He reached out again, but swiveled left and managed to grab her this time, trapping her against him in a fierce hug. “Someday ye’ll be Lady of Dunstaffnage.”
“That doesn’t require a dress, does it?” She made a face.
“For some lasses, aye.” He pressed a kiss to her brow and plucked his léine from the floor. “For ye, it means a powerful woman at my side, working with me through negotiations and war, wearing whatever the hell she wants.”
She pulled on her trews and fastened them. “I like the sound of that.”
“Aye, me too.” He grabbed his kilt, but she stopped him.
“I’ll get food from the kitchens. Let’s break our fast together and then start our day.”
“Ye dinna—”
“My trews are easier to put on than your kilt.” Before he could protest further, she kissed his lips and was out the door.
She hadn’t walked more than ten steps from the West Tower when a booming voice called her attention.
“There is my bonny new daughter.” Laird Campbell sauntered over to her and caught her in a firm embrace. He smiled down at her with his kind, amber gaze. “Welcome to the family, lass. I couldna be more proud.”
His exuberance warmed through her. He had accepted her so readily, and now his welcome to the family was just as heartfelt and genuine. It was then she realized, for the first time, she had a family once again.
Hette came into her mind, an occurrence Sylvi knew would happen most likely for the rest of her life. For Sylvi had been far more fortunate than the Prussian woman. Sylvi had not only had the training to give her strength, but she had the love and acceptance of her friends and her husband. A family.
And all those things had kept Sylvi from becoming as frightened and alone as poor, dear Hette.
“Thank you, laird.” Sylvi inclined her head respectfully.
He squeezed her good shoulder. “Nay laird to ye, daughter. Call me da.” He nudged her and gave a wink. “Go on—say it.”
“Thank you … da.” She smiled as she spoke.
His signet ring sparkled in the sun as he lowered his hand. The boar’s head winked up at her.
Her heartbeat faltered for a brief moment. A boar. Not a bore.
What if the nobleman was a Campbell?
“Da.” Donald nodded appreciatively. “That sounds like music to these old ears. The only way I could be gladder is if I’d been there myself.”
Sylvi’s face warmed. “It was so sudden—”
He put his hand up to stop her. “Dinna fash over it, daughter. I know ye and Percy are no’ the kind of lasses who want all the frills of wedding ceremonies. I’m just glad ye had witnesses. After all, what is unseen hasna been done.”
Ice chilled through her soul.
He clapped her on the good shoulder once more, that damning ring glinting, and said something with a jovial smile before turning to go. She stood there with feet rooted to the ground and stared after the man she had so readily considered family, the man she’d only moments ago called da with a smile on her face.
The man who may very well have ordered the death of her entire family.
Chapter 32
Somehow Sylvi managed to stagger back toward the room she shared with Ian. Her muscles moved of their own volition, her entire body numb, yet one foot had stepped in front of the other over and over. They carried her to the door, where she stopped. Hesitating.
The betrayal scorched through her heart, seething beneath the muted blanket of shock.
Lies.
Hate.
Murder.
Her family.
Her family.
The emotions scrabbled over themselves inside her, clawing to escape. Her fingers slipped over the latch twice before it caught. Her heart blazed and her mind whirled. She shoved through the door, and it smacked hard on the stone wall.
Ian jerked from his place beside the window, his hand immediately grabbing for his dagger. Recognition stilled the action, and he was at her side in only a moment. “Sylvi? What is it? Has someone hurt ye? Have ye injured yer arm?”
He kicked the door closed and gently led her to the bed. She stared at him.
All this time, it might have been Ian’s father. Her greatest love spawned by her greatest hate.
A ball of ice curled in her gut.
How could she tell him? After all, if it was indeed Donald Campbell, it would mean he had killed Ian’s mom as well.
She sucked in a hard gasp of air and realized she’d forgotten to keep breathing. She would be the one to break the news to him, to hurt him when already he suffered still from his mother’s death. One parent dead and the other a murderer.
