Faye sank into Ewan’s chair, as her legs couldn’t support her properly anymore, and read each note. Every word, every profession of love and passion between Ewan and Blair, scraped over the rawness inside her.
It was all too much.
Her stomach clenched, as though the pain in her heart was slowly sinking lower.
Forgive me for telling you I loved you when I clearly do not.
Those words prodded at her brain, through the fog of grief. They echoed back at her now and burrowed in her mind like a burr.
Not with pain, but with doubt.
Ewan had never told her he loved her.
A new need arose within her, to rifle through the other contents in his desk and compare the letter he’d written her to his other correspondence. The note sat heavy in her pocket, but Moiré’s stare was heavier. Like a millstone looming over Faye.
How was it that Faye had happened upon that cottage where Ewan met with Blair at exactly that moment? Especially after it had been Moiré who had convinced Faye not to tell Ewan about her pregnancy?
Sorcha’s words back at the hut rose in Faye’s mind regarding Lara. “All the times I saw to her were to offer herbs to help find a cure for her barrenness.”
Faye’s breath came faster, filling the room with the frantic puffs. She glanced down, discreetly seeking Moiré’s fingertips. Splotches of black showed against her fair skin.
Ink.
A chill tingled over Faye’s skin.
“I’d like some time alone,” Faye whispered. “I…I need to understand all of this.”
Moiré nodded. “Take all the time ye need.” She leaned over Faye and gave her a brief hug, squeezing her shoulders.
Faye tried not to stiffen. “Thank ye.”
She waited until Moiré quit the room before quietly easing open the other drawers and rummaging through. Finally, she came across several letters midway through, a mundane one detailing the purchase of livestock.
Exactly what she’d been looking for.
She jerked the note free from her pocket and unfolded it. Even as she did so, she was hit by the certainty of her suspicion. She flattened the letters beside one another, her gaze darting between the two.
While her note had been written in a hand clearly attempting to imitate Ewan’s, it was decidedly not his handwriting. The t’s were too looped, the n’s too flowy against the bold, sharp scratch of Ewan’s handwriting.
Faye settled her hand over both parchments as the realization slammed into her.
Moiré.
It wasn’t Ewan who had betrayed her.
All this time, it had been Moiré.
“Let us go,” Ewan said in a level voice.
Cruim smirked. “Seize him.”
The Sutherland warriors, men who should have been loyal to Ewan, stalked forward with purpose.
“I am yer chieftain,” Ewan tried again. “This is a direct order to cease this at once or ye’ll all pay with yer lives.”
Two slowed, but the remainder pressed on. Indeed, it appeared they quickened their pace. Ewan didn’t move until they were upon him, allowing them a final opportunity to back down.
The first man, one from the lower part of the Sutherland lands, reached for Ewan’s arm. Instead, Ewan captured the man’s hand in his fist and met his gaze. “Craig, what would yer da think of such disloyalty? He gave his life to protect our lands.”
“Aye, a life buried under yer da’s rules,” Craig growled and ripped himself from Ewan’s grasp. “I’ll no’ live such a strict life.”
The strictness he referred to was no doubt Ewan’s refusal to allow him to raise sheep on prime farming land. The absence of crops could be detrimental should another blight come upon them. As Ewan had detailed to the man.
“Rules are made to keep people safe.” Ewan had spent too damn long questioning his decisions, and his ability to be chieftain without the training others had received. He knew the decision he’d made had been correct, that it was done to ensure the safety and protection of his people.
“They dinna have rules at the border,” another man said. Ewan had known the man since boyhood but couldn’t recall his name. But Ewan did remember he’d been punished some time back for stealing from his neighbors.
“And they live in a constant state of war,” Ewan protested. “Is that what ye want for Sutherland?”
“My land willna be like that,” Cruim said arrogantly.
Ewan stepped back. “I dinna want to fight my own people when we should stand united.”
“’Tis already done,” declared the man from Ewan’s boyhood.
Together they lunged for him. Ewan pulled his sword from its scabbard, but they had arrived with targes and armor. He had not thought to come prepared for battle when meeting with Blair.
“Nay,” Blair shrieked. “Leave him be.”
Her foot stomped down on her captor’s, and she spun around as he released her. In a flash, she had his dagger in her hand. Before she could plunge it at him, one of the men threw himself at her.
That was all Ewan could see, for three men rushed at him then, thrusting their blades with vicious intent. He was able to block them all at once with a mighty sweep of his sword. It was an impressive defense, but not one he could maintain. Indeed, it had been a lucky strike.
Suddenly, blades were striking at him in numbers too great to fend off, forcing him back, back, back until his heels hit the hard wall. Outnumbered, overpowered and bleeding from several gashes, he had no choice but to keep fighting.
A sharp cry cut the air, and the men faltered.
“Nay,” Cruim said in a low moan. “Enough.”
The maelstrom of jabbing blades and fists ceased, and the men eased away.
Blood dripped from Ewan’s left hand to the floor. His body roared with energy, even as his knees did not feel strong enough to support him, ready to fight to the death. He put his hand against the wall behind him to steady himself in preparation for yet another onslaught, his blade raised.
An eerie silence fell over the cottage. Ewan followed everyone’s stare and found Blair lying on the ground with Cruim standing over
