Page 102 of The Laird’s Lost Wife

“Ye broke yer vow!” Magnus bellowed. “Ye swore to us all never to sire children again, never to wed again. Ye broke one part five years ago, and now here ye are, ready to break the other. I willnae have it, me Laird. Ye have failed me for the last time.” He tightened his grip on the knife.

Hunter curled his fingers into fists, glancing down at his daughter. Willow stared up at Magnus, her lower lip trembling.

“Willow, lass,” Hunter whispered. She glanced at him, swallowing. “Do ye remember what we talked about? When I carved the foxhead on yer sword? What did I tell ye?”

She blinked, obviously struggling to remember, then sucked in a breath, squeezing her eyes shut. When she opened them again, there was determination there.

Then she leaned forward and sank her little white teeth into Magnus’s hand.

He hadn’t been expecting it. With a cry, he jerked back his hand, sending her flying backward. He made to lunge for her again when River leaped forward, a blur of red fur.

The little fox wound his body around the knife like a weasel, its sharp canines doing much more damage than Willow’s blunt jaws.

Magnus howled, dancing around and shaking off the fox. The little creature lost its grip and was hurled against a nearby wall. There was a thump, before it fell limp on the floor.

“River!” Willow screamed, and would have bolted toward the fox if Daphne hadn’t rushed forward and seized her in her arms.

She backed away down the aisle, her eyes huge, clutching Willow to her chest. Hunter noticed that Willow’s face was pressed into her mother’s shoulder, and Daphne’s hand was pressing against the back of her head, keeping her eyes turned away from whatever came next.

That was good.

Magnus took one step toward them, but that was all he managed. Hunter tackled him, hitting him low around the middle. They went down in a tangle of limbs, the knife flashing sharp between them. Magnus swore loudly and jerked his arm, managing to cut Hunter in the shoulder.

Hunter seized his wrist, put his weight behind it, and slammed Magnus’s hand on the floor, once, twice, three times until the man gave a pained cry and his fingers relaxed.

He snatched the knife. He had intended to keep it, to step back and give himself some breathing room, but Magnus lunged at him again, meaty hands scrabbling across his face, probing for his eyes.

“Ye cannae be trusted!” he screamed. “Ye lied! Oathbreaker, that’s what ye are! I could be a better laird than ye, if only me birth had been a little better. If only⁠—”

The knife slid deep into his chest. He gave a breathy gasp, the air driven from his lungs, and his eyes widened. A horrible silence ensued. Then, very slowly, his knees gave way.

He would have crumpled to the floor, except that Hunter grabbed him, easing him down.

“Magnus, me friend,” he whispered. “Why did ye threaten me family? Why have ye made me do this?”

Magnus’s mouth opened and shut. Blood streamed from the wound in his chest, pooling on the floor beneath him. The stone would probably stain.

“Couldnae bear it,” he grunted, the words feeble. “Another war… nae strong enough.”

“I’d rather die than start another war,” Hunter whispered.

Magnus choked up a mouthful of blood. “I wish I could believe that.” And then he was gone, just like that. Between one blink and the next, his soul fled to wherever it was that souls went.

Hunter sat shakily back on his heels, staring down at him. “Does anybody else have similar opinions?” he asked, his voice hoarse.

Silence rang out in the chapel.

Hunter hobbled to his feet, his limbs twinging in pain. The cut in his shoulder was bleeding lightly, hot blood trailing down his arm. He turned to face the guests, meeting gazes.

“I have given me life for this clan,” he continued, his voice tremulous. “Never once has anything come before that. I have been a good laird. No famine, little crime, fair taxes, fair treatment. I have served ye well. And ye all met Daphne and liked her as a good Scottish woman from a good family. Ye loved Willow too, a quick and clever wee bairn. That’s what ye all said. But I will tell ye all this now. Anyone who touches me family dies. I made the vow; ye all ken this. But now, things have changed. If ye want me gone, now is the time to say it.”

He waited.

Silence hung over the chapel. He met Daphne’s gaze. Pale and shivery, she swallowed thickly. He couldn’t read the look in her eyes. Was it fear? Relief?

He’d find out later, he supposed.

Then a long, low wail tore across the chapel, starting as nothing more than a moan and growing louder until it was a cry.