Finlay had always attended mass on Sunday, but had never been as devout as he should have been. Now, however, he prayed as he never had before. He would do anything, he told God, to save Kyla and provide her with the life she deserved.
He was sitting next to her one morning, lightly dozing off, when he saw her flinch. He instantly came alert, leaning over her and watching for any other signs. Her eyelids fluttered, and he grabbed her hand, lacing his fingers through hers.
“Kyla,” he said, hearing the desperation in his voice as he willed her to open her eyes. “Kyla, come back to me, love. Open your eyes now.”
He could have sworn he felt her hand move in his, but minutes ticked by and she showed no other response to his words.
“Kyla,” he continued to plead. “You have to fight to come back. Fight for me, and come through this to the other side. You have a life to live here, and I don’t know what I should do if you don’t return. Open your eyes, show me you’re still there. I love you, lass, as I’ve never loved before, and I need you.”
A tear fell from his eye as he leaned his head over her, resting his forehead on her arm.
He stayed like that for an indiscriminate amount of time—he didn’t know if it was minutes or hours. Finally, there was a knock on the door.
“Finlay,” it was his mother. “Come eat supper, love. Rory’s here. He wants to sit with Kyla for a minute.”
Finlay reluctantly let go of Kyla’s hand and followed his mother out the doorway. It was like he was a child again, letting his mother care for him and all of his needs, but he couldn’t be bothered by anything except Kyla’s condition.
He nodded at Rory as they passed one another in the doorway. He was still angry, but he could see how much Rory was also hurting, and resolved not to confront him about any of this again until Kyla was awake. For she would wake. She had to. There was no other option.
He was mindlessly shoving chalky potatoes into his mouth, his mother and Peggy watching him worriedly, when Niall stepped into the dining room. “Finlay,” he greeted him with a nod. “Is Rory with her?”
“He is.”
“I have news.”
“Oh?” He didn’t much care to hear any news besides that Kyla had awoken.
“I’ve been told who the man is—the man who did this to her.”
Finlay’s head snapped up at that. Perhaps there was other news he had wanted to hear. He may not be able to do anything about Kyla’s condition, but he could certainly do something about the man who caused it.
“Who? And where is he?” he demanded.
“Fin—” his mother began.
“I don’t want to hear it.” He was shaking his head.
“Finlay, you will listen to me,” she said, more insistent that usual. “Kyla wouldn’t want you doing anything about this. She was there to make peace, and by seeking retribution you will only be making everything worse. Do you want more violence between the clans? Between the chieftains and the people? This one man was no more at fault than any others, and you are not going to take out every MacTavish clansman.”
“I will if I have to,” he growled.
“You are not thinking clearly.”
Finlay looked at his mother with a glower. She typically wasn’t so vocal with her opinions, but allowed her sons and her husband to do as they thought best.
“Why are you arguing with me on this?” he asked her.
“Because Kyla is not here to voice her opinion herself.”
It was the wrong thing to say. Without another word, Finlay pushed himself back from the table and climbed the stairs to find Rory. A lot could be said about the man, but one thing was certain—he loved his sister.
When Finlay told him what Niall had come to share with them, Rory gave a nod and rose from the chair, prepared to do whatever Finlay determined was necessary.
The two of them mounted their horses and began the trek to the home of the crofters who lived near Darfield Keep. They didn’t speak—there was not much to be said between them. Finlay blamed Rory, true, but Rory seemed to blame himself in equal measure.
Their arrival at the small cottage was anti-climactic. Nothing greeted them but the icy chill that surrounded the cottage, the smell of peat emanating from inside. Rory, knowing the MacTavish crofters better than Finlay, led him up the path.
“He lives here,” he said gruffly, standing in front of the door and gesturing.
They knocked but did not allow any time for a response as they opened the door and entered the house. Finlay stopped short at the scene in front of him. There sat one of the men who he subconsciously remembered from the scene in the MacTavish courtyard. It was what was next to him that startled Finlay. Seated on the loom close by was a short, plump woman who Finlay assumed was his wife, and two small children looked up from their play on the floor and took them in, wide-eyed.
When Finlay and Rory entered the room, the man started trembling noticeably. Clearly, he knew what he had done and what they were here for.
“My lairds,” he said, rising, his hands in front of him in surrender. “Pray forgive me. I was not thinking clearly.”
“No,” said Rory coldly. “You were not, and now my sister lies close to death as you sit here with your family.”
Rory’s look was deadly, his countenance unchanged by the children or the woman.
“Perhaps we can take this outside,” said Finlay uncomfortably. He felt no different than Rory, but this was not a conversation to be had in front of children. The man nodded, kissed his wife and his children, running a hand over their hair before
