“Only a few of the younger men, including one of my grandsons,” Malcolm said. “Your cousin Farquhar Mackintosh was with him as well.”
“Ach, Farquhar has no business going to the Lowlands either. He’s wanted for the same offense as Brian.” Rory stood and darted glances around the small cottage like a caged animal. “I must go after my brother.”
When his gaze caught Sybil’s, his expression grew more troubled.
“I can’t take her with me,” Rory said in Gaelic to Malcolm. “The journey here was too grueling to subject her to it all again. Besides, Edinburgh is as dangerous for her as it is for Brian.”
Sybil tensed. Was he going to abandon her here?
“I haven’t time to take her to Killin to stay with my sister.” As he glanced around Malcolm’s humble cottage again, he looked as uneasy as she felt at the prospect of leaving her here. “I’ll only be gone for a few weeks.”
A few weeks? The thought of being separated from him made her throat close in panic. She was about to object—and reveal that she understood what he said in Gaelic—when Malcolm spoke again.
“You’re needed here at home,” he said, resting his hand on Rory’s shoulder. “I haven’t told ye the worst of it yet.”
The catch in Malcolm’s voice alarmed Sybil even more than his words. The older man’s broad shoulders seemed to slump as if under a weight, and a deep sadness filled his eyes.
“Your brother Brian is dead.”
CHAPTER 16
Rory’s chest felt too tight to breathe. Claws of grief sank into his belly and tore his guts.
“Please, God, not him,” he said. “Brian cannot be dead.”
“He made it past Stirling, but not to Edinburgh,” Malcolm said. “He was killed in the village of Torwood, near Falkirk.”
“Nay, this is a lie devised by Hector.” It had to be. Rory could not let himself believe it, would not believe it. Not without proof.
“I’m sorry, son,” Malcolm said.
“Even if Brian and Farquhar were foolish enough to ride into the Lowlands, that doesn’t mean they’re dead,” he protested. “Brian is probably on his way back now.”
“My grandson who traveled with him rode as hard as he could to bring me the news before Hector learned of it,” Malcolm said. “He was here not more than an hour before you and the lady arrived.”
Rory gripped Malcolm’s arm. “Your grandson saw my brother die with his own eyes?”
“Aye,” Malcolm said.
Rory felt awash in guilt as he accepted the painful truth. “How did it happen?”
“The Laird of Buchanan killed him.”
“What reason could he have to murder Brian?” Rory asked. “We’ve no quarrel with the Buchanans.”
“Some years ago the king issued a proclamation allowing any man who was wanted for a crime to clear his name by bringing another criminal to justice,” Malcolm said. “Buchanan had a murder warrant against him. When he met Brian and Farquhar on the road, he recognized them and recalled their escape from royal custody years before. He decided to deliver them to the crown and be relieved of his own heinous crime.”
“No Highlander would stoop so low,” Rory said.
“Buchanan did.”
“May he burn in everlasting hell.” Rory clenched his fists. He needed to punch something. “How did Buchanan find my brother in Torwood, a place Brian never should have been?”
“I’m afraid that was just bad luck,” Malcolm said. “Buchanan and his men happened to be traveling north on the same road that Brian and his men were traveling south.”
That coincidence struck Rory as odd. Was it just bad luck?
“My grandson says the Buchanan laird pretended friendship when they met,” Malcolm said. “He and his men joined the MacKenzies at the house where they were staying for the night and shared a jug and storytelling with them until late into the evening.”