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“I attacked him.”
“’Tis what he deserves.”
Was it?Ewan massaged the bridge of his nose with his fingers. He had been weaned on animosity and resentment, taught to blame the earl and his kin for all the ills that befell him and his mother, raised to fight against the injustice of his fate. Yet even he conceded that the crimes against his mother were not the fault of the current earl.
“I just wish I had more to show fer the loss of my men,” he said. “’Tis a high cost, with little reward.”
Lady Moira huffed, dismissing the sentiment. “They made the choice to follow ye, knowing the risks,” she insisted, unsympathetically.
Her words were not unexpected. As a lad there were times he thought her heart was made of stone. Idly he wondered if she had passed this trait on to him, but the knot twisting his gut told him otherwise. Was her way better?
“We’ll need to lay low fer a while and stay out of sight,” he said. “’Tis the only way to keep safe.”
“Nay! Now is the best time to strike! They willnae expect it.” She tugged sharply at his arm and Ewan turned to face her. “Ye must never forsake yer vengeance. They mock ye, belittle ye. Call ye the McLendon bastard.”
Ewan’s smile was filled with irony. “That’s who I am.”
“Nay! Ye’re more, so much more. Ye’ve got Gilroy blood in ye, too, proud and noble. Dinnae ever forget it.” She took a step closer, her features turning anxious. “I raised ye to have a purpose, Ewan.”
“To hate.”
“Aye, to hate—those who treated us unfairly, as though we had no worth, no value.” Her eyes got a faraway look. Lady Moira was nearing fifty, but looked older. The lean years and hard living had taken the sparkle from her eyes, the glow from her complexion. “Yer father could have married me and had a legitimate son. He was a cruel, hard man, taking advantage of a girl’s tender heart. But even more of a fool to toss aside such a fine lad as yerself.”
With an inward oath, Ewan held his tongue. His mother could drive a saint to sin, make no mistake. Especially when she was in the mood to harp on her favorite tirade—the Earl of Kirkland.
“Ye’re my mother. Ye’re supposed to sing my praises.”
“Not all women would have done the same in my position. I stood by ye.” Her eyes narrowed with emotion. “And now I expect ye to stand on yer own and avenge the wrongs done to us both.”
Ewan gave her a pained expression. Aye, she had stood by him. When the earl had denied the babe she carried was his, when her family tossed her out, pregnant and unwed. She hadn’t abandoned her bastard infant son at the gates of the castle, or placed him on the steps of the chapel, or set him in the woods to be carried off by wild animals. But she had raised him to seek the vengeance she was unable to achieve on her own, and he feared the cost of that was too high.
“Is my death truly what ye seek?” he asked.
Lady Moira paled. “Never,” she replied in a low, trembling voice. “’Tis McLendon blood I want spilled on the ground.”
“In all likelihood, if I meet the earl in open combat, ’tis my blood that will be shed. He has more men, all better trained than mine, finer weapons, faster horses. He’d cut me to ribbons in a fair fight.”
Lady Moira’s brow wrinkled. Was it imagination or did his mother’s vehemence fade a wee bit?
“Then dinnae fight fair. Cease yer raiding and direct yer actions at him. Track him, follow him, catch him off guard. Or better still, alone. Slit his throat, then hide the body. The loch is wide and deep. Ye can easily slip his corpse into the dark waters where it will sink to the murky bottom, never to be seen again.”
Ewan barely contained his shudder. Even after all these years, the depth of his mother’s hate still had the power to startle him.
“As much as it would bring ye joy, I willnae kill my brother in such a cowardly manner.”
Clearly displeased, Lady Moira crossed her arms and pursed her lips into a hard, thin line. Ewan let her stew in her anger for a few moments, the sight easing some of his own distress.
“Smile, Mother. I willnae be able to easily kill the earl, but I vow to do everything I can to make his life a living hell.”
A sudden movement at the door woke Gavin from a sound sleep. Stark naked, he leapt from the comfort of the bed, reaching for his dirk.
“No, don’t hurt him!” Fiona squealed, grabbing Gavin’s arm. “He’s harmless.”
Hewas a large, mangy, rather dirty-looking dog, with scruffy fur and an enormous head. At the sound of Fiona’s voice, the beast raised his head and moved clumsily into the chamber. Gavin backed up, but refused to relax his stance or put down his weapon. He didn’t recognize this particular hound and he certainly didn’t like the look of him. Especially since the animal was heading straight toward them.
But before he reached them, the dog suddenly stopped, sniffed, then bent his head in the tub and began lapping at the water energetically.
“Christ! Willnae that soapy water make him sick?” Gavin asked.
