The Laird of Blackloch (Highland Rogue #2)

Chapter 29

“ A re you almost ready, my love?” Alex cast a glance at Sarah as he buckled the leather strap on the satchel containing documents he wanted to take to Edinburgh.

“Yes. I think so.” She tucked the slim volume of poetry she’d been perusing into her own satchel and glanced toward the library window. “I’m pleased to see the weather is holding fair. How far is it to the inn at Port-na-Craig?”

“About thirty miles. I’m sorry to make you ride so far again after yesterday’s ordeal...”

“No, it’s all right.” Sarah’s face was pale and her eyes shadowed with fatigue but she managed a smile nonetheless. “It must be done. I’d rather be safe than sorry.”

Alex rounded the desk and kissed her. “My brave lass. Tomorrow you will be able to luxuriate in a carriage with soft blankets and furs and warm bricks at your feet.”

“And foot rubs?”

“You can have as many of those as you like. Or any other kind of caress, for that matter.”

Her blue eyes danced with amusement and another emotion he rather suspected was desire. “That’s very obliging of you.”

His hand slipped to her lovely round bottom as he whispered, “I promise you, you won’t be interested in that book of poetry for long.”

A knock at the door had Alex inwardly cursing. It was Dobson who entered. “Sir, you said to let you know when the horses were ready. I have your sword here too.”

“Thank you.” Alex took the sheathed weapon—a basket-hilted sword—and strapped the scabbard to the leather belt at his waist. “And is the portcullis raised?”

“Aye, sir. Just now.”

“Excellent.”

“Sir.” Dobson’s brow had folded into deep furrows and his gaze had fallen to the carpet. “About Isla... If you had the time to have a quick word... She’s waiting to see you outside...”

Alex frowned. Dealing with Isla right now was an added irritation he could do without. “Miss Lambert and I have given the matter some thought and we think it’s best that my original plan still stands. She can work at the Boar’s Head. I do not have time?—”

He broke off as the sound of Bandit barking madly echoed up the stairs from the Hall. He crossed the library and fully opened the door to the Long Gallery. What the deuce?

That was when his blood turned to ice. There was a shout below and then a shot rang out followed by a scream.

Christ, no. “Dobson, stay here and protect Miss Lambert.” Alex shrugged out of his coat and tossed it to the servant. “Get my pistol. It’s in the desk. Top drawer. Load it. Don’t hesitate to use it.”

Dobson’s expression tightened grimly. “Aye, my lord.”

Fear flickered in Sarah’s eyes. “Oh, God. Is it Malcolm?”

Alex gave a curt nod. “I think so.”

At that moment, Tay’s voice carried up the stairs. “Wherever you are, I’m coming for you, Alexander MacIvor, you bastard.”

“Don’t worry, Sarah.” Alex turned back and gave the woman he loved with his entire being a swift kiss, refusing to believe it could be their last. “Stay here with Dobson.”

Heart hammering, the lust for vengeance coursing through his blood, Alex drew his sword and stepped into the Hall as Tay reached the top of the stairs.

The disgraced earl’s face was contorted with anger. In one hand he brandished an ornate basket-hilted sword. In the other he held a pistol. “You fucking arsehole!”

“My lord. Watch out!” Isla appeared as if from nowhere and launched herself at Alex at the same moment the pistol discharged.

Oh, God no. The maid’s eyes widened for an instant and she slumped to the Turkish hall runner at Alex’s feet, a crimson stain blooming on her back. Before he could even blink, Tay was charging toward him, red-faced, sword raised.

White-hot anger seared through Alex, stirring him to action. Praying God would forgive him for his neglect, he stepped away from Isla, sword at the ready, muscles braced for the onslaught. As much as he wanted to help the lass, he needed to draw Tay away from Sarah and dispense with the sick bastard once and for all.

The games were over. The day of reckoning had arrived.

With a roar Tay lunged, slashing wildly, but Alex easily parried his move and then drove him back toward the staircase with a series of quick thrusts. Moving down the Long Gallery in a macabre dance of advance and retreat, thrust and parry, Alex quickly ascertained that Tay might be tall and well-muscled, but he was less skilled. His reflexes were slower, his countermoves less sophisticated. The brute’s unbridled anger—whilst it might lend a certain recklessness to his moves—was also likely to be a hindrance rather than a help. His offensive strokes were more aggressive, which meant he would probably tire sooner rather than later.

Clearly incensed he’d started to lose ground, Tay leapt backward then twisted with an agility that took Alex by surprise. The cur’s blade sliced through the sleeve of his cambric shirt, nicking his left bicep, and Alex swore. He barely had time to suck in another breath before Tay lunged at him again. Alex ducked, the blade missing him by a whisker, and then Tay lost his balance, his forward momentum making him stumble.

He crashed into a chair but before Alex could strike, Tay spun, hurling the piece of furniture in his direction. Alex leapt out of the way but as he landed, Tay slashed out at his thigh.

Shit. The hot sting of the cut fired Alex with renewed purpose.

