by Elisa Braden
He blew out a breath and muttered a curse. Not so lucid, then. He shrugged on his shirt and embedded the axe in the chopping stump. “Right. I thank ye for the liniment, Mrs. MacBean.”
“Oh, that reminds me.” She dug in her pouch again and handed him a small brown bottle. “This is for yer bride, laddie.”
“There is no bride, Mrs. MacBean. Not now. Not ever.”
“Aye, aye. Dinnae tell her what it’s for. She likes surprises.”
“Ye havenae said what it’s for.” He cut her off before she could answer. “Doesnae matter. For the hundredth time, I dinnae intend to marry.” He retrieved his water flask and took a long drink.
She frowned. Glanced at his thighs. Frowned deeper. “Stoat’s a wee bit shy about comin’ out of his burrow, eh?”
He choked on his next swallow.
“Dinnae fash. I’ll make ye a tonic.” She dug through her pouch. “Hmm. I’ve enough stag’s antler, but I must collect butcher’s broom from the north side of a west facin’ slope. Also, four pounds of roseroot.”
Recovering from his coughing fit, he capped his flask and rasped, “There’s nothin’ wrong with my stoat.”
With a triumphant cry, she withdrew a shriveled mushroom from her pouch. “Now, this will wake yer wee beastie from his slumber.”
Shaking his head at her daft nonsense, he started for the house.
The old woman mumbled as she trailed after him, “Come to think of it, yer bride may need a salve when the tonic takes effect. ’Tis a powerful formulation. Not for the weak-kneed or those prone to chafing.”
“For God’s sake.” He stopped. Turned. Glared. “There willnae be a bride! Any lass worth havin’ would take one look at me and flee in the other direction.”
She froze, her eyes going wide. “Och, laddie. Have ye become a seer, too?”
One month later
Broderick hated Annie’s plan. Too dangerous, he’d complained to her less than a half-hour ago. She’d argued the only way it could work is if Lockhart were lulled into false confidence, and for that, he must be confronted by someone he thought inferior. In other words, Annie herself.
God, he hated this. So much so that, if Campbell and Alexander hadn’t been assigned to guard him, he’d be inside Glenscannadoo Manor’s ballroom right now. Instead, he stood in the small manor house’s back garden, cloaked in shadows and listening to three MacDonnell cousins playing a reel.
“Let me go in,” he gritted. “I’ll get answers.”
“Huxley is with her,” Campbell murmured, watching Rannoch thread his way through the dancing villagers with a grim stare. “He’ll slash Lockhart’s spine if the bastard so much as breathes on her.”
Alexander, leaning against a young oak tree, chuckled darkly. “Aye. He dispatched Skene readily enough. Must admit, the Englishman is good with a dirk.”
True. David Skene, the rat who had been Lockhart’s weapon of choice, had shown his rat face after months of being hunted by Broderick and his brothers. Unfortunately, he’d only emerged from his hole to abduct Annie and use her as leverage. If John Huxley hadn’t awakened from a drug-induced slumber and charged like an enraged bull to Annie’s rescue, she might have died instead of Skene.
Broderick’s debt to the Englishman was growing vaster by the day.
And he was grateful. He was. But, God, he wished he’d been the one to put the rat down. He’d have made Skene’s death slower. Excruciating. He’d at least have taken an eye.
Through the ballroom doors, Angus emerged and stalked toward them.
“Da’s wearin’ his good kilt,” Alexander observed. “Do ye suppose he’s decided to chase after the bonnie dressmaker?”
Campbell’s answer was a grunt.
Broderick didn’t bother replying, for there was no need. Alexander was trying to distract him. Because Alexander understood what Broderick was fighting.
His skin thrummed like a maddened hive.
Angus approached with Rannoch in tow. “Lockhart arrived. The sister, too. Another few minutes, and we’ll go inside.” Da’s dark gaze focused on Broderick. “Are ye ready, son?”
Was he? Every muscle burned. His chest felt agonizingly tight. The leather patch burned like a brand. He must contain the pressure.
“Aye,” he muttered, knowing it was a lie.
