BRIDGET’S ARM HURTlike hell; not even the honey ale she’d poured over the wound had helped. Maybe, as Hall had once claimed, she should simply drink the contents of the flask and be done with it.
Hall.
Would she ever be able to pass a day, even an hour, without having him invade her thoughts?
She groaned and scrubbed her hands over her face, thankful she was alone here by the river while all the men gathered in their camp.
After a day and a half on the trail, their little group had met up with Malcolm and Patrick and a company of men from Castle MacGahan. For the past hour, they’d been presenting their arguments as to what should be done next.
She couldn’t care less what they decided. It meant nothing to her. All she wanted was to be left alone to wallow in her misery.
She’d taken her revenge on Torquil MacDowylt, and instead of the satisfaction she’d expected, she felt only a great, gnawing emptiness. Orabilis had been right. Revenge wasn’t enough to give her life meaning. She wanted...
What she wanted didn’t matter.
She’d spent her life doing what she wanted, and what did she have to show for it? The Beast still lived, so even in her quest for revenge she hadn’t succeeded. The wound on her arm would be long in healing, and if not for Hall she’d likely have met her own end on the jagged rocks of the North Sea, along with the MacDowylt laird.
And as a bonus? Useless blue symbols stained the whole of her body. Symbols that Orabilis had warned her she’d regret.
All she’d managed so far was to prove that everyone else in her life was right. Orabilis, her brother, even Hall.
Her thoughts always managed to circle back to him. Hall, the thing she wanted most. The thing she could never have.
She reached for her bag and dug around until her hand closed over the flask of honey ale. After removing the stopper, she tipped back her head and let the brown liquid burn a trail down her throat.
The beverage flowed down into her empty stomach, lurching and sloshing around, creating havoc that she chose to ignore, following the first drink with a second.
She had a vague memory of an old man her father had pointed out to her once when they’d traveled to Inverness. A drunkard whose mind was long gone, his days spent sitting by a fire, drinking tankard after tankard of strong ale. It was his escape, her father had told her, from the pain of losing his wife and children.
Escape sounded more than a little attractive to her, and she downed another large swallow of ale.
But where was this lovely escape her father had claimed the liquor brought? Though her head felt heavy and her stomach churned, her memories of Hall hadn’t diminished in the least.
She tipped back the bottle for a fourth time, emptying it, just as her brother pushed through the brush to join her.
“Here you are. I wondered what happened to you that you didn’t stay to hear Malcolm’s decisions.”
She shrugged and stuffed the empty bottle into her bag. “Makes no never-mind to me. The laird will do what he will do, and I will do... nothing.”
“With Torquil dead, Patrick will take a contingent of men and lay claim to Tordenet.” Jamesy sat down across from her and scratched his stubbled chin. “Would you want to return there to live, do you think? It was our home as children.”
“No.” She didn’t need to think about that one at all. She’d been but a small child when she’d lived there. Her only memories of Tordenet were more recent, and all of them involved Hall. “Never.”
“Our uncle predicted you would say as much.” Jamesy nodded thoughtfully, focusing his gaze in the distance. “He also says it’s time we settle on the question of yer future.”
“My future?”
Her future was black. Black, nasty, and empty, like looking down into a well with no bottom. Why would anyone want to talk about the big, black, empty hole that lay in store for her?
“Aye, yer future.” Jamesy stood to pace back and forth. “I’d hope that after everything that’s happened, you’ve had yer fill of adventure. That you’ll be ready to settle down to a normal life like other women.”
“Normal life?”
“Exactly.” Jamesy seemed to be warming to his subject, his face alight with excitement.
She remembered that look. It was the one he’d worn when he’d convinced her she wanted to stay home with her aunt instead of going hunting with him and Da. It had been what he wanted, not what she wanted. But with his enthusiasm, he’d convinced her to spend the most miserable week of her life.
“Give up this ridiculous warrior notion of yers. Take a husband and make me an uncle. Be normal, Brie.”
