A Laird to Hold, Angeline Fortin [top 10 non fiction books of all time .txt] 📗

And the other…

This could not be. It would not be.

Wounded and still he fought like a warrior. Regret, grief, and pride mingled in Laird’s heart.

Emmy raced to her husband’s side. Connor looked up at Laird, his dark eyes awash with agony. “Kill the bastard, Laird.”

Aye, Laird would not let Connor’s heroic actions go unrewarded. Such a sacrifice could not be in vain. Fury washed away the regret and pounded through Laird’s veins. Teeth clenched so hard his jaw might break, Laird’s vision clouded with a red haze.

Jameson groaned and clawed his way across the floor for the gun he’d dropped. He stumbled to his feet, bleeding heavily from his head where Laird’s bullet had hit him. And from his side where Connor had pierced him with his second blow.

Connor.

Rage so hot a moment before settled into his veins like a hard freeze. With slow deliberation, Laird aimed his gun and pulled the trigger. It hit the wall above Jameson. Jameson returned fire. The bullet grazed Laird’s neck but he didn’t flinch. He returned the volley. Jameson screamed in pain as it hit him high on the shoulder. Another hit him high in the arm and Jameson’s weapon fell to the ground.

Laird growled in frustration. He wasn’t doing damage enough to assuage his wrath. The shots all hit higher than he intended. Bugger it, but he had no experience with the blasted weapon. And didn’t have time to learn. Connor’s sword was nowhere to be seen, mayhap under the bed. He would not feel the satisfaction of running Jameson through with his blade.

So be it. There’d be more satisfaction in ripping Jameson from limb to limb in any case.

Tossing the gun to the side, Laird crossed the room at a run. Put all his momentum behind his fist. He connected with Jameson’s chin and it snapped upward. Gratification stoked his vengeance. His fists flew. Each punch kept Jameson pinned up against the wall with nowhere to run. Again and again, he hammered Jameson’s face and jaw until the man was a gory pulp.

Jameson wilted downward, a plea for mercy on his bloodied lips. However, there could be no mercy for the man who’d shown none. Laird lifted him again with an uppercut to his gut. Another. And another. He pummeled the man with his fists but felt no conciliation in his heart.

“Please,” Jameson rasped out. “Stop. I beg you.”

“Beg me to stop?” he sneered and pulled Rhys’s dagger from his belt. Holding it to Jameson’s neck, Laird’s lip curled in disgust. “That will do nothing to end yer misery, mon. For all ye’ve done this day…for Halliday, for Hugh, and for Connor, begging me to end yer life quickly is all that will spare ye further pain.”

“Then do it.” Blood dribbled from Jameson’s lips. “Kill me.”

With a growl, Laird twisted the point of the dagger into the man’s neck. The wee prick drawing but a drop of blood and a pitiful wail.

“Laird!” Emmy’s urgent scream penetrated his rage. He glanced over his shoulder and his anger slipped a notch.

Och, Scarlett had been right. For all the rage in his heart, he was no killer of the defenseless. Such spinelessness was for men like Jameson. Laird was a seeker of justice, not vengeance. He would let the authorities finish with Jameson.

Laird slipped the dagger back into his belt and drew back his fist one more time, sending it into Jameson’s nose with a crack. With a sputter and a groan, Jameson lost consciousness.

Laird let him slump to the floor and rushed to assist Emmy. She’d ripped open Connor’s shirt, pressed a wad of white sheeting to the wound low on his ribcage. Already most of the compress was soaked with his blood despite the force of pressure weighed upon it.

“Call for help,” her plea was urgent.

“Who?”

“999!” she yelled. “Call it. Now.”

He pulled the phone from his pocket, fumbled with the device to enter the numbers.

Connor’s breaths gurgled with each intake. Blood dribbled from the corner of his mouth with each exhale. Laird passed the information of their whereabouts on to the operator but knew the effort would be futile. He’d seen many a man die this way after taking a blade to the chest on the field of battle. As advanced as healthcare in this time might be, some wounds could not be healed.

Emmy must have realized the same. Grievous sobs wracked her shoulders as she bowed over her husband.

“My love,” Connor whispered weakly, his bloody hand trembled to reach for her. “Eternity will hae to wait, aye?”

She caught his hand, lifted it to her cheek. “No. Connor, please. Don’t go. Please, fight. For me.”

The tearful entreaty drew an wretched sob from Emmy and brought a tight ache to Laird’s chest. He pressed a fist to it as if it could block away the grief. His eyes burned with unshed tears. It could not be.

“Laird.”

Laird turned to find Donell’s eyes upon him. The old man was alive. In need of aid. Laird took a step in his direction, but Donell held up a hand. “Nay, beware lad.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Laird saw Jameson reaching across the floor for his gun. Before he could take another step, pain more agonizing than he’d thought possible bombarded him. Ravaged his chest. Seized his lungs.

Laird looked down at the ruby stain.

Nay, the bastard could not win.

Pulling Rhys’s dagger from his belt once more, Laird hurled it toward Jameson. Watched it sink into his throat. Blood gushed around the hilt.

He’d accomplished what he’d come to do. Jameson was dead. Their mission done. The future secured. He’d succeeded.

Yet he’d failed. Failed in his promise to keep them all safe. Now Connor lay dying.

Soon he would follow. Laird’s life was