Da eyed him warily and braced his shoulder. “Ye’re strong. A MacPherson. Dinnae forget.”
Broderick nodded. MacPhersons were too big to let their tempers drive the wagon. How many times had he and his brothers heard that admonishment when they were wee? A thousand, at least.
“Time for Da and me to clear the ballroom.” Campbell nodded toward the terrace doors, where John and Lockhart’s sister emerged. “We’ll signal ye when it’s time.” Campbell and Angus kept to the shadows, avoiding notice by the woman on Huxley’s arm.
Sabella Lockhart was a slender, elegant blonde with emeralds glittering around her long neck and an air of untouchable delicacy. Annie insisted the lass knew nothing of her brother’s vile deeds and, indeed, might well be one of his lesser victims.
“Bonnie lass,” Rannoch observed as John handed Miss Lockhart off to Dougal MacDonnell and returned to the ballroom. “Do ye suppose she kens what her brother did?”
Alexander, as usual, took a cynical view. “I dinnae give two shites if she kenned his scheme or not. She kens his nature. But it hasnae stopped her wearin’ the silk and jewels he buys her, has it?”
Their conversation buzzed dimly in Broderick’s ears. Pressure roiled inside him. Built and built and built. For a moment, he swore he heard rain howling past barred windows. It drowned everything. Flooded his blood and turned him cold as filthy stone beneath filthier straw.
Minutes later, he found himself standing beneath glittering chandeliers, watching his sister taunt a lean, blond Lowland lord. The man’s back was turned to the room, but by the set of his shoulders beneath a light-blue linen coat, Annie’s sharp tongue had already done its work well.
“Your vulgarity should be shocking, I suppose, except for one thing. I’d expect nothing less from a MacPherson.”
Annie, lounging on a settee in front of Lockhart, raised a scarlet brow. “Are ye speakin’ of my brothers?”
Broderick’s heart squeezed when his sister’s beautiful blue eyes flickered ever-so-briefly to meet his own. He must control himself. For her sake.
“I’d rather not,” the arrogant lord retorted.
“Aye. Only natural. Them bein’ so much larger.” She smirked. “A pure shame. Some men carry cabers. Some struggle to lift their teacups.”
“I think this conversation has run its course.”
“Did a MacPherson steal yer woman, then?”
The way Lockhart stiffened in that moment was its own reply.
When Annie had quizzed Broderick about Lockhart, he’d had few answers for her. He didn’t know the man, had never met him. The name wasn’t familiar, so they’d never done business together. When she’d suggested Lockhart’s enmity seemed deeply personal, he’d searched his memories for anything he’d done that fit such a description. Nothing had made sense.
And it still didn’t. All this over a woman? What woman, for God’s sake?
“Any woman I considered mine would remain so until I deemed otherwise,” Lockhart gritted.
Annie grinned. “Unless she didnae. What happened? Bit of a problem hoistin’ yer teacup?” Briefly, she dropped her gaze to his breeches. “Or perhaps she simply prefers Highland whisky to weak Lowland tea.”
Broderick wanted to stop her then. She was playing with fire. That was the point, of course, but if Lockhart moved a single inch in her direction, Broderick would snap the bastard’s neck.
“You’re treading on dangerous ground, Lady Huxley.”
“Like Broderick did? I’d wager ye discovered yer lass fancied him.”
Fancied him. Bloody, everlasting hell. The answer arrived in a rush of memories. A veiled
woman on Princes Street. Practiced lovemaking and lavender-scented breasts. Asparagus soup running down his naked chest. Her tears as they said their final goodbye.
Cecilia. This had all been about Cecilia. The woman he’d sent back to her protector—who was Lockhart.
Annie continued, “I’d wager ye werenae too pleased by her preference.”
Lockhart’s next words were as cold and slithering as an adder in frozen grass. “I’d wager your brother is no longer the sort of man a lass fancies.”
Roaring disturbed Broderick’s ears, but no one else around him seemed to hear it. Annie kept talking. He didn’t hear what she said. The roaring sharpened until it sounded like rain beating bars and stone. Cold deepened. He could almost smell the straw.