“What? Sylvi?” He held her face in his hands, and the heartfelt tenderness of his regard slipped into her heart like a hot dagger. “My angel, what is it?” Desperation made his voice hoarse.
“Your da—Laird Campbell.” Revulsion shuddered through her; she had embraced the man only moments ago.
“Is he all right?” Ian asked. “My da. Sylvi, please.”
“It was him,” she whispered. “This whole time, it has to be him.”
Ian’s gaze turned wary, and he backed away ever so slightly. “What do ye mean?”
“What is unseen hasna been done,” she spoke it with the soft accent of Ian’s father. “I heard that phrase before—Reginald said it when they killed my family. Hette said it as well. And now … Ian, your father just said it to me.”
Ian’s jaw clenched beneath his beard. “Sylvi—” His stare slipped away and darted around the room, chasing invisible thoughts.
“It wasn’t bore, as in uninteresting, Hette was saying.” Sylvi grasped Ian’s hand with her free one. “It was a boar.” She nodded to where his sword lay on the table, its hilt facing them with the image of the Campbell boar at its base.
He frowned to himself, piecing it together, she knew. “The accounts that were too complicated to discuss.” The color drained from his face. “The ring in my mum’s room.” He issued a low curse and swept his hand over his face. “My mum.”
She curled her fingers into fists and squeezed. Her arm ached from the effort, but she didn’t care. In fact, she welcomed the pain as a necessary distraction from the rage threatening to tear free inside of her.
“Ye are certain?” Ian asked.
“I have no proof, only suspicions, but I feel it in my soul.”
“Everything points in that direction, aye?” Ian lifted his head and dropped it back.
“I don’t know what to do,” Sylvi said through clenched teeth. “If he were any other man, I’d kill him and be done with it. But he’s your father.”
“My God, ye do love me, my angel.” Ian met her gaze and caught her fists in his. “Let me talk to him, see if I can get him to admit it, then we can turn him in to the king.”
“Counterfeiting is stealing directly from the king and an act of high treason.” She didn’t say more than that. It was not necessary.
They both knew what happened to men guilty of high treason—they were hanged, drawn, and quartered.
Ian cursed again and jumped up from the bed to pace the room with renewed fury. He stopped mid-pace and shook his head. “Let me talk to him. I need to confirm this.”
“What if he tries to kill you?” She got to her feet. “I’m coming with you.”
He shook his head. “I’m his heir. He wouldna kill me.”
“He has Kyle as well.”
“Trust me, aye?” Ian stared hard at her. “Let me have this one conversation and see what I can gently press from him. He still sees me as his ally, his heir. I need to see his reactions when he doesna know I know. If we interrogate him, he’ll no’ ever speak.”
Sylvi nodded. It was a good plan, even if she didn’t like it. It was all she could do, to allow any emotion would undo the dam she had built against the surge of her rioting emotions.
He fell to his knees in front of where she still sat o
n the bed and took her hands in his once more. “I’ll make this right somehow. He will face punishment for his actions.” Ian bowed his head and pressed his forehead to his knuckles. When he lifted his head, tears glistened in his eyes. “I know how hard this was for ye to do, to bring this to me rather than immediately strike him down. Thank ye.”
He kissed her hard on the lips, looked down at her one last time, and strode from the room.
It wasn’t until the door was closed and she was alone in the silence of their shattered happiness that she regretted her decision to come to Ian. It could all be over by now had she just done as he said—cut him down. Issue the final strike of justice.
She had made her decision. She had chosen her husband over the vengeance of her family, and now all she could do was wait.
•••
Ian climbed the stairs to his father’s study. His nerves drew tight with every step, and his palms dampened with sweat.
What if Sylvi was right and his father was behind her slain family? If he’d killed her family, then had he also had the others murdered? And Ian’s own mother, the Lady of Dunstaffnage … had his da truly killed her as well?
It would explain Donald’s lack of interest in finding her killer. Ian’s stomach churned with bile.
