“Yer daughter,” Roger mocked as he ambled toward Wren. “We both ken she’s nae more yer daughter than mine. A crippled curse like her ought to have had the good sense to die as a bairn.”
Pherson wanted to glance at Wren, to assure her the hateful words meant naught. But instead he kept his attention on the three threats, his palms itching for his blades, blood pounding in his temples.
“She didnae,” he offered unnecessarily. “And she has a place here. Let her go.” She’ll be happy here, eventually.
Roger turned with a sudden snarl, a dirty finger pointed at Pherson’s chest. “I ken why she has a place here. Because ye ran! Ye killed my brother, ye killed my cousin, and ye ran!”
Oh fook oh fook oh fook.
Pherson forced himself to breathe normally and realized all thoughts of the Hunter had fled his mind. Wynda’s brother wasn’t going to be the one to kill him today.
He’d have to get in line.
For now, all that mattered was keeping Wren safe.
“Well?” Roger snapped. “Are ye going to apologize for Lar’s death? Will ye beg for mercy?”
Trying to keep his tone even, Pherson said, “I’ll beg for my daughter, if ‘tis what it takes.”
Roger made a sudden motion and the thug holding Wren wrenched his hand forward. Pherson lunged, afraid her neck would snap, but it was only the brute pushing the lassie away. Still, his daughter whimpered as she stumbled forward, and Pherson was able to scoop her up.
“Ye have her,” Roger sneered. “She can come with us.” He glanced around. “We’re no’ doing it here.”
Pherson didn’t have to ask what it was.
Execution.
“Da?” Wren whimpered against his neck as he tucked her head down so she wouldn’t see too much.
“All will be well, little bird,” he murmured, praying he wasn’t lying to her. “Just do as I say, when I say it, eh?”
He remembered little of their journey from the cottage, around the back, toward the meadow. His attention was too focused on the weight of his daughter in his arms, the way her hair smelled—just like that long-ago flight from Campbell land—and how he was going to save her.
It became obvious the men had hidden horses on Oliphant land, but at some distance from the village. He assumed he was being led there, although he couldn’t be certain where exactly they planned to kill him.
If he died by Roger Campbell’s hand today, he vowed to take the devil with him, at least.
A sudden thought tugged at his lips.
If ye die near enough to the castle, mayhap ye can haunt Wynda.
Would that be better or worse, spending the next sixty years watching his daughter grow up, but unable to interact with her? Watching Wynda fall in love with another? Well, at least she’d be able to see him, talk to him, while she lived in Oliphant Castle.
“What the fook’s so funny?” one of the brutes, the bald one, asked as he shoved Pherson in the middle of his back, hard enough to make him stumble.
The abuse jerked Pherson’s attention back to the present and the realization his mind had been wandering. Or, as Wynda might say…blathering.
He realized they were skirting the meadow where Wynda had found him hawking only a few hours ago. Right before Wren had received her new boot, right before Wynda had given herself to him.
Right before his life had changed.
Despite the bald ruffian at his back, Pherson halted. When Roger turned with a growl, his one eye filled with hatred, Pherson shifted aside to protect Wren if necessary.
“Where are ye taking me?”
“Wherever the fook we want. Do ye understand, traitor?” Roger snarled, stalking closer. “Ye’re going to die today and I havenae decided if I should do it fast or slow. I’ve been looking for ye for six long years, and I’m tempted to drag yer death out that long as well.”
Wren whimpered.