “who are ye?”
The man opened his mouth to speak, but nothing came forth. What escaped his mouth instead sounded like a croak. A half-groan, Evander could not decipher, no matter how much he tried.
“I willnae repeat meself,” Evander warned, moving closer.
The man tried to speak again, but his words were not clear—not to Evander and certainly not to himself.
Evander bent down, his face now mere inches away from the man’s. He waited for him to speak again, ready to listen attentively. Except, the next time the man opened his mouth, he did not speak.
With a venomous look on his face, and with the most strength he could muster, the man spat straight into Evander’s face.
“Curse ye, Laird Kincaid,” he wheezed, still struggling to pull air into his lungs.
Evander straightened up and wiped his face with the hem of his shirt. He took one last look at the man, who was still trying to scramble off the ground.
“Very well.”
His blade gleamed in the air for the briefest of seconds, and before the man knew what was coming, Evander had driven it straight into his chest.
The man reached for the hilt of the sword, a look of mild shock on his face. He started to cough again, but this time, blood flew from his mouth. He stared at the blade one more time, and with one last breath, he crumpled to the ground.
Evander pulled out his sword and wiped it on the leaves, then tucked it back in its sheath. Taking one more look at the man, wondering if his dead body would reveal any information he was unable to get from him when he was alive, he turned around and headed back to his burning castle, his eyes briefly flicking to the flames that rose into the clear blue sky.
When he returned to the courtyard, the fire was still roaring, and while some of his people had left, some were still around,huddled on the ground, mourning the loss of their belongings and their home.
Shona had remained by the edge of the grass, her son, who Evander was now certain was no longer alive, cradled in her arms.
“M’Laird,” Rory called, hurrying toward him, almost like he was suddenly made aware of his master’s presence.
Evander looked up at him, his eyes gleaming. But instead of pain and disappointment, there was anger now. Anger that he couldn’t save Tommy. That he couldn’t extract anything from the man he had pursued into the woods and killed. Anger that his castle was burning to the ground, and there was nothing he could do about it.
Well,almostnothing.
“I have let this go on for way too long.”
Rory narrowed his eyes. “Let what?”
“This little feud with the southern clan.”
Rory inhaled sharply. “The man ye chased into the woods—he caused the fire, did he nae?”
Evander didn’t respond. He had nothing to say. Instead, he took one last look around the courtyard, at the men and women sprawled across the grass, watching the castle burn to ash.
He’d had enough. And for once, he was going to put a complete stop to it.
He turned to Rory, a determined look on his face. He was done with the niceties, and his man-at-arms lowered his head.
