She had a deep gash high on her forehead and a cut across her cheek, a gift from Malcolm’s ring as it ripped through the skin when he backhanded her. She didn’t have any broken bones, but her body was swollen and bruised from his kicks.

After her clinical assessment, she hugged the material of Greylen’s shirt, the one that he’d worn to dinner the night before he left. His scent gave her courage.

And she waited.

To kill Malcolm herself.

Chapter 33

Greylen and Gavin were granted immediate entrance to Stirling Castle. They rode to the inner bailey where they dismounted and were promptly relieved of their mounts. It took some time before they reached the steps, greeted by men they’d not seen for months, and in the case of some, even years.

Once inside they were ushered to a private chamber where they awaited their king. He entered a short time later, flanked by guards, and they were heartily embraced by the man whom they’d served valiantly over the years.

They enjoyed brandy and discussed personal matters first: Greylen’s marriage and the birth of his son, and Gavin’s marriage and sons as well. The king’s joy for them couldn’t have been more apparent, and he congratulated them and gave his blessings. He did inform them that he’d already known, for news of the two most sought-after bachelors taking brides had quickly swept the land.

Turning to his guards, he called for the prisoner. It took only minutes as they knew Laird MacGreggor’s reason for being present and, in fact, had already sent for him.

Greylen and Gavin stood as the door opened. They turned in unison to condemn Malcolm and seek a quick end to his life. He was held by the shoulders, his head cast down. He was filthy, and the clothes he wore were torn. His hair was just as dirty, and blood clung in patches where he’d been beaten.

Greylen walked to him, lifting his head by the chin. He stared into the distorted features, so similar to Gavin and Malcolm, but the eyes that pleaded mercy held no malice.

Worse—they were brown.

“Who are you?” Greylen demanded.

“James MacIntyre, sir,” the man said weakly.

“How did you come to be here, James?” Greylen asked.

“I was overtaken by a group of men, and later found myself in a cell, accused of crimes, which I’d not committed.”

“These men who overtook you, what know you of them?”

“’Twas a group of five, and they remarked on my resemblance to their leader. They spoke of their plan as they began beating me. ’Twas the last thing I remember.”