The guards returned at once. Both men slowed down when they saw Lachlan on the floor and Connor’s bloodied hands. There was no triumph on their faces. The older guard removed his cap.
“Wrap him,” Connor ordered.
The younger guard looked toward the broken chains. “As a prisoner, me Laird?”
Connor turned his head, and the guard lowered his gaze. “As me brother.”
“Aye, me Laird.” The guard nodded. “Where shall he be buried?”
The question landed harder than the sword had.
Their parents lay in the family crypt, beside the sister Connor had failed to reach. Lachlan had spent years making himself unworthy of the place. But blood had not stopped being blood because Connor had passed judgment.
“Near our parents,” he answered.
The younger guard glanced up, surprised, then thought better of speaking.
“He’s answered for what he did,” Connor said. “But he willnae be stripped of what he was before it.”
The guards grabbed the cloth and entered the cell with a clean sheet. One knelt beside Lachlan while the other waited for Connor to step away.
The older guard hesitated. “What should we say upstairs?”
Connor looked toward the passage leading back into the castle. John would be waking soon. He would search for Violet’s voice, fuss for milk, and know nothing of the father who had chosen death for him.
“The castle may ken Lachlan died after attacking Lady Moore,” Connor said. “Nothing more travels beyond these walls.”
The guards only nodded in response.
He stepped into the passage while they wrapped Lachlan’s body. A basin had been left on a low stand near the guardroom, and the water inside was cold. Connor plunged his hands into it and watched red spread through the clear surface.
He rubbed at his palms. Blood had gathered beneath one nail and along the crease of his thumb. He cleaned it away, emptied the basin, and used fresh water when a guard brought it without being asked.
The second wash changed nothing.
Connor dried his hands on a rough cloth. A faint stain remained near his knuckle. He folded the cloth carefully and set it beside the basin. Behind him, boots moved against the floor as the guards lifted Lachlan. He did not turn until they carried the covered body past.
The shape beneath the sheet looked too narrow. Lachlan had once been broad with youth and charm. Years of drinking had taken more from him than Connor had allowed himself to see.
He followed as far as the stairs, before a messenger appeared at the top, breathing hard. The man stopped when he saw the bloodied water.
“Me Laird.”
Connor did not climb. “What?”
“Word from Lady Moore’s escort. Laird and Lady MacBain received her at the gate.”
Connor’s shoulders sagged. He could reach MacBain land before nightfall if he changed horses. He could walk into MacBain Castle, find Violet, and put her beneath a healer’s hands while he watched. He could tell her that Lachlan was dead and John was safe. He could take her back to Moore Castle before fear made another decision for her.
Then the covered body passed along the upper landing.
Connor stopped. Lachlan had to be buried, and his chamber had to be searched. Henry remained free in England, and Alex had only just begun the ride south. John’s guards needed orders that could not be misunderstood.
He stood halfway up the stairs and thought of Violet asleep against him in the tavern, her fingers curled into his shirt. He had killed the brother he had once saved. He had protected John from Henry’s plan and Violet from Lachlan’s hands. The threats to his family had mostly been eliminated one by one.
So why was his family still broken?
He returned to the empty cell. Water dripped somewhere beyond the wall. Above him, the castle had begun its morning work, distant footsteps crossing stone and doors opening for servants.
