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Liam’s face was red with fury. “I didnae want yer name!” he yelled. “An’ I don’t want tae be yer brother. I never did, but ye were big an’ ye shielded me, an’ that suited me, I will no’ deny it. But do ye know what I feel for ye now, Finn Crawford?”
Finn was standing with his hands on his hips in his favorite threatening stance, his eyes shadowed under thunderous brows. “No, but I expect ye are goin’ tae tell me, Liam Robertson.”
“I hate ye,” Liam growled. “I loathe an’ despise ye wi’ everything that is in me, an’ I always will.” He spat at Finn’s feet, his lip curled in disgust.
The two men stood glaring at each other for a long moment before Liam whipped out his favorite weapon. It was the same small dagger that he had used to wound Finn, and he had stolen it from a French nobleman. The man had been visiting a particularly wealthy laird in one of the estates further away from their usual hunting grounds and had been sorely injured on the point of the vicious weapon. Liam neither knew nor cared if he had died or not.
Now the point of the needle-like weapon was pointed at Finn, but he had been prepared for the attack. Hampered by the pain of his injury, he knew that his best plan was to dodge and evade Liam. He was just in time to step aside as the needle-like point of the blade stabbed the empty space where his body had been a split second earlier.
Liam, having stumbled a few steps forward, turned on his heel and charged at Finn like an angry bull, but once again found himself piercing thin air. This time, though, Finn was able to swipe at him with his short sword, slicing his arm open.
Liam screamed as he grabbed his injured arm, which was bleeding heavily; however, the injury had not been inflicted on his sword arm, and he was able to turn and face Finn again. His usually handsome face was an ugly, furious mask of hatred.
When Liam moved forward again, he was swinging the pointed sword from side to side in a swiping motion. It was just as deadly this way since it had a lethally sharp blade as well as a deadly point. Finn moved backward as best he could, but the pain in his side was rendering him weaker and weaker, and he knew that if the fight went on much longer, he would collapse in agony, and Liam would show him no mercy.
At the last moment, however, he saw his adversary sag, sink to his knees, then fall to the ground and lie grimacing as he tried to staunch the blood that was now flowing freely from his arm.
Finn strode over to him and picked up the stiletto, which had fallen to the floor. It was a weapon that had been made for stabbing, and a blow to the heart would be instantly fatal.
He stood over the man he had regarded as his brother for so long and raised the sword to strike. Liam offered no resistance. His eyes stared into Finn’s, and all of a sudden, he smiled. “End it, Finn,” he said softly. “I am ready tae go.”
The words took the rage from Finn’s heart almost at once. This man had carried such a burden of hatred and bitterness for so long that it had almost killed him, but Finn was not going to be the one who did the job. He did not want that to add to the burdens on his conscience.
“No,” Finn replied. “I forgive ye, Liam.”
Then he turned away and walked over to the laird. “He is yers tae do what ye like with, M’Laird,” he said sadly.
The laird patted him on the shoulder. “Ye did the right thing, Finn,” he said, nodding in approval.
“Then why do I nae feel any better?” he asked sadly. Then he squared his shoulders and sucked in a deep breath. “Time for me tae face my punishment.”
* * *
Greta was standing in the courtyard waiting as the band of soldiers and horsemen trooped up the hill toward the castle, trying to pick out the figure of Finn among them. She was unsure as to whether he was on horseback or on foot, but when she saw him riding beside the laird, she breathed a great sigh of relief. He had obviously been spared any punishment.
She could see no sign of Liam, but when the whole procession of criminals and guards trooped in, she noticed a farm cart at the back piled with the bodies of the dead and injured.
Liam was lying on top, conscious but obviously in great pain and covered in blood. Looking at him, Greta felt no pity, only a sense of vicious satisfaction.
When Finn dismounted, Greta ran straight into his arms and kissed him hungrily. “Thank God ye are back!” she breathed, as she pulled away.
“Greta, I am sorry,” Finn said, leaning his forehead against hers. “I have no’ been pardoned. I am goin’ tae atone for my sins an’ spend the best years of my life in prison. This is goodbye, my love.”
“No!” Greta cried as a guard came to lead him away. “I will come an’ get ye, Finn!”
But Finn did not look back.
19
Greta stood before the laird, shaking. She knew that she looked a mess. Her hair was tangled and dirty, her clothes were ripped, burnt, and filthy, and there were cuts and scratches all over her hands and feet. She had been chopping firewood, skinning rabbits, and doing the various menial tasks that had to be done to keep them alive.
“M’Laird, forgive my appearance,” she said quietly as she stared at the floor. “I am ashamed o’ it, but these are my only clothes until I can earn some money for new ones.” She sneaked a glance at him to find him looking at her intently. “When we talked last, ye offered me a place tae work in yer household. Would ye still have me? I have nowhere else tae go.”
“Look at me, lass,” Laird Mackay said kindly. “You were a great benefit to me and my family, and you helped to keep us safe at great cost to yourself. You may work for my household, and since we need a seamstress, you can start there. I am told that you do a wonderful job of sewing up flesh!”
They laughed together, then Greta said, “Thank ye, M’Laird. I will be forever grateful tae ye.” Then she gave him a mischievous smile. “I am a dab hand at butcherin’ as well, just in case ye have too many enemies tae bury.”
The laird threw back his head and laughed heartily at that. “Careful, lass! I might just take you up on that offer!”
