Pherson’s stomach roiled, but he doubted it was from the other man’s stench. He held Roger’s half-gaze.
“Ye have plenty of reason to want me dead, and I’ll go quietly…if ye allow Wren to go.”
The bandit sneered, but before he could dismiss the request, Pherson hurried on.
“Let her go, here,”—where she’s close enough to the castle to make it to safety—“and I’ll no’ struggle or try to run from ye. She’s nae harm to ye.”
The brute who’d been holding her snorted. “She cannae speak. All she said was da, boss, remember?”
Pherson nodded, praying his daughter wouldn’t belie the claim. “And her foot—“
“Aye, we ken she’s a cripple,” Roger spat.
Again, Pherson nodded, hiding his wince at the hateful description. God Almighty, let her remember to limp, he prayed.
“She’s nae threat to ye,” he repeated softly, his eyes on the two brutes as he warily sank to his haunches.
When it became obvious they wouldn’t stop her from leaving, Pherson turned his attention to his daughter’s tear-streaked face. His heart breaking at what he had to do, he placed his scarred hands on her small shoulders.
“Ye’re strong, little bird, aye?” Mutely, she nodded. “I love ye. Never, ever doubt that.”
“Da,” she whispered pitifully.
Praying she didn’t really understand what was happening, he pulled her into one more hug. “Aye, I love ye too.” There was a lump in his throat the size of Edinburgh, but he didn’t know if it was fear or sorrow. “I love ye.”
His arms tightened once more, then he forced himself to release her. “Go to Wynda, little bird.” This would be the last time he spoke to her—what did she need to know? “Wynda will love ye and protect ye, I promise.”
“Da…”
God’s Wounds, tears were making his own vision blurry. He blinked furiously as he turned her around to face the castle.
“I love ye, Wren,” he repeated, hoping if he said it enough times, she’d remember for the rest of her life. “Now go.” Nudging her into motion was the hardest thing he’d ever done. “Go.”
She limped away, thank fook.
Pherson kept his attention on the goons, ready to throw himself in front of any blade which seemed aimed at her. He didn’t think she looked back—small favors—but he was more concerned with ensuring they were planning on letting her go.
Before she disappeared from sight, one of the men shoved at his shoulder, and he breathed a sigh of relief she’d made it to safety, even as they turned him toward the distant horses.
If they execute ye elsewhere, ye willnae be able to haunt Oliphant Castle.
It was ridiculous; he didn’t even believe in ghosts.
But the thought still made him snort a small, manic huff of laughter.
Which caused Roger Campbell to wheel about, his hand dropping to the wicked dagger at his hip.
“What in the absolute fook do ye have to be laughing at, traitor?”
If Pherson had been as smart as the woman he loved, mayhap he would’ve kept his mouth shut. But seeing the fury dancing in Roger’s eye, he couldn’t help needling the man.
“I was just thinking of the way yer brother died.” He shrugged, keeping his tone light and a smirk on his lips as the other man spat out a curse. “I put a blade in his eye before he had a chance to clear steel from leather. Och, if he’d lived, the pair of ye would’ve had matching eye patches—“
From the way the man punched, mayhap needling Roger Campbell had been a bad idea.
By the time Pherson regained his senses enough to understand what was happening, Roger—or mayhap one of his goons—had his long hair wrapped around a fist, and was dragging him. Thank fook he hadn’t fallen unconscious—how embarrassing, to be knocked out by a devil like Roger Campbell!—so he was able to stumble along.
“A quick death, eh?” Roger was spitting, someplace behind him. Pherson couldn’t see where he was being dragged. “Ye gave Lar a quick death? I was going to drag this out, but I’m too angry.”