The questions rose in his mind like nightmares, ugly and unstoppable.
He knocked on the door and waited.
“Enter.” The distracted grunt told him his father was busy.
Ian pulled in a deep breath and pushed into the solar. Donald’s face brightened with joy. “Ach, son, congratulations on yer wedding.”
“Thank ye, Da.” Ian grinned. “I suppose I took to heart what ye said about marrying the lass.”
His father pushed up from the large wooden chair behind his desk and opened his arms to embrace his son. Ian allowed the fierce hug and only straightened when his father finally released him.
“Ye’ve only just wed,” Donald said. “Do ye really want to resume yer studies when ye’ve got a bonny new wife?”
Ian shrugged and hoped he appeared nonchalant despite his racing pulse. “Well, I’m a married man now, Da, as ye say. Married men need homes. Futures.”
Donald’s eyes brightened. “A lairdship?”
“I may be considering it.”
“Aye, of course.” Donald put a hand to Ian’s shoulder and led him over to the chair beside the great desk.
The slightness of Donald’s touch was like a weight against Ian’s back. Was that truly the hand of a murderer?
It was hard to imagine Donald, the charismatic man who everyone loved, the leader who kept his people safe and cared for, killing families and wives.
And yet, then there was Simon and his father.
These thoughts crowded Ian’s mind as his father pored over the accounts with him, offering more explanation and detail than before. When they got to the rents, Ian saw his opportunity to do what he had come for.
“Da, what is the right column for in the accounts?” Ian pointed to the line of numbers he’d been told before was too complicated.
“Something only a laird would know.” Donald slid Ian a sly gaze.
“Then I should learn it.”
Donald beamed at his son. “This is something I’ve been building up for years. I’ve been exceedingly careful in ensuring all of this is secure. Ye must understand my telling you will require discretion on yer part.”
Ian nodded once and hoped his face was as calm as he intended it to be.
His father rubbed his hands together and puffed out his chest with great pride. “I’ve been having coins commissioned.”
Ian’s heart slid a long, slow, painful path into his gut. He hadn’t wanted any of it to be true. “You mean counterfeited.”
Donald shrugged. “It’s a means of providing greater wealth than any land could produce.”
“And who makes the coins?” Ian asked.
“Goldsmiths, of course. Discreet ones.”
Discreet ones. Dead ones. Ian ground his teeth to stop the whirling of his thoughts. Now more than ever he needed to keep his wits about him. “How long have ye been doing this?” Ian dreaded the answer as soon as he’d asked the question.
“Since before ye were born.”
Ian’s chest constricted. So many years. So many goldsmiths. Was Hette Schmidt’s father the first?
His father flipped through the pages. “Do ye see what it’s done for our wealth?” He pointed to an exorbitant figure.
It was a large figure. No doubt many had died to create such a sum. Ian swallowed. “Did ye deal with the goldsmiths yerself?”
“Ach, no.” Donald hesitated. “Well, initially I did, when I dinna have enough coin to afford to hire someone. It took a while to build up wealth, son. I kept my dealings in the northernmost parts of the Highlands, paying for investments with a blend of counterfeit coin and true coin.”
The northernmost parts of the Highlands. Where the king did not try to expend his forces. A crafty plan. And clearly an effective one.
Ian asked. “Then ye hired someone to speak for ye?”
“Aye, mercenaries. They ensured the goldsmiths and their families stayed quiet. I put enough money in their pockets they’ll never seek me out. And they know I have enough connections not to suffer an attempted extortion.”
The room spun around Ian. “How did ye keep them all quiet? Did ye have all of them killed?” He said it in a forced jest.
“Of course I did.” Donald scoffed. “Men become greedy.” He closed the book. “They see what ye profit and they ask for more, or they ask questions, seeking safety in case we all got caught.” Donald folded his hands behind his back and strode across the room. “After the first two goldsmiths, I found a pattern. Ye see, after about four years, they would begin to question the agreement, ask for me. And so, when ye resume this, ye know at four years ye must put a stop to yer work with them.”