The clash of steel and their ragged breathing and grunts filled the air as Alex continued to drive Tay away from the library. At the bottom of the stairs leading up to the second floor, his foe pushed forward, the blade of his sword sliding down Alex’s until their weapons were locked at the hilt. For several fraught moments they grappled each other for the advantage; Tay’s eyes burned with murderous rage as his nostrils flared and his chest heaved. “I’m going to gut you...like a fish,” he panted.

“When it’s a cold day in hell, Tay.” Arm and thigh muscles shaking with the strain, Alex gave an almighty push and threw Tay off.

Tay staggered back but he swiftly regained his footing and bolted up the stairs to the next floor. When Alex gave chase, Tay turned and lunged wildly again, blade flashing through the air with a hiss. Alex neatly ducked and spun low, kicking out at the bastard’s knee, knocking him into the paneled wall with a crash.

Now was his chance. Launching himself forward, Alex tried to catch Tay on the defensive—but the dog darted away into the center of the corridor again.

Fucking hell. Harnessing his frustration, Alex gave chase.

Lungs burning, sword flashing, he made cutting stroke after cutting stroke, forcing Tay down the second-floor gallery, past the morning room and his private study, the guest bedchambers and his own suite. Tay’s reaction time was slowing, his stamina failing, his parries growing weaker. It wouldn’t be long until Alex had Tay right where he wanted him—skewered by his sword, the blackguard’s heart cleaved in two.

Tay suddenly swung around but his feint failed and he tripped on the rug. As he parried Alex’s next blow with an upthrust arm, their blades locked again and they crashed against each other. “Where’s...Sarah?” Tay panted as they wrestled, chest to chest. “When you’re dead...I’m going to fuck her...so hard. Just...like your mother...and your Lady Margaret.”

Alex saw red. Blood-red .

Baring his teeth in a feral snarl, he shoved Tay away then slashed his sword downwards with all his might. The blade struck the basket-handle with such force, Tay lost his grip and his weapon went flying.

Shock flashed through Tay’s widened eyes. Then he spun and fled down the last few yards of the gallery, heading for the door leading to the battlements.

Triumph flaring, Alex sprinted after him up the stairs...

Sarah’s hands shook as she pressed a wadded-up piece of fabric—her silk fichu—against the bullet wound in Isla’s right shoulder blade. The maid was unconscious, her breathing shallow and shaky; lying on her belly, her head turned to the side, the lass’s face was bone-white whereas the stain upon the back of her pale gray gown was bright red.

When Alex and Malcolm had moved down the Long Gallery, away from the library, Sarah had helped Dobson to carry his daughter inside. After they’d laid her upon the damask upholstered settee before the fire, Dobson had gone to Alex’s desk and had taken out his pistol. As he loaded the weapon, he asked in a shaking voice how Isla was.

“I don’t know, Dobson,” Sarah said with tears in her eyes. “I honestly don’t know.”

She’d never nursed anyone with such a grievous injury before. Kneeling beside the settee, her fingers covered in Isla’s blood, she supposed they should cut the maid’s dress away and examine the wound to see if the bullet was still lodged inside her, but she didn’t have anything resembling a knife or scissors.

And all the while, her ears strained to hear what was going on in the Gallery.

Oh, dear God. If anything happens to Alex... If Malcolm comes for me again...

Her mouth dry, her throat tight, Sarah swallowed down her fear and tried to focus on helping Isla. There was just so much blood. Her silk fichu was totally inadequate in stemming the flow. Perhaps she could rip off some of the cushion covers and use those. Even though Isla had betrayed her, twice, she would do what she could to save the lass.

Somehow, she didn’t think it would be enough.

The door flew open, and Sarah jumped whilst Dobson aimed the pistol at the unexpected intruder.

Thank the Lord, it was only Aileen.

The distraught woman’s hands flew to her face. “Och, no. My poor wee bairn,” she cried, before rushing to the settee and dropping to her knees beside Sarah. With shaking fingers, she pushed her daughter’s red curls away from her ashen face.

The housekeeper raised her gaze to Sarah’s, eyes brimming with tears. “I heard pistol fire and shoutin’ in the Great Hall. And then I saw Lord Tay mounting the stairs. But I didna realize he’d shot my poor Isla.”

“Yes, I’m afraid so,” Sarah replied. Tears spilled from her eyes and ran down her cheeks as well. “I didn’t see what happened, but I heard Isla call out right before the shot. I think she was trying to save Lord Rannoch.”

“Aye, I think so too,” Dobson said. Ever faithful, he now stood by the cracked open door, his gaze and his pistol trained down the Long Gallery.

“I hope the master cuts the bastard to pieces and sends him straight to where he belongs—to the devil,” muttered Aileen.

“So do I.” Sarah hated to ask the question but she did so anyway. “Did you see who else was injured, Aileen?”

“Aye. Lord Tay shot young Andy Stark in the arm and stabbed MacWilliam in the side. Both were on duty at the front door in the Great Hall.”