Annie’s voice flickered past the roar. “How did ye ken ye’d lost her, eh? Did she stop botherin’ to please ye? Stop doin’ that wee trick with her smile that made ye believe she worshipped ye?” She was pressing Lockhart, now, provoking him. “Here’s the truth, Lockhart. I’ll say it plain so ye cannae miss it. A woman can only pretend to love an empty bag of worthlessness so long.”
How did she know these things? Even Broderick hadn’t suspected Cecilia was the cause of his torture.
“When she finds a real man with real substance, she kens what she’s missin’,” his wee sister said. “And no title or fortune can hold her.”
Lockhart bent closer to Annie, bracing his arm on the back of the settee.
Broderick tensed, picturing ten ways he could snap the man’s neck before any harm came to Annie.
“She didn’t leave,” the bastard seethed.
“Aye, she did,” Annie retorted calmly. “Mayhap ye kept her with ye. Mayhap she still lets ye wet yer teacup from time to time. But ye ken very well who she’d choose, had she the choice to make. And it wouldnae be you.”
“It was me.”
“Nah. ’Twas Broderick.”
“No.”
Yes, he thought starkly. Cecilia had chosen Broderick. Had she known what her protector would do when he found out?
“That’s why ye had Skene set him up to take the fall for an exciseman’s murder,” Annie continued. “That’s why ye made certain he would die in the Bridewell.”
The shoulders inside light-blue linen heaved with agitated breaths. “He deserved his punishment.”
“Ye couldnae bear the comparison. Couldnae bear thinkin’ how she’d always want him more.”
“Shut your mouth.”
“A wee, empty man cannae hide his shortcomings when he’s standin’ next to a giant.” Annie flashed Broderick a tender glance.
God, he wished she would stop this. Just stop.
“Bloody harridan,” Lockhart growled.
Broderick’s fists curled. Readied.
“His only hope is to bring the giant down.”
When Lockhart pounded the back of the settee right beside Annie’s shoulder, Broderick lost control. He lunged forward, only to have two of his brothers lock him in place with unbreakable force. Huxley, too, was being restrained by Campbell, he noticed. But Lockhart didn’t seem aware of who stood behind him.
He was too busy crowing in a vicious snarl, “And down he fell, like a great, bloody tower smashed into bloody ruins.”
Annie, seemingly satisfied by Lockhart’s confession, sat back. “’Twas a clever plan,” she said. “Very effective.”
“Aye. It was.”
“Do ye wish to see those ruins, Lord Lockhart? Surely ye do.”
“Aye.”
“Turn round.”
Lockhart faced him. The man’s eyes were a blaze of green as they scoured Broderick’s face. Fine tension vibrated through his frame. The tension spoke of pleasure. Vicious, triumphant pleasure.
Annie’s plan had been to goad Lockhart into a confession within earshot of enough prominent witnesses that he could be charged with arranging the exciseman’s murder. She’d accomplished her goal.
Standing amongst the MacPhersons were two High Court judges, a Lowland duke, and a local magistrate. Annie and John believed it would be enough to convict Lockhart, enough to see him punished.
Broderick knew better. He’d experienced Lockhart’s obsession and extraordinary influence first-hand. Before he’d known the bastard’s name, he’d known the extent of his power. As a lord, Lockhart was middling, a minor social presence with a fading title and no official duties.
No, his power emanated from a different source—blackmail, perhaps, or secret favors. There were rumors of his investment in a particular club.
Regardless, the man before him now shook with near-orgasmic satisfaction upon viewing the results of his destruction. That sort of hatred did not die an easy death. And men of Lockhart’s influence would never be punished by any court.
That would be left to Broderick.
“I’m goin’ to kill ye, Lockhart,” he vowed. “One way or another, I’ll see it done.”
The bastard’s teeth gleamed as he grinned his victory. “Perhaps. But I’ve already killed you, haven’t I? She’ll never want you like this. Never again.”
Two constables came to haul the man away, but inside, Broderick knew this was not the end. They would see each other again, and when they did, he meant to keep his vow.
