Page 65 of Leila’s Legacy

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Niall clutched Leila’s shoulders long after she’d stopped struggling, reeling with the horror at what he’d done. What he’d been forced to do.

It didn’t matter either way.

He had killed Leila. Snuffed the light from her eyes, held her down as she struggled against him, fighting for life. Her head was pushed forward by the rapidly flowing water, sparing him the sight of her still face. Her slack limbs were pulled forward as well, sucked by the current as it tried to pry her from his grasp.

He tightened his grip.

“Let her go,” Alban said from where he stood dry and unfeeling on the shore. Close enough for Niall to throw a dagger and strike with little need to aim.

Niall did not obey immediately. He had a role to play, he knew. The bewitched man with his spell finally broken. He was to release her without consideration and walk away. As though he had never cared. As though he did not still love her.

But it wasn’t true, damn it. He did love her. He did care. He always would.

Not that it mattered now. She would be gone to him forever as soon as he released her.

The river pulled harder and the silence between himself and Alban turned harsh.

“Let her go,” Alban repeated, biting out each individual word.

There might still be a chance.

The thought floated in his mind. It was delicate and fragile, but something in him clung to it in his awareness, cradling that thread of hope.

He relaxed his fingers and Leila was immediately drawn from his grasp and swept away, like a bit of driftwood. His heart went with her, dragged from his body and carried off, leaving a burning, gaping hole.

“Do ye feel better?” Alban asked.

Niall was supposed to agree, to act lighter, more liberated. How could he?

Instead, he glared at Alban. “Do ye?”

The earl’s son smirked. “Aye, I do.”

“Ye dinna want to rape her anymore, then?” Niall should stop talking, but he couldn’t resist the prod.

Alban narrowed his dark eyes. “And ye dinna love her anymore.”

This was where Niall could not afford to misstep. Any hope Leila had hinged on his detachment. He couldn’t see her body any longer. He steeled himself for the words he knew he must say. “I never did.”

Alban’s mouth spread into a wide grin beneath his red beard. “Good to have ye back.”

“Mayhap now ye’ll actually follow orders,” Niall replied.

“No’ likely.” The earl’s son shrugged his shoulder.

The arrogant bastard. Rage whipped through Niall’s blood and fired enough energy into his body to kill the blighter in one messy strike. Niall ignored the comment and accepted Alban’s proffered arm as he shoved down the temptation to pull it rather than take it.

A commotion arose from the dais, drawing both of their attention as their arms fell from one another. Not that Niall needed to see. He already knew what caused the disruption.

“Get them,” Lord Armstrong’s order rose above the din. The guards scrambled like ants on a demolished hill to comply with his command.

Niall rushed into action, moving with the cluster of men, losing himself among them. The fledgling hope within him had grown brighter, clearer.

If he left now, mayhap he could find her. He edged to the outskirts of the surrounding villagers as they dispersed. The spectacle was complete, and they’d seen their fill, their vengeance placated. A missing prisoner held no meaning for them.

But they would not find solace and respite in Leila’s death like they thought. It might take a sennight, mayhap a fortnight, but they would see many still falling ill, many still dying.