Read Chapter 28: The Confrontation

The rain had turned the road to Donal’s manor into a ribbon of mud by the time Iona crested the last hill. Behind her, forty men moved in silence—Campbells and MacTavishes alike, their tartans darkened with wet, their hands resting on sword hilts and pistol butts. Lachlan rode at her side, his jaw set, his eyes fixed on the grey stone towers ahead.

“He’ll have men at the gates,” he said quietly.

“Then we’ll make noise enough to draw them out,” Iona replied. She touched the hilt of her dirