Bride For A Knight Page 0,49

to die slept cold and stiff in their graves.

All save one.

And he, too, would soon be no more.

His father, bluster-headed coward that he was, would do himself in. Fear and guilt were his enemies. No great effort would be required to rid the hills of him. A few others might follow as well.

If a greater atonement proved necessary.

The beginnings of a most satisfying smile twitched at the corner of the figure's lips. A soft, much-deserved laugh was also allowed. There was no need not to savor the moment. The darkening woods and the frothy white gleam of the water. The pleasure that deepened with each return to the scene of the figure's shining triumph.

Aye, it was a moment to be relished.

And with the exception of the figure's dark and flowing cloak and its shielding hood, there was no need for caution. Enough mist and rain had descended on Kintail in recent days for there to be ample cover to slip inside one of gorge's deep, mist-filled corries should any fool risk a visit to this devil-damned defile. The figure sniffed. Nay, unexpected intruders were not a concern. Neither from Baldreagan or Fairmaiden.

The winding deer track from Fairmaiden, especially, was choked with drifting curtains of thick, creeping mist. No one from that holding of reformed cutthroats and new-to-the-soft-life caterans would desire to bestir themselves on such a gray and clammy afternoon.

And if they did, it wouldn't be to trek through chill, impenetrable mist just to gain the treacherous confines of the Rough Waters. Those who dwelt at Fairmaiden relished their comfort too greatly to brave the gorge's steep, rock-lined shoulders save on fair, sun-filled days.

And the fools cowering within Baldreagan's blighted, hell-born walls were too busy poking about elsewhere to pose a serious threat. Too occupied switching bedchambers and lighting candles, thinking smoking pitch-pine torches and bolted doors would protect them.

The figure stared out over the Garbh Uisge, admiring the gloom and flexing eager fingers. Truth was, all the heather and stone in Scotland wouldn't hide them if a bogle wished to find them.

Whether they paid a visit to the ravine again or nay.

Though it could be surmised that he stayed away because his silly bride dogged his every breath and step.

His faery.

The figure scowled and clenched angry fists.

Only the great flat-footed James of the Heather would come up with such a ludicrous endearment.

Och, aye, that one was too chivalrous for his own good and wouldn't want to take a chance on the wee one trailing after him into the mist and twisting her precious ankle on a leaf-covered tree root.

Or worse.

Like watching a puff of wind blow her away.

Perhaps looking on in horror as she lost her footing on the slippery, streaming slopes and plunged headlong into the icy, tossing waters. Hitting her fair head on one of the many waiting rocks.

Black and jagged rocks.

So deadly.

And utterly innocent. Who could foist blame upon the dark, serrated edges of a rock if a soul was careless enough to fall atop it?

Certainly not the fools who'd gathered the remains of the footbridge and then been empty-headed enough to burn the wood without even noticing the saw marks and gouges it'd taken to cause the worm-eaten, weather-warped old bridge to collapse.

The figure smiled again.

And moved closer to the edge of the ravine.

If one leaned forward a bit and looked carefully enough into the foaming cauldron, it was almost possible to imagine a swirl of pale, streaming hair caught in the tossing waters. A dainty hand, reaching out for a rescuer that would never appear.

Or, even more pleasing, a flash of bright auburn hair and a quick glimpse of a bonnie male face, the eyes wide with terror and the mouth roaring a silent, waterfilled scream. But all the cries and thrashings would prove for naught. Just as they hadn't helped his brothers when the footbridge had given way beneath them. The figure's lips began to quirk again and a warm, pleasant sense of satisfaction banished the afternoon's chill.

The Macpherson brothers had dropped like stones.

And most of them hadn't even struggled, for all their swagger and boasting in life. Their black-hearted gall and deceit. They'd sputtered and gasped for breath, flopping about like hapless flotsam, letting the current speed them to their deaths.

A few had fought fiercely, kicking their legs and flailing their arms, wild-eyed and shouting, cursing down the sun.

But the sun hadn't cared.

And neither had the lone figure standing high above them, looking on with an approving smile.

A smile that had soured