“Why would he do this?” he growled. “How dare he?”
But Archer knew exactly why Finlay did it. Of course, that didn’t stop Marcus from answering.
“He was hopin’ we wouldnae notice,” Marcus growled, the anger in his voice matching Archer’s own. “He was hopin’ we’d send out these barrels and then people would start gettin’ sick. Even if all of them arenae tarnished, I suspect enough of ‘em probably are. Enough that word would get out that Clan McGregor whisky is tainted. That our drink cannae be trusted.”
“They’d nae buy from us again,” Archer mumbled.
White, icy fury spiraled through him, taking him over entirely.
“The coward,” he seethed, the words coming out of him in barely more than a hiss. “I cannae believe that he’d do this. That he’d threaten me livelihood, and the health of me people. I’ll kill him.”
And Archer meant every word. He imagined what could have happened if they hadn’t found the tainted barrels. How many people could have been hurt?
His staff.
His people.
Marcus.
Maybe even Emilie.
It was that thought of what would have happened if he had brought home some of his own drink and asked his wife to try it. How she could have fallen ill. How she could have even died.
Archer turned, storming back toward the door with murder in his heart as he made his way toward the door. Before he reached it, Marcus’s hands descended on his arm, turning Archer to face him.
“Arch,” Marcus said, his voice laced with concern. “What ye’re about to try to do, ye cannae.”
“Daenae tell me what I can and cannae do,” Archer growled, puffing out his chest and drawing himself up to his full height. “Ye ken what might have happened. Ye ken who all might have gotten hurt.”
“But they dinnae,” Marcus argued. “And if ye go stormin’ off, if ye go and start this fight, it’ll bring war to our doors. All the people that ye’re worried about gettin’ hurt from a couple sips of whisky? They’ll end up with much more than an upset stomach.”
“Nae if I kill Finlay first,” Archer growled back. “He has nay brothers, and he has nay heir. There’ll be nay one to start the war if the man’s heart stops beatin’.”
Marcus shook his head, but the calm, rational words from his friend did not matter. Archer didn’t want to hear it.
Visions danced in his mind, filling it with all the things he could do to Finlay.
He would run him through with his sword. Or maybe he’d hang him from the gallows, make it public for their entire clan to see, reveling in the death of the nuisance that had been at their door for far too long.
Even better. Maybe Archer could find a way to poison Finlay. To sneak into his home and do exactly what Finlay had tried to do to his people.
Archer knew that he could find the perfect poison, one that would affect Finlay slowly. Shutting down his insides one organ at a time, giving Archer time to tell Finlay exactly who it was who had taken his life.
All these visions danced in his brain, adding kindling to the fire of Archer’s rage. But then, something else started to creep in, a thought that was nagging at the back of his mind.
These are dark thoughts. Dark enough that they very well could belong to me own faither.
The volume of the voice in his mind began to grow until finally, it doused out his anger like water over a campfire. Because his thoughts had turned dark. So dark he had hardly recognized them.
Archer had killed before. But he had never reveled in it. He did not regret the lives that he’d taken, but he never took them unnecessarily. And he always did it in the quickest, most merciful way possible.
But this? What was he planning? What was he dreaming about? These were not merciful deaths.
“Are ye there, Arch? Are ye comin’ back to yerself?”
Archer blinked his eyes; the vision that had been clouded by a wave of hate cleared entirely, and the world around him became clear.
He was still standing at the door of the distillery, Marcus directly in front of him. His man-at-arms’ brow was creased with concern, dark eyes roving over Archer’s face and searching it for Lord only knew what.