The Hunter (Highland Guard #7)(3)

Ewen’s jaw clenched belligerently. “You mean when he abducted my mother from his chief?”

Sir James frowned. “Who told you that?”

He shrugged. “Everyone. My father. It’s well known.”

“Whatever your father’s sins, do not lay that one at his feet. Your mother went with him willingly.”

Ewen stared at the other man in shock, but if there was anyone who would know, it was Sir James. Ewen’s mother had been his favorite cousin, and he was the man they’d gone to for help when the reprisal for his father’s rash actions had come from Malcolm Lamont.

“That is why you helped them,” Ewen said. Suddenly it made sense. Ewen had never understood why Sir James had come to his father’s rescue and prevented his ruin after he’d started a war by stealing his chief’s bride.

“Among other reasons,” Sir James said. “Your father’s sword, for one. He was—still is—one of the best warriors in the Highlands. You will be like him in that respect, I think. But aye, I wanted your mother to be happy.”

Bride abduction was perhaps one less sin to lay at his father’s feet, but Fynlay still had plenty of them left. It didn’t change the reckless, disloyal act that had broken him from his clan and nearly seen the destruction of the Lamonts of Ardlamont. Nor did it change everything that had come after.

“You shouldn’t have allowed him to come,” Ewen said. “Not with Malcolm here.”

Malcolm Lamont wasn’t his chief anymore. His father’s actions had caused the Ardlamont Lamonts to break from their chief. They were Stewart’s men now.

“There was no choice. Malcolm is my cousin Menteith’s man, as your father is mine. Your father has given me his oath he will not break the truce, no matter how hard Malcolm presses him. God knows there is enough disagreement among my kinsmen without the old feud between your father and Malcolm getting in the way.”

It was hardly right for Ewen to be questioning his lord, but he asked anyway. “And you trust him?”

Sir James nodded. “I do.” He stood. “But come, we should get back. The feast should be dying down by now.”

It was, but not for the reason they’d anticipated. They stepped out into the dark rain and heard a loud ruckus coming from the opposite side of the barmkin. It was the sound of cheering, followed by a gasp, and then an eerie dead silence.

“I wonder what that is all about?” Sir James asked.

Ewen felt a flicker of premonition.

All of a sudden men started pouring into the barmkin, racing toward the keep. He could tell by their expressions that something was wrong. “What is it?” Sir James asked the first man to approach. “What has happened?”

Ewen recognized the man as one of Carrick’s. “The Lamont chief claimed that no one could climb the cliffs in the rain. Wild Fynlay bet him twenty pounds that he could. He made it to the top, but slipped on the way down and fell onto the rocks below.”

Ewen froze.

Sir James swore. His father had kept his word not to fight, but the challenge had served the same purpose. Tempers were bound to get hot as men would take sides. “Is he dead?” Sir James asked.

“Not yet,” the man answered.

A few seconds later, Fynlay’s guardsmen entered the barmkin, carrying the body of their chieftain.

At first, Ewen refused to believe this was any different from the hundreds of other times his father had been hurt. But the moment his father’s men laid him on a table in the laird’s solar behind a wooden partition in the Great Hall, Ewen knew this was the end.

His father’s reckless wish for death had come to fruition.

Ewen stood off in the far corner of the room as first Fynlay’s men, and then Sir James said goodbye.

He could feel his eyes grow hot and hated himself for the weakness, rubbing the back of his hand across them angrily. Fynlay didn’t deserve his emotion or his loyalty.

But Fynlay was his father. No matter how wild, irresponsible, and brash, he was his father.

Guilt for his earlier words made Ewen’s chest burn. He hadn’t meant that he hated him. Not really. He just wanted him to be different.

He would have stayed in the corner, but Sir James called him forward. “Your father wishes to say something to you.”

Slowly, Ewen approached the table. The giant warrior whose face so resembled his own looked as if he’d been mashed between two rocks. His body was mangled, broken and crushed. Blood was everywhere. Ewen couldn’t believe he was still alive.

He felt his throat grow tighter, anger and frustration washing over him at the prodigious waste.

“You’ll make a good chieftain, lad,” his father said softly, the deep, booming voice now raspy and weak. “God knows, better than I ever was.”

Ewen didn’t say anything. What could he say? It was the truth, damn the man for it. He wiped the back of his hand across his eyes again, even angrier.

“Sir James sees great things for you. He will help you. Look to him for guidance and never forget what he has done for us.”

As if he could. He and his father didn’t agree on much, but on the subject of Sir James they were of one mind: they owed him everything.

Fynlay’s voice was growing weaker and weaker, and still Ewen could not speak. Even knowing time was running out, he couldn’t find the right words. He’d never known how to give voice to his feelings.