One month later
Rain poured down Broderick’s naked back as he brought the axe down with a harsh grunt. The log split cleanly down the center. The axe buried deep in the chopping stump. He jerked it loose, breaths heaving. “Nae more lies, Rannoch.” His voice was a harsh rasp. He couldn’t look at his brothers. “You and Alexander have been searchin’ for weeks. What did ye find?”
“I told ye, I—”
“Is she alive?”
Silence.
Broderick battled the sick surge in his gut and looked at his younger brother. Rannoch’s hair plastered like dripping ink to his forehead. His eyes spoke of sorrow. Broderick looked to Alexander. “Tell me.”
“It’s as he said,” Alexander answered. “We couldnae find a trace of anybody named Magdalene Cuthbert. Nor anybody of her description.”
Rannoch swiped a hand through his hair, slicking it off his forehead then paced away to stand with his back turned.
Alexander stood still, letting the rain soak him to the skin. “But we did find Gordon’s lead man. He claims there was a lass that night. Not outside the Bridewell, but later, just down the way. Like thwarted hounds, their blood was up. They took her.”
Something was stabbing Broderick’s guts. Tearing and ripping and making him bleed. “Are ye certain it was—”
“Nothin’ is certain. There was nobody left to ask.” Months ago, shortly after Broderick’s release, his brothers had turned every man involved in Broderick’s torture into a cautionary tale on the dangers of targeting a MacPherson. According to Campbell, Alexander had taken his time with Gordon.
Now, Broderick’s most lethal brother stood before him, black hair dripping into his eyes, dark gaze bleak as a windowless cell.
“What do ye ken?”
“We made inquiries,” Alexander replied. “The minister who found her outside Trinity College Kirk said she died the following day. Her wounds were … severe. Too severe for a proper description.”
Stillness took him. Inside, he froze until he burned. His breathing slowed to nothing. His eye closed. He saw gray. White. Kindness.
Red.
Someone released a deafening bellow, the cry of a great beast grievously wounded. When he opened his eye, the axe was fifty feet away.
It had cracked a tree in two.
One month later
Broderick cursed the freakish storm that made his poor vision worse than normal. Shortly after he’d sent Campbell and Alexander off, clouds had crowded the sky, bringing an early nightfall. Rain had followed. Now, in the downpour, darkness was thick enough to make the clearing impenetrable. He set the lantern on the ground near where the cart was mired.
> His cargo shifted. Grunted.
“Soon enough,” Broderick muttered, though he wasn’t certain if he spoke to himself or to the evil bag of shite in the cart. Originally, he’d planned to take him further south, beyond the quarry. But the rain had turned the ground soft, and he’d decided rubbish could be buried here as easily as anywhere.
He pulled the shovel from the cart and leaned it against a tree. Then, he grasped an ankle and yanked the cargo onto the ground. The bag of shite landed with a groaning thud.
“Ye’ll hang, MacPherson,” it hissed, rolling onto its knees in the mud. “They’ll dump you in that hole where you should have rotted. Then, they’ll kill you.”
After removing the bag from the shite’s head, Broderick withdrew his dirk and severed Lockhart’s bindings. He relished the man’s flash of fear as he bent over him to complete the task—perhaps more than he should. But he’d already condemned himself to hell. What was another sin added to the pyre?
“Your sister’s indulgent husband won’t save you,” the soon-to-be-dead man snarled as he staggered to his feet. “No duke’s favor or judge’s bribe. Nothing will spare you this time.”
Returning his dirk to its scabbard, Broderick met his enemy’s gaze, lit unearthly green by the lantern. “Mayhap. But ye’ll be here, rotting ’neath the soil. That’s what matters.” He shrugged out of his coat and tossed it onto the cart. “For a long time, I didnae ken who ye were, Lockhart.” He rolled up the sleeves of his blue linen shirt, rendered black by the downpour. “I wondered what sort of weakling must hire his retribution done. Now I ken.”
He looked the man up and down. The Inverness jail had left no mark upon Kenneth Lockhart. When Campbell and Alexander had carried the blackguard out of the place, he’d been clean, well-fed, and garbed in the finest wool coat, white linen cravat, and pressed trousers.
