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“Dougal.” He sounded surprised. “Ye have been listenin’ all along?”
“I came up here to see if ye wanted to have some wine with me.” Dougal crossed his arms, anger radiating off his body. He was one of the very few men in the Castle Freya was afraid of. “I heard it all. So, it was ye all along?”
“Ye have it all wrong.” Just like that, the surprise was gone. He was calm and collected once again. “I dinnae say everythin’ since I dinnae need to, seein’ that I was talkin’ to Freya and she already kens. But now that ye’re here, I suppose I can explain.”
Dougal went after him. Freya took a step toward them, but she saw a hand lift to ward her off as Dougal grabbed him by the collar, nearly picking him up off the ground. “Ye have nothin’ to explain,” Dougal hissed. “I’ve heard it all clear as day. Ye are guilty!”
“Ah, I see why it may sound that way to ye, but I promise ye, ye will understand it all when I explain. How about we have some wine? It may calm ye.”
“I shall prepare it,” Freya knew what she needed to do.
Yet she did not move, not until Dougal finally let him go. He was not convinced in the slightest, but he was willing to listen and that was all that mattered.
“There is nothin’ ye can say to make what I’ve heard any better,” Dougal grunted. He stood closely to him, as if he were ready to grab him and drag him down the hall if needed.
Freya knew he was more than capable of it and her heart fluttered with fear at the possibility.
“Freya, would ye mind?” he called to her gently and she nodded. She would not have to go far. He always had wine in his bedroom.
“Come, Dougal,” he said. “Sit with me, at least.”
She moved over to the sideboard on the other end of the room and poured two goblets full of wine. She lingered over them, knowing that neither of them was paying her any mind. It gave her the time and space to do what she had to.
Ensuring that she was ready, she loaded them onto a tray and brought them over to them. Now, she could see his face a bit clearer, as handsome as he was the first day that she had met him. She wished she had been able to kiss him just once before his confession about Jonet.
He took his goblet and Dougal reluctantly took his. Freya knew there was no way he would be able to talk his way out of this one. He was quite adept at such things, but all he had said had been far too incriminating and it appeared as if Dougal had overheard quite a lot.
She moved over to her spot on the bed and stared at Dougal.
There was one thing he had in common with the Laird. He drank when he was angry. By the time she had made it back to the bed, he had drank half of his wine already. She watched him finish it, satisfied.
He wiped his mouth and glared. “Alright, tell me whatever it is ye want to say. Let’s see if this is really such a misunderstandin’.”
There was no response. Perhaps Dougal wanted there to be a logical explanation for his words. Even though they had been very direct, with little room for misunderstanding, Freya thought for a moment she had seen a twinge of hope in Dougal’s eyes.
That was all she saw of those eyes before they rolled into the back of his head and he collapsed to the floor.
Chapter 25
The sky was bright in the morning. White, fluffly clouds had rolled through a sea of blue, protecting the Castle from the angry rays of the sun. A gentle breeze wafted over the stone walls; the ones that now felt colder than ever, but perhaps that was simply the chill Jonet could not be rid of.
The beauty of the world around her, even as day fell into night, was marred by the jaunty tunes, marking the day Dougal would be laid to rest. The ceremony was a happy one, focusing solely on the acheivements of the war chieftain, and as scotch and whiskey began to flow, the lingering air of sadness was shoved to the background.
Jonet could not do the same.
She moved through the motions, the rituals of such an important burial, the way she should. She was not only the Laird’s daughter, but the niece of the war chieftain. No matter how he had died, he had lived a long and fulfilling life. He should be honored and that was exactly what the Laird was determined to see through.
Jonet listened to her father’s booming laughter over the noise in the dining hall. The table was laden with food and her mind idly drifted to Christal, wondering how she fared having taken care of most of the meals. Jonet lifted her own tankard of scotch to her lips, but she tasted very little. She felt numb, every inch of her no longer working as intended.
I should at least try to pretend that I daenae want to vomit.
With all her numbness, she thought it rather ironic that she felt the bile burning the back of her throat. She had been in a haze ever since she had heard the shouts and chaos once Dougal had been found. It had been a few days ago, but Jonet remembered it all in clear detail.
She had been standing by the window in her bedroom, remembering how Georgie had put himself in harm’s way to save Matthew’s life. The noise that erupted throughout the Castle had cut straight through her.
She had thought: This is it. He’s dead. Whoever wanted him dead has won.
Jonet had stood frozen to the spot listening to the chaos, not wanting to leave her room. She did not want to find out that she was right, that Matthew was dead. A hole had begun to carve its way into her chest, merging with the ones Henry and Murdock had left behind. She did not think she would survive after this one.
