“We could send Mrs Mary!” Isla pleaded, desperate.
“I fully intend to find Alpin long before enough time will have passed for my father to have been fetched. He is with the tenants today, and I dinnae ken which house he’s visiting at the moment.” Alexander gave the distinct impression that he’d much rather handle the situation himself than fetch his father, anyway.
Before Isla could protest, Alexander turned on his heel and began to stalk further down the hall, his hand ready on the hilt of his dirk. She hurried after him, her breath catching in her throat when he stopped at his stepmother’s bedroom door. Did he expect that Alpin might be inside, or that Coira might know his whereabouts—even have some part in the desperate scheme? She nearly tripped as the thought struck her, stealing her attention from Alexander, who’d stopped in front of her. She collided with his side and clung to his shirt for balance.
Alexander placed his hands on her shoulders and pried her gently from his body. “Are ye all right?” he whispered.
She nodded and tried to swallow the large knot that had formed in her throat. Had Coira’s kind words been a farce, an attempt to blind Isla and Alexander to a deadly scheme? She didn’t want to believe it, but the idea struck her anew with every heartbeat, causing her mouth to go dry. She watched, miserable with uncertainty and anticipation, as Alexander knocked briefly and opened the door without waiting for a reply.
His hand tensed on the knob as he stared through the open door, though he was otherwise outwardly calm. “Forgive me for intruding,” he said, his voice low as he stepped through the doorway. “I have business with Alpin that cannae wait.”
Isla rushed to the doorway after Alexander, passed through it, and was greeted by the sight of Alpin sitting on a stool at his mother’s bedside. Though he appeared as pale as a ghost, life sparked in his eyes, which were fixed unwaveringly on Alexander. Coira watched from her bed, her expression rapidly shifting from surprise to alarm.
“What sort of business?” she asked, reaching out and placing a protective hand on her son’s knee.
Alexander crossed the room in three long strides, not answering.
“Your sporran,” he said when he reached Alpin.
“Go away,” Alpin said coldly. “I am helping mother with her dinner, and I dinnae have time for your antics.” His hand drifted slowly towards the dirk he wore at his hip, and Isla’s heart leapt into her throat. She wanted to call out, to warn Alexander, but she couldn’t speak. Mrs Mary was gripping her shoulder so hard it hurt, so surely she saw as well. Would she cry out, or was the woman’s voice as absent as her own?
Alexander had noticed Alpin’s motion—that much became plain when he thrust his palm against Alpin’s chest and knocked him unceremoniously from his stool. Coira shrieked from her bed, but Alexander paid no attention. Instead, he planted a foot on Alpin’s arm, preventing him from reaching his dagger, and reached down and tore his sporran from his waist. The leather strap that held it in place snapped clean in half, and Alpin stared up at it wildly.
“Idiot!” he cried. “Give it back!”
Alexander ignored Alpin’s command, stepping back from his brother’s sprawled form as he opened the leather pouch and began to examine its contents. He tossed a flint and a few coins to the floor while Alpin stared indignantly. By the time Alpin had managed to rise from the floor, staggering only a little, Alexander had pulled out a small pouch. Isla’s stomach shrank as she watched him open it with a precarious mixture of caution and haste.
Something pale, powdery and familiar fell to the floor and formed a small pile—oatmeal. He must have taken it along for the journey to and from the village. Isla would have breathed a sigh of relief, but Alpin was slowly regaining his balance and had started towards Alexander. He froze in his tracks when Alexander pulled out a second, smaller pouch and held it aloft.
“What’s this?” he asked in a low voice, seeing Alpin’s reaction.
Alpin went even paler, and his hands shook against his tartan.
“I dinnae reckon these are tea leaves,” Alexander said, peering into the pouch. “Tell me, are they poison?”
A shadow passed across Alpin’s eyes, but it did nothing to alleviate the look of near panic he wore. “Poison?” he gave his best attempt at a sneer. “Don’t be a fool.”
“Ye deny it? After ye were alone in the kitchen and my wife’s dog has dropped dead from eating the broth that was meant for me?”
