“Malcolm.”
“She is barefoot and barely dressed, and the cold is…”
“Malcolm.” Alasdair’s voice came out quiet and final. “Stop.”
Malcolm closed his mouth immediately.
Alasdair examined the cracked lantern. He looked at the blood on Malcolm’s cheekbone.
He thought about the girl who had outrun him through hills like these when he was twelve, skirts hitched and laughing. Even then, young Isobel had been completely unafraid of the two boys chasing her.
Alasdair crossed the space in three strides and had Malcolm by the collar before the man could speak.
“Where is she?”
“I… she is…”
“Where?” His voice was not loud.
Malcolm’s face had gone the color of old ash. “North,” he said. “The tree line.”
“Is she hurt?”
“Nay, I never intended…”
“Ye dragged me woman through a passage in the dark,” Alasdair said. “And ye planned every detail of it. Daenae call it a misunderstandin’.”
He released him.
“If there is one hair on her head out of place,” he said. “I will have yer head. Do ye understand me?”
It was not a real question.
Malcolm watched him for a long moment. Then the careful face broke apart all at once, revealing what lay beneath it—not grief or remorse, but something harsher and older. It was thirty years of a man who had made up his mind.
“Ye daenae understand,” Malcolm said. “Ye have never understood what it is to have nothin’. To sit at a table that should have been yers and watch another man sit at the head of it year after year, takin’ it for granted, never once askin’ how he came to have it, never once lookin’ at the cost of it to other people?—”
“I understand plenty,” Alasdair said.
“Ye understand nothin’.” Malcolm’s voice rose. “Yer father was a hero. Mine was a traitor. Yer family got to rebuild and be honored, and mine got nothin’. I got nothin’. And I came to yer house, I served ye, I made meself useful, and I waited. I watched, and every year it became more impossible and more necessary, and ye never even noticed because ye never had to notice anythin’. Ye were the Laird; everythin’ just came to ye…”
“Me faither died at Culloden when I was seventeen years old,” Alasdair retorted. “I buried him and took his ring. I had one day to grieve him, and then I had a clan to run. Daenae tell me what came to me and what didnae.”
“Ye had his name,” Malcolm said tersely. “Ye had his honor and his people’s loyalty and a seat that nobody questioned. I had a name that was a curse and a chair that was a charity, and I had to earn every breath I took in that castle. Yet ye never once asked why.”
“I am nae askin’,” Alasdair said. “Tell me all of it. The fire, the Lairdship, Hamish… all of it.”
Malcolm laughed. It was not a good sound. “Hamish.” He shook his head. “I wondered when that would come out.” He looked at Alasdair, his eyes bright, his jaw set, and the patience entirely gone from him. “Yer faither took me in out of pity. He took Hamish in out of ignorance. And between the two of us, it was always Hamish that got yer faither’s real warmth, wasnae it? Because Hamish was easy and funny and didnae ask questions.was yer faither’s charity case. He merely tolerated me presence and everyone could see it.”
“Ye were nae his charity case.”
“I was!” Malcolm took a step forward, and his voice rose again. “And yer father never kent, did he? What my father had done to get Hamish to his door. He never kent that the Lairdship he absorbed was Hamish’s by blood. He took it all in ignorance and called himself merciful, and I had to watch that too.” He was close now, and his voice was loud. Malcolm’s hands were at his sides, and his eyes were wild in the starlight. “I had to watch ye inherit it, and I had to smile. It was my privilege to advise ye, and I had to be useful to ye. But all the while I kent that if anyone ever looked at the records properly the whole thing would unravel, and I would still be left with nothin’.”
“Tell me about Hamish,” Alasdair insisted.
“I have nothing more to say,” Malcolm sneered.
“Ye will speak,” Alasdair commanded. “Ye will explain yerself fully.” “Why should I? So ye can give Hamish what ought to be mine? So Hamish can walk away with a Lairdship, and I could go back to nothin’ with a different excuse for it?” His voice rose again. “I owe Hamish nothin’. His parents are dead, but the land is still there. I am the one who needs it and I?—”