Page 22 of When a Highlander Weds a Hellion
“Nay. I was second. My brother, yer uncle Gerard, is in Valhalla,” he said, looking upward to the sky where the Viking heaven was. “He was felled in battle because of a mistake I made, and I will nae ever forgive myself… I see too much of myself in yer brother.”
Broch frowned at that. It seemed Blackswell feared Brodee would make the same mistakes he had made; therefore, the man was too hard on Brodee. But Broch could not yet say those things. “I think Mother did nae return because she fell ill,” he said instead, thinking upon some things Neil had told him in the years gone by. “She did nae tell Neil who my father was before she died, and Neil was nae even certain she was my mother. She would nae even admit that she was.”
“I ken ye dunnae recall yer mother, but did Neil tell ye what she looked like?”
Broch smiled. “He said she looked like a wee fae. She had silver-blond hair and the most unusual shade of—”
“Lavender eyes,” Blackswell finished.
“Aye,” Broch replied, the full realization that his father was sitting before him finally sinking in. “My mother did have eyes the color of heather.”
Blackswell grinned. “’Twas what I first noticed about her. Well, that and her skill with a dagger.”
An image of Katreine suddenly danced in Broch’s mind, and he smiled. “There is something about a lass who can wield a dagger well, is there nae?”
“There is,” Blackswell agreed, studying Broch. “Have ye met such a lass?”
He was not one to speak of personal matters to just anyone, but he had a keen desire to learn his father, to make a place in this family, and to see Blackswell’s reaction to what he said. Did Blackswell hate the Kinntochs as much as they seemed to despise the Blackswells? He thought not by what Brodee had said about Katreine hating him. He’d not said he returned the dislike. “Well, I did spend a bit of time with Katreine Kinntoch, and she handles a dagger as well as any warrior I’ve ever seen.”
Blackswell’s eyes widened, and then he chuckled. “Well, as she will soon be yer wife, it’s a good thing ye desire her.”
“I’m nae the sort of man to force a lass to wed him,” Broch said, thinking aloud.
“Nay?” Blackswell arched his eyebrows. “So as the king’s right hand ye will defy him?”
“Well, nay, but—”
“Ye ken if Katreine dunnae wed ye that her family will be defying the king. They will bring his wrath upon their heads.”
“Does that please ye?” Broch demanded, reminded suddenly how he really did not know this man.
“I kinnae say it would make me sad, given we would likely get all of Derthshire, but I’d hate to see the Kinntoch lose his home over his hatred for us. I feel somewhat—” Blackswell halted, looking suddenly uneasy.
“Ye feel what?” Broch prodded, sensing the man had been about to reveal something that would shed a bright light upon that which Broch sought to discover.
Blackswell stood and turned toward the door, giving his back to Broch. Was that intentional so that Broch could not read his expression? “I feel somewhat accountable,” Blackswell said, his voice heavy with what sounded like regret.
“Why?” Broch asked, his heart banging. Was he about to discover that the father he’d just met was a murderer, or the brother was, or that they were indeed raiding the Kinntoch’s land? And if they were, what then? Turn them in? His own family? Try to sort out the mess and see the raids stopped?
“I dunnae ken,” Blackswell said after a long pause. “I suppose because I’m laird. One day when ye are laird of this clan,” he said, turning toward Broch, “ye will ken what I mean. Every deed done by anyone in the clan will feel as if it is yer personal responsibility.” Blackswell’s eyes had a faraway look, but his face held a chasm of pain. “Come,” he announced, focusing on Broch. “Let us go attend to Mungo. ’Tis one wrong we can set right.”
Broch wanted to ask what the others were, but he clenched his teeth. His gut told him his father was honorable but was hiding something, holding something back. Broch would discover what, of that he was certain. What he could not say for sure is what he’d do with the information once he learned it. This morning he had been a bastard, and tonight, he wasn’t. He was not keen at all to make an enemy of the family he had only just discovered. Not unless he had a true reason to.
Eight
“I did nae kill Mungo!” Brodee insisted for the second time since Broch and Blackswell had entered Mungo’s cottage moments before. They’d not found Brodee or his man in the dungeon where Blackswell had ordered them to go. But they did find Mungo lying on his bed with a dagger in his neck and Brodee standing near him with blood on his plaid.
Broch glanced from Mungo to Brodee. He would have to be a fool to have killed Mungo and then stayed after doing the deed, and though Broch had not known the man long, Brodee did not seem a fool. Broch opened his mouth to say so, but Blackswell spoke first.
“Ye said the exact same thing when yer leman was killed and when Lenora was murdered,” Blackswell thundered. “This is it! I’ll nae hide yer misdeeds again.”
Broch kept his gaze on Brodee, wanting to see his reaction. The man stiffened, and then clear hurt settled on his face. “Ye think me a murderer?” he rasped.
“I think the lasses were accidents,” Blackswell said, jerking his hand through his hair. “Fit of passion with yer leman, Arabel, and an accident with Lenora. Ye argued, mayhap ye grabbed her, and she jerked away.” He waved a hand in the air.
“And Mungo?” Brodee asked, his voice dead calm, like the ocean before a violent storm. Broch recognized that restrained composure.
“He fought ye, ye got angry and reckless—”
