Ye Give Love A Plaid Name (Bad in Plaid 3)

“Ye want me to do it, boss?” one of the brutes growled.

“Hellfire and damnation, nay! It’ll be my blade in his eye which ends his miserable existence.”

And then whoever was dragging Pherson threw him to the ground. He rolled, hoping to come up behind their defenses, but a boot smashed into his head, then his mouth. His forearms instinctively rose to bracket his head and he heard a sickening crack of bone before the blows fell to his side and back. Someone reached down and grabbed his hair again, pulling him upright as he spat out blood.

Fook, I really need to consider cutting my hair.

The inapt thought flitted through his mind and his lips curled, moments before two strong sets of hands clamped around his upper arms, holding him on his knees—thankfully avoiding the halo of pain around his left forearm—and someone yanked his head back.

The tip of a blade appeared in his vision.

Oh, fook.

“Well, traitor,” Roger spit out as he strolled in front of Pherson, his blade steady, and Pherson realized he hadn’t heard the bandit use his name once. “‘Tis fitting ye die here, where ye can see the place which hid ye from me for so long.”

It took a moment to understand. Pherson’s vision was blurry. Had his brains been scrambled or—nay, ‘twas the blood dripping into his eye.

Roger Campbell stood triumphantly before him, Pherson’s head pulled back to look up at him.

But this also meant he could see behind him. And behind Roger stood Oliphant Castle. They’d moved into the meadow. The field of heather and wildflowers where he’d been playing with Wren the day Wynda had fallen into his lap. The place where he’d seen his daughter run for the first time.

His lungs slowly expanded, filled with the sweet scents of late-summer blooms.

It was fitting.

He dropped his gaze to the hedge along the castle wall, vaguely noting a break, too small to be an entrance, even as movement on the walkway above caught his eye. It was a man he couldn’t recognize, and was too far to offer any help, so Pherson dismissed him.

He inhaled again, the memory of holding Wynda in his lap, right there by the break in the hedge, strong in his mind. He locked his gaze on it, knowing when the blade plunged into his eye, this would be the last thing he’d see, his last thought of her.

As Roger reared back, Pherson’s eyes widened in surprise, as the wall of the castle near that break in the hedge opened,

And Wren stepped out.

Nay! Nay!

Instinctively, he wrenched his hands down, trying to shake off his captors. Roger had paused, and Pherson bellowed, “Nay! Go back! Dinnae watch this, Wren!”

If she would have to lose him today, please God, don’t let her see him die!

Roger twisted long enough to grin cruelly, as he turned back. “How touching,” he sneered, and he grabbed the hair at Pherson’s forehead, wrenching his head back as his dagger loomed.

“Nay,” Pherson whispered, more a prayer than a plea. Dinnae let her watch.