Alpin said nothing.
“Eat the leaves, then,” Alexander said. “If they really are harmless, prove it.”
Alpin’s eyes widened and he ran the tip of his tongue over the edge of one lip. “Maybe the pouch does hold poison. I dinnae ken. I havnae ever seen it before.”
“And I suppose ye have some explanation for how it came to be in your sporran?” Alexander asked derisively.
“It was the wench!” Alpin flung an accusing hand in Isla’s direction. “If your broth truly was poisoned, ‘twas her. She must hae slipped the rest of the poison into my sporran!”
Alexander reached his brother in one stride, seized him by the front of his shirt and slammed him against the wall. “Ye dare accuse my wife?”
Alpin tried uselessly to squeeze a hand between their bodies, where his dirk was trapped, but they were pressed too tightly together.
“Ye wicked bastard!” Alexander breathed. He reached below and pulled his own dirk from his side in one smooth motion. “Tell me why I shouldnae kill ye here and now,” he said, pressing the tip of the blade beneath Alpin’s jaw.
A ruby drop of blood appeared, brilliant against Alpin’s pale neck. His mother whimpered, but Isla couldn’t spare her a glance, couldn’t tear her gaze from the horrible sight of the two brothers.
Even trapped as he was, Alpin managed to infuse his voice with scorn. “Do ye truly believe a Forbes could love ye?” he sneered, even as blood streamed down his throat and stained his shirt. “Ye truly are a fool. ‘Twas the wench that tried to kill ye, plain as day. Would ye murder me for her crime?”
The stream of blood that coursed down Alpin’s neck widened, and he stopped speaking, presumably because to continue would have been to endanger his own life.
“Ye always were a terrible liar.”
The tone of Alexander’s voice frightened Isla, and she winced, expecting to see Alpin’s throat opened in a bloody arc. Her shoulder was going numb beneath Mrs Mary’s grip.
“Stop this foolishness! Stop!” Coira tossed aside the coverlet and clambered from her bed, pale and frantic, clad in an embroidered nightgown that nearly swept the floor. She stumbled once, but hardly paused to gasp with pain. Pressing one hand against her ribs, she rushed to Alexander and placed the other on his arm. “Ye mustn’t, Alexander!”
“Surely ye dinnae believe the lies your son spouts?” Alexander asked coldly, never removing his gaze from Alpin’s eyes.
Coira gaped, looking as if she’d been struck. “I amnae saying your wife would harm ye. I dinnae believe she would! But please, ye must not kill him!”
Alexander didn’t respond, only held Alpin against the wall as firmly as ever, keeping the tip of his dirk buried in the flesh below his jaw. Coira’s death grip on his strong arm was useless.
“Please!” she cried, sobbing. “He’s my only son!”
“And what of my wife?” Alexander asked. “
My
child. Should I allow your son to murder me so that there willnae be anyone to protect them when he comes for them?”
Coira was sobbing too desperately to reply. Isla stared at the scene, frozen and transfixed in the doorway. Blood and tears flowed in abundance—only Alexander was dry. Slowly, he pulled his blade away from Alpin’s neck.
“I’ll spare ye for the sake of the women that watch, though ye dinnae deserve it. We’ll settle this once and for all before the day’s over. Meet me behind the house in one hour, and we shall duel. If ye manage to kill me, Benstrath is yours. Name the poison ye slipped into the broth if ye agree.”
A full-fledged sneer crept across Alpin’s face. “Foxglove.”
Alexander nodded slowly. “Pistols or swords—it’s your choice. Choose well.” He let go of Alpin’s shirt, allowing him to crumple to the floor.
* * * *
Once the bedroom door closed behind them, Isla was prepared to beg Alexander to call off the duel, to plead—anything to stop him. She wasn’t prepared for him to sweep her into his arms, to press his mouth fiercely against hers and lower her onto the bed.
“What are ye doin’?” she gasped, breaking free of the kiss as he lowered himself on top of her, nudging her thighs apart with a knee.
