Almost casually, he raised his knife. Against a sword, it did not make so formidable a weapon. Save in the hands of a madman.
“Put down the knife,” Alan told him, “and come awa’ out o’ there.”
“To wha’ purpose?”
“We will talk.”
“I do no’ want to talk to ye. I want to talk to him.” Even waved the knife at the bed, and Annista flinched, which drew Evan’s attention to her. He looked at her with reddened, maddened eyes.
Alan said, “Brother—I canna let ye do any more harm. Come awa’ now.”
“I do no’ think so,” Evan said again and, reaching out almost casually, took Annista into his grasp.
Chapter Forty
Alan’s pulse pounded in his ears and, with every breath he took, the wound in his chest throbbed. He could feel warmth and wet seeping there, which told him the damn thing must have reopened. Part of his attention was with the men at his back and Seumas, a heap on the floor—dead? On his father lying so still and his mother huddled beside the bed, sobbing. But his true focus narrowed to his brother and the woman now clutched in Evan’s arms.
Rarely had Evan looked less sane. Alan did not know where he’d spent the previous hours—tramping, likely, for he was filthy, boots and trousers, arms and hands. Grime even splashed his face. And his eyes—
Alan had grown up in the shadow of his brother—not an easy thing to do. Evan had always been there, large and unpredictable, casting a fearful shadow. The household had conformed itself to him, his moods and his belligerence. It had been Father’s determination always not to let on to the world just what Evan was.
Alan had coped, as children do. Taken the back place, made himself scarce, and laid low. Dwelt, some might say, in the fringes of his own life.
Now he could not step back. For Evan held Annista in his filthy hands.
The woman I love.
That he did love her, he could no longer deny. He did not know how it had happened. They’d made promises to keep it a formality—to avoid so much as touching one another. They’d broken that promise, yes, and now—
Now his every heartbeat relied on her well-being.
He met her gaze, there where Evan held her snatched to him, one arm bent across her midriff, the big hand splayed over one breast.
Terrified she was, Alan could see it. Her eyes had gone wide, her face stark white, and she fought visibly for breath. But her gaze blazed upon his, sending a message. Trying to tell him something.
What?
“Back off,” Evan snarled, “or I’ll gut her. I swear I will.”
He raised the knife, clenched in his right hand, not to Annista’s throat but her belly, the point pressed so tight she had to be feeling the prick of the blade.
“Evan! Evan, nay!” cried Mother from her crouch on the floor as she struggled to rise.
“Shut yer trap!” Evan shouted at her.
“Mother, be still,” Alan urged. He had to think, though it seemed nearly impossible. He had seen Evan in like straits before, they all had—as close to unhinged as may be. Attempting to placate him rarely worked. Was direct attack, which Evan might not expect, the better course?
“Leave go o’ Annista,” he told Evan. “And we can talk this out.” As he spoke, he edged forward into the chamber, his grip tightening on the hilt of his sword.
“Annista,” Evan mocked and bared his teeth. “She should ha’ been mine.”
“Why? So ye could destroy her? Like her wee sister?”
“That bitch was weak. How is it they gave me a milksop for a wife? I deserve better.”
Annista moved, struggling against the strength of his arm. She might as well have fought an iron band.
The point of Evan’s knife pressed harder and she gasped.
