Chapter 23
Evan had risen long before the first gray light crept over the hills, listening to the wind scrape along the shutters like restless fingers. Sleep had become a stranger to him these past days. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw fire, saw the barn on the Byre estate burning like a candle.
Now he stood in the hall, staring out of the window at nothing. His hand strayed to the neck of his shirt and the tiny pouch tied around his neck. His fingers traced the outline of what it held, feeling the hard, continuous line. Niall had given it to him several days ago, back when Evan thought he’d finally figured out his future.
This is yers,his brother had said as he pressed the object into his hand.Mother always meant for ye to have it.
Evan had looked down at the tiny object on his palm and had immediately understood the gift his brother had given him. It was hope. The future. A promise of the life with Ruby he’d dared to dream of. But that had been before. Before he’d become...this. This person that skulked in shadows and ruined other people’s lives.
He tucked the pouch back beneath his shirt. Two days had passed since the flames had taken hold at the Byre manor. Two days since rumor had begun its careful crawl through every alehouse in the district.
Sabotage, those rumors whispered.
And just as he’d predicted, unrest had followed.
The road between the Byre estate and Clough estate to the south—once busy with carts, livestock, and gossip—now lay near deserted. No one wished to be caught between angry men and sharper steel. A cart had been overturned yesterday, the driver knocked clean out, the goods stolen. No one claimed responsibility. Everyone blamed someone else.
He turned at the sound of the door opening. Fergus Key entered the room, mud-spattered and travel-stained from giving his latest report to MacInnes.
“Well?” Evan demanded. “What did he say? Will MacInnes agree to meet me?”
Key’s mouth twisted. “He’s considering it.”
Evan’s jaw tightened. “I’ve done everything he asked. If MacInnes wants my continued support, then he’d better start holding up his end of the bargain.”
Key studied him for a long moment. “Seoras MacInnes doesnae take orders from ye. He’ll act when he’s good and ready. But rest assured, he’s always watching.”
“I am aware of that.”
A shout from outside caught their attention. Loud footsteps. A crash. Raised voices. The unmistakable sound of a struggle.
Evan and Key turned just as the door burst inward with a violent bang, slamming against the wall so hard the hinges groaned. Tam Bisset and Angus Gowan stumbled in, dragging a third man between them.
Hamish.
The headman’s hands were bound roughly before him, though he did not appear cowed. He looked furious.
“What is this?” Evan demanded.
“We caught him,” Bisset said, breathless. “Trying to slip away.”
“With this,” Gowan added, thrusting a rolled parchment toward Evan.
Key snatched it first, scanning the lines quickly. His expression shifted—satisfaction, sharp and ugly, then handed it to Evan.
With a furious glare at Key, Evan took it and read. It was a letter addressed to Bryce. As he read it, he felt his body tense. It was an invitation. An invitation for Bryce to ride here with his men and oust Evan as laird. It promised that the villagers would support Bryce if he claimed Evan’s lands.
Evan lowered the parchment slowly, a hollow feeling of betrayal forming in his gut.
“Did ye write this?” he asked Hamish.
The headman held his stare without flinching. “I dinna have my letters so I had the priest write it for me, but aye. The words are mine. Ours. We discussed it at the village meeting last night.”
“Why?”
Hamish’s jaw worked once before he answered. “Because ye are not the laird we need.”
The words landed heavier than a blow. Key shifted slightly beside him, looking between Evan and Hamish.
