Fergus’ eyes widened, blood gushing from his throat and out of his mouth. The end, at least, was almost instant. Brendan carefully lowered him to the ground, blood pooling and streaking between the cobblestones. Straightening up, he turned to face the silent crowd.
“I am Laird Grahame’s son,” he said, voice cracking. “I’ve come home for what is mine, and I won’t have it taken from me.”
“The Laird is dead,” one of the advisors spoke, recovering faster than the others. “Long live Laird Grahame!”
Cheers rang through the air, and it took Brendan too long to realize that they were talking to him.
I’m Laird Grahame,he thought dizzily.
Noah appeared at his side. “Well done, Brendan,” he murmured. “It’s over. Ye are the Laird now, and we have a great deal to discuss.”
Brendan staggered to his feet, turning around.
“Where is Freya?” he demanded. “Where is she?”
The crowds parted, and there she was, arms still tied behind her back. The matron stood beside her, pale as bone. Brendan pointed.
“Cut her loose at once,” he ordered.
Several soldiers jumped to obey, cutting through Freya’s bonds. She stretched out her arms with a wince, rubbing sore spots on her wrists. The matron whispered something to her, and Freya jolted away. The woman pressed closer, and Freya’s arm whipped out, elbow cracking into the matron’s face. She stumbled backwards with a cry, hands clapped to her face.
“Ye are dismissed,” Freya told the matron, voice clipped and angry.
“Freya, wait!” Brendan called.
She turned to look at him, their eyes meeting through the tunnel of interested people. Then she turned on her heel and ran back into the Keep.
Epilogue
“Now, ye just stay quiet, ye wee—” the matron said, or began to say, before Freya’s elbow connected with her nose.
It made a satisfying crunch.
Desperate to get away from Brendan’s pleading gaze, she turned and fled into the cool darkness of the Keep.
Where am I going? Where am I going?
She didn’t give herself time to answer that question. Breaking into a run, Freya sprinted across the Great Hall, running until her lungs began to sting. Her wrists throbbed, her head pounded, and there was a painful yawning in her stomach, reminding her that she hadn’t eaten much today.
She reached the end of the Hall, and took a corridor at random, suddenly desperate to be out of the oppressive building again and into the open air.
I’ll go back to the convent,she thought dizzily, before remembering that she could not go back, that Senga, Kyla and Astrid were no longer her friends. She skidded to a halt, gasping for breath. In the silence, she clearly heard echoing footsteps hurrying after her.
“Wait up, lassie.”
Painful regret and desire swirled together in Freya’s gut, a potent combination. She turned, almost against her will, and of course, there he was.
Brendan stood at the other end of the corridor, a great space between them.
“Were ye following me?” she found herself saying. What a stupid thing to say.
Brendan took a few steps towards her. “Aye, of course. Wereyerunning away?”
She folded her arms. “Of course I was. Aren’t ye pleased, Brendan? Despite all the lies and all the deceit, everything worked out for ye in the end. Ye won the lairdship and a bride in one swoop. Ye barely had to lift yer sword.”
He shuffled a little closer, smiling wryly. “The duel was yer idea, may I remind ye? Cleverly done, by the way, saying it like that. Ye would make a good politician.”
She tossed her hair back. “I would make anexcellentpolitician. And… and I did not want ye todie, ye know.”
