She pushed past the small group of guests and shouldered her way through the chapel door, her racing heart dropping into her stomach at the sight before her: Beathan with his sword drawn, standing far too close to Hunter at the end of the aisle, right by the altar.
“So, it was supposed to be ye,” she heard Hunter say in a quiet, almost sad voice.
Neither man was aware of her presence; they had their backs turned to her.
Why wasn’t Hunter turning around to defend himself? Why wasn’t he making the first strike before Beathan could?
Nancy wanted to cry out, to warn him of what he already knew, but the words wouldn’t emerge, her pendant thrumming so furiously that she felt as if she had a wasp in her throat.
“Ye daenae get to live when me braither is rottin’ in the ground,” Beathan snarled. “Ye daenae get to forgive and be forgiven. Me maither and sister might be blinded by ye, so weak that they’d forgotten what ye did, but I willnae.”
“Ye must hate me a great deal,” Hunter said, his voice eerily calm. “I couldnae tell.”
Beathan laughed coldly. “I thought of slittin’ yer throat every moment I stood there and obeyed yer orders. I thought of puttin’ somethin’ in yer whiskey at every opportunity, but I kent I had to wait until the time was right, until ye had somethin’ that ye wanted for yerself, so I might take it from ye. Until ye saw a hopeful future, and I could make it vanish and take me rightful place as Laird Lochlann. The positionyetook from me.”
“The positionIoffered ye, but ye refused,” Hunter countered, finally turning around.
Beathan raised his sword, pressing the tip to Hunter’s chest. “Ye didnae mean it. Ye would’ve killed me too,” he snapped. “But I’ll relish the thought of marryin’ yer bride, once she’s had time to mourn ye, of course.”
Hunter’s shining gaze settled on Nancy, his expression peaceful, looking every bit like a man who’d accepted his fate.
No, Hunter. No!
“Put the sword away, Beathan,” Hunter ordered. “Before ye hurt yerself. I willnae be the reason me aunt has nay sons left.”
As Beathan moved forward to sink the tip of his sword into Hunter’s chest, Hunter simply grabbed the blade with both of his hands. He didn’t even flinch, his attention now fixed on Beathan, his calm expression unwavering, even as blood began to drip down from his palms.
“I willnae tell ye again,” he warned.
But Beathan seemed determined, putting all of his not-inconsiderable weight behind the sword as he struggled to force it forward.
And there Nancy was in her wedding dress, watching in horror as she realized that the tip of the sword would run Hunter right through if he faltered for a moment, the blade plunged into the same spot she’d seen on the tapestry.
He’ll die to protect me. He’ll die so that Beathan never puts his hands on me. He’ll die so that Beathan won’t turn that sword on me.
Before she could think, before she could stop herself, she started running. The ruby pendant buzzed wildly, as if it were now in her blood, like adrenaline, commanding her to be brave, to be bold.
Whether it was the sound of her hurried footsteps or the soft, breathy murmur of, “Nay, love,” that escaped Hunter’s lips, she would never know. But as she hurtled toward Beathan, determined to do something, anything, to stop him from repeating history, he suddenly drew back and whirled around.
She saw, in slow motion, the blade sliding out from Hunter’s blood-slick grasp and the widening of her love’s eyes as he realized, a second before she did, what was about to happen.
There was pain; she was aware of that. A sharp pain like a pulled muscle, somewhere down her side. And Beathan was there, his arm wrapped around her as though he’d just wanted to hug her, his hot breath moist on her cheek as he declared, “Ye deserve nay bride, Hunter, so nay bride ye shall have.”
The traitor roughly pushed her back, knocking her off balance, sending her sprawling across the hard floor. Her head bumped the stone, but she didn’t quite register it as she saw Beathan adjust his grip on his sword and step over her, moving into position to drive it through her chest.
The tapestry,she thought in a daze.The tapestry in reverse.
Somewhere in the future, a different tapestry now hung on the museum wall, a sword plunged into the bride’s chest. This time,shehad saved the Hawk.Shewas the one who would die for love.
CHAPTER 34
Hunter saw red,a madness sweeping through him that he hadn’t felt in all the years he’d fought a pointless war. The red mist that he’d heard warriors speak of, but had never experienced himself.
In that moment, however, seeing Nancy on the ground, with Beathan standing over her, he was no longer a man but a beast, feral as the dire wolves of myth, his fangs bared and ready to tear out Beathan’s throat.
He crossed the short distance in what seemed like half a second, his hand grasping Beathan’s collar and yanking him back so hard that his cousin gurgled, the sword that glistened with Nancy’s blood falling from the man’s hand in surprise.
As the blade clattered to the ground, falling harmlessly at Nancy’s side, Hunter didn’t hesitate. He didn’t even think. He just snapped Beathan’s neck as if it were a twig, his cousinsagging immediately, a dead weight, the twisted soul gone from his mortal form. Snuffed out in a moment.