Ian watched his father’s back pace away from him. “Ye mean have them killed.”
Donald turned back toward him and nodded slowly. “Aye. To be caught would be certain death. It’s high treason to replicate the king’s coin. I’ve stopped now and havena done it in several years. No’ worth the risk.”
Disgust swirled in Ian’s gut, and the anger, the injustice of it all snared at his heart. “Did ye kill children?”
“I dinna kill them.” Ian’s father twisted his lips. “But, aye, I ordered their deaths. Being a laird isna easy, my son.”
“How can ye order the deaths of children?” Ian leapt from the chair, unable to control the intensity of his rage.
“Because anyone who knows anything could come back and implicate us. All it takes is one.” His father thrust a finger in the air. “One,” he snarled. “A vengeful brat who knows what ye did to their da and a lifetime of work is destroyed.”
Sylvi rose forefront in Ian’s mind, her face wild with determination, her body and mind honed into a warrior’s, perfectly primed for vengeance.
Donald had no idea how right he was.
Ian had most of what he needed, now he had to figure out what the hell to do with it. His father could not be allowed to continue. There were many wrongs to right. Too damn many.
And yet possibly one more Ian had not yet asked after. His mother.
“Ye dinna understand, Ian.” Donald squeezed a hand on Ian’s shoulder. “Ye dinna know what it’s like to be hungry, lad. I’ve made sure of that.”
Ian swept his father’s hand away. “Ye killed children, families.”
Donald narrowed his eyes. “Do ye know, when I was a lad, my da died a disgraced man? We were forced into the woods, my mum and three sisters. I was only ten, but I had a family to feed, to care for.” He pushed Ian backward and blocked the door with his body. “I know hunger and fear and uncertainty. I know what it’s like to watch someone ye love die because ye havena enough food and they got too weak, but ye’ve no coin for a physic.”
Donald shook his head, and the anger of his expression softened into affection. “Ye’ve never known that life, Ian. Nor has Kyle. I made sure of that. And ye never will.” He gestured to the closed book on the desk. “I restored my da’s favor, I made a life our blood is worthy of. I’ve given ye everything I dinna have.”
Ian stared at his father. All of this, the act of high treason, the murder of families, all of it he’d done for his own children. The blood of Sylvi’s family was on his palms as well as it was on the hands of his own father.
“It’s no’ right.” Ian shook his head. “Ye canna do this.”
The lines on Donald’s face deepened. “Yer mum said the same thing.”
“Is that why ye killed her?” Ian asked quietly.
His father was silent, but his face reddened. “If ye want to be laird, ye need to understand there are secrets—”
“Ye mean the death of my mum.” Ian shook his head. “Ye killed her.”
“I dinna do it.”
“But ye paid someone, aye?”
Donald glared at Ian. “Ye’re too bloody softhearted, like yer ma. Ye and that damn brother of yers.”
“Was it Reginald?”
His father stilled. “How do ye know who that is?”
“Because we killed him.”
Donald’s face remained expressionless. “It was ye?”
“In retaliation,” Ian replied slowly. “For what Reginald and his men had done to Sylvi and her family.”
The skin around Donald’s eyes tightened.
“Aye, Da, ye ordered her family killed. They tried to kill her too.”
Donald lowered his head and gave a sardonic laugh. “The Norseman.”
“This is no’ a jest.” Ian glared at his father.
“And what will ye do with me now?” Donald asked. “Send me to the king for a fine traitor’s death? Ye’ll have to be laird then.”
“Ye canna go unpunished.”
Donald’s face purpled. “I built us up, ye entitled bairn. Ye dinna know what it’s like to nearly starve. To have nothing. I’ll no’ ever go back to that life again.”
Ian’s father tensed, giving enough of a warning for Ian to know the hit was coming. He lunged at Donald and threw a punch at the older man. Donald moved with far more speed than seemed possible.
Highland Wrath Page 26