He shoved a hand beneath her skirts and felt his way up her thigh as he answered. “I intend to make love to ye one last time,” he said, dipping his fingers into the hollow between her hips. Her folds were damp—her body had begun to betray her as soon as he’d taken her into his arms.
“One last time?” she gasped. “Alexander, ye must—”
He slipped a finger inside her, cutting her off short. Her channel tightened around his touch, sending traitorous bolts of pleasure up through her belly. She struggled not to bear down on his hand, not to thrust herself against it. She failed.
“Ye mustnae duel Alpin,” she gasped through the haze of pleasure that was beginning to descend on her mind. “I cannae bear to lose ye!”
“I dinnae intend to lose,” Alexander said, his breath hot against her neck.
“Then what’s the meaning of this?” She arched her hips against his hand for emphasis, trying and failing to ignore the ecstasy the motion induced.
“Just in case,” he said, pulling his hand away and using it instead to push her skirts around her waist, baring her from the hips down. He raised his kilt in one quick motion, and the next moment was inside her.
“Alexander!” She arched against him again, wrapping her arms around his neck and pulling him close as he stretched her. She’d intended to protest once more, but her arguments were lost in a blur of explosive sensation. He thrust into her, hard and deep, and his urgency was contagious. She kissed him back when he pressed his mouth against hers, and rocked her hips to his rhythm. He held her close. His breath and the low sounds he made in his throat were all she could hear.
Her nipples strained against her shift and bodice, tingling when his chest brushed them. Her breasts ached for his touch, but his hands were in her hair. Her skull prickled pleasantly beneath his palms, and a similar sensation lit up her entire body. Her inner muscles gripped his cock tightly, and each stroke brought her a little closer to coming. Within a few moments, she was clawing his back through his shirt and gasping, urging him not to stop or slow.
He did neither, though Isla didn’t think he really needed her encouragement. His own breathing was ragged and his muscles trembled faintly beneath her hands, giving the impression he might explode, or break, or—
“Ahhh!” He pushed his cock deep into her, straining his hips against hers. He’d filled all her depth, was stretching her as far as she could go. The sensation of his hard cock buried so deeply in her flesh sent her over the edge. Her core tightened around him, gripping his thickness firmly, then giving way to waves of contractions that urged her to thrash against him, against the bed. He held her tightly between his arms and to his chest, flexing his hips hard against hers and pushing her past her climax in a few quick strokes. He groaned above her, and her core grew slicker as he came.
He remained inside her for a few moments after coming, breathing hard and sending tendrils of her hair flying against the pillows.
“I love ye Isla. Ye ken that, aye?”
She nodded, still gripping his back. With a conscious effort, she loosened her hold, pulling her nails from the dents she’d made in his clothing and flesh. “I’ve told ye before, I ken that ye love me.”
“Well, dinnae ever forget it,” he said, finally withdrawing and rising from the bed, smoothing his kilt over his lingering erection.
“Wait!” Isla cried when he started towards the door. “I’m comin’ with ye!”
He peered over his shoulder at her, his expression softening as his eyes locked with hers. “Aye, I suppose ye must.”
She drifted behind him, noting the absence of Gavin’s body where she’d last seen it on the floor. Mrs Mary must have taken it away. Despair lurked in the corner of Isla’s mind, ready to assume control should the duel end in the worst way. It seemed there would soon be another empty body in the house. She could only pray that it wouldn’t be Alexander’s—that she wouldn’t run her fingers through his hair for the last time while washing it in preparation for burial. The image was too much. She backtracked to the bed and promptly vomited into the chamber pot.
“Ye dinnae have to watch,
mo chride
.” He gently touched the small of her back.
“I’d rather die than miss it.” Whatever happened, she had to be there.
Chapter Ten
Alpin cut a lonely figure against the damp heather. He stood straight beneath a grey sky, waiting on the designated duelling ground behind the estate house. With no lover to console and nothing in his heart besides the greed that had led him to agree to the match, he’d no doubt been waiting there for the better part of the last hour, despite the rain. He wore a sword at his hip, and Isla’s stomach lurched at the sight.