Oh, no. Sarah closed her eyes. How could one man wreak so much havoc? Cause so much damage and death? She prayed Stark and MacWilliam, and even Isla, wouldn’t die.

Most of all, she prayed for Alex.

At that moment, Dobson opened the door wider admitting MacLagan.

The footman’s face was as white as the bandage about his head. “I heard Isla had been hurt,” he began. “Moira saw it happen. She sent me with these.” He nodded at the bowl of water and bundle of fresh linen bandages he carried.

Even though Lord Tay’s bullet had grazed his temple the day before, Sarah was impressed the young man had risked his own safety again.

“Thank you, MacLagan.” Sarah waved him over to the fireside. “Do you happen to have a dirk about you? Or what about you, Dobson? We need to cut away Isla’s gown.”

MacLagan retrieved something from the desk. “Here’s the master’s penknife, Miss Lambert. It should be sharp enough.”

Sarah took it with thanks, and with Aileen’s and MacLagan’s assistance, they carefully repositioned Isla onto her side before cutting away her blood-soaked bodice, stays, and shift to investigate the wound beneath. The injured girl did not stir.

“It looks like the shot has gone all the way through,” murmured MacLagan, gently wiping the blood away with a damp cloth.

“Is...is that a good thing?” asked Sarah, swallowing hard against a surge of queasiness. She’d never dealt with anything like this before.

MacLagan nodded and smiled. “Aye, it is, Miss Lambert. Now if we can just stop the bleedin’...”

All of a sudden, Isla’s eyelids fluttered and she moaned.

Aileen squeezed her daughter’s hand. “Isla, my bonnie wee lassie. It’s yer mam.”

Isla opened her eyes and blinked dazedly. “What...what happened?”

Alex emerged onto the battlements, all his senses on high alert and his sword arm poised to strike. Even though his chest burned and his breathing was ragged, he was ready for anything Tay cared to throw his way.

He would not be bested.

His gaze darted around the snow-dusted ramparts searching for his mark. There . At the eastern edge, a shadow moved. Tay was crouching behind a sizable block of stone.

As quietly and as swiftly as he could, Alex skirted the perimeter of the battlements, making his way toward Tay’s hiding place. What was the bastard up to?

Alex recalled the last time he’d been up here with Sarah—a small number of masonry tools had been left behind. A chisel and a trowel, perhaps? A hammer?

To undermine Tay’s confidence by disabusing him of the notion he’d have the advantage of surprise, Alex called out. “I can see where you are, Tay. What are you going to do, now? Leap out and throw stones at me?”

Tay ignored him so Alex crept closer. When he was only a few yards away from Tay’s hidey-hole, he spoke again. “This is ridiculous. Why don’t you come out and face your fate like a man instead of behaving like a sniveling coward?”

When Tay leapt up and hurled his spent pistol then a hammer in his direction, Alex was expecting the attack and he easily ducked out of the way.

Alex straightened and cocked an eyebrow. “What’s next? The trowel or the chisel?”

“Fuck you, MacIvor,” growled Tay. He adjusted his stance and that’s when Alex noticed that there was indeed a chisel in his hand. “I should have made sure you were dead eleven years ago.”

“Quite possibly. But it seems you have a talent for making mistakes. Of making poor choices.” Alex took another few steps forward, pointing the tip of his sword straight at Tay’s chest. “Whereas I have a talent for vengeance. Why don’t you drop the chisel? It won’t help you, you know.” He lowered his voice. “Nothing will.”

Tay let out a low growl and lunged, chisel raised, but Alex simply flicked his sword and neatly sliced at Tay’s wrist. With a howl, Tay dropped the tool and stumbled backward into the parapet, gripping his lower arm. Blood seeped between his clenched fingers. Although his lip curled into a sneer in a display of false bravado, he was sweating. “You call me a sniveling coward, yet here we are and you won’t finish this. I’m starting to think you don’t have the guts?—”

Alex flicked the sword tip up again and scored Tay’s bristle-clad jaw with a long, fine cut. “Oh, I do have the guts, Tay. In fact, I’m just trying to decide how you’ll die. What would be the most suitable punishment for someone like you, someone who despoils and takes the lives of innocents with impunity? Someone who murdered my mother, my sister, and my fiancée . A sorry excuse for a man who kidnapped and threatened to harm the woman I love.”

Tay shot him an incensed glare. “You kidnapped Sarah first?—”

“Yes, I did, but I’m not the one on trial here. You are.” Alex took another step forward. “However, unlike you, I’m not without mercy. I’ll let you choose. Either I run you through—” his gaze shifted to the crenellations along the parapet—“or you jump.”

Tay’s chest heaved and his gaze narrowed. His mouth twisted into a parody of a grin. “See you in hell then, MacIvor.” He climbed up between the snow-crusted parapets, turned, and with a mocking salute, fell backward.

Alex closed his eyes as he heard the heavy crunch on the gravel path below.

Instead of triumph, all he felt was an overwhelming sense of blessed relief.

Thank God. It was over. The Earl of Tay was dead.