AllFreeNovel
Share Us
Florence gnashed her teeth and snarled, “How dare ye speak in such a way aboot me mother? Aboot me? By right, she is yer Laird!”
The man sneered. “She has done nothing but tarnish the Duncan name. If ye are so concerned aboot whit little honor she possesses, why no’ defend her wi’ yer blade rather than yer serpent tongue?”
“Are ye challenging me tae a duel?” Florence snapped.
“Aye,” the man nodded.
“Then I accept,” Florence declared.
“Florence,” her mother hissed. “Whit are ye doing?”
She glanced at her mother and said, “Dinnae fash. I will be fine.”
Rolling her eyes, her mother replied, “I ken that, but we will find few allies if ye kill the fool.”
Florence’s mouth twitched at the corners. “I promise I will no’ kill him.”
Her mother released an exasperated breath. “Verra well, then.”
She stepped back to give Florence and the man room to face each other. She had to tilt her head back to meet his gaze and he smirked, crossing his thick arms over his wide chest, no doubt wishing to make her feel as small and insignificant as possible. Someone handed Florence a sword and she moved into her stance and waited for him to attack. She did not have to wait long. His temper got the better of him and he charged her. Florence kept a cool head about her and dodged his strike. Her mother had always taught her to use her speed as an advantage, since most of her opponents would be physically stronger than her.
She slashed at the man, but was careful not to actually get close enough to hit him with her blade. When he blocked it, she was able to get a sense of just how strong he was. She knew she needed to make quick work of this duel before he was able to wear her down with sheer force.
He swung at her and she dashed toward him, catching him off guard. He tripped backward and she made her move, taking the pommel of her sword and slamming into his gut. He let out a guttural cry and fell to his knees, dropping his sword so he could wrap his arms around his middle. Using the pommel once more, she struck him in the back of the head to knock him out completely.
Raising her chin, she glared around the room, silently daring anyone else to challenge her. She met her mother’s gaze, and she appeared proud.
Dropping her sword on the floor next to her unconscious opponent, Florence spun on her heel and marched toward the hall door, at the end of her patience for how they were treating her and her mother. The crowd parted to allow her to leave.
She did not go up to her room, however. Instead, she continued outside of the keep and toward the stables. There was somewhere she decided she needed to go. A place that might hold the answers she had been seeking most of her life.
Throughout her stay at Duncan keep, as she had endured the side-eyed glares and loud whispers about her, she had heard a name spoken nearly as often as Ruthven’s. William McCollum. He was apparently another man her mother had been with, and some rumors she had overheard named him as her father.
Curious, Florence had begun investigating this McCollum in secret, and had discovered his clan resided across a loch not far from the Duncans’ own stronghold. She knew it was madness, what she was planning, but she was going to try regardless.
She was not a McIntewar.
She was hardly a Duncan.
She never wanted to be a Ruthven.
Perhaps she was a McCollum. Perhaps she would finally find a place where she truly belonged.
Ordering a horse saddled and readied for her, Florence took off down the road and away from the keep, determined to meet this William McCollum for herself and demand to know whether or not he could be her father.
CHAPTER EIGHT
William
A
ghost. A ghost was charging toward his gate, her dark hair whipping wildly in the wind.
That was the only explanation William could come up with for the sight before him. He stood in disbelief looking out over the turrets of his castle wall at the woman riding closer and closer. It was Elspeth, as impossible as that was. She had not aged a day in the seventeen years since he had seen her, and that fact combined with the dark color of her hair is what convinced him that this must be her ghost finally coming to haunt him.
Regret crashed through him. It was a rather familiar feeling at this point in his life. Too late, he had realized just what a mistake it was for him to hang onto his stubbornness and pride rather than onto Elspeth. She had been the great love of his life, but he had pushed her away into the arms of another man.
Or that is what he had thought. Apparently, he had instead pushed her into the open arms of Death.
