“He told me to come here,” he continued. “Kneel before me brother. Smile. Drink only when nay one was watching.” A sharp laugh escaped him. “Pretend to ask for forgiveness.”
Violet felt her stomach drop to her knees.
Was anyone coming?
She couldn’t hear footsteps. Why would she? It was still too early. That was the point.
The helplessness she felt at that moment was as painful as Lachlan’s hand around her. It grew even more painful when his grip tightened.
“Now ye,” he said, his voice even lower than before, something she didn’t think was possible. “Ye are standing where Jane should be. Holding her son. Sleeping in Connor’s bed.”
The accusation carried enough pain to expose the wound beneath the drink.
Violet held his gaze. “Did ye come back because ye were scared Henry wanted John?”
“He thought I would carry me own son to him like an obedient hound.”
Violet struggled to speak. “And will ye?”
For one moment, Lachlan’s eyes cleared. “Nay. Henry willnae have him,” he scoffed. “He wanted the bairn hidden away. Perhaps dead when hiding became inconvenient.” His eyes fixed on the blue cloth near the cradle. “I willnae let him touch what Jane left me.”
A wave of relief tried to rise, but Violet pushed it back.
It didn’t sound like any help was coming. She couldn’t scream or try to do anything else. For now, all she could do was keep him talking. She would even try to make the conversation not break for a minute, so he wouldn’t change his mind.
“So what will ye do? What is yer plan?”
“Take John.”
“Where?”
“Away from Connor.”
“To the taverns?”
Lachlan stared at her, and she knew she should soften the question. But John had no time for softness.
“Will ye lay him beside the cups while ye drink?” she asked. “Carry him through brothels? Forget his milk because ye barely remember yer own name?”
Lachlan laughed once, and the sound cracked through the nursery, causing John to stir in the cradle.
“I see me brother kept ye informed,” he snarled.
“Connor told me the truth.”
“Oh, spare me. Connor tells the truth that makes him righteous,” he spat, squeezing her arm hard.
Violet could already feel the bruise forming beneath her sleeve.
“This isnae about Connor,” she said. “It is about whether John survives being loved by ye.”
Lachlan’s face hardened. “Ye daenae deserve him.”
“This isnae about what I deserve.”
“Ye daenae deserve to live.” He shoved her hard.
Violet hit the stone beneath the window with her hip. The open casement caught her shoulder, and cold morning air rushed across her face as Lachlan drove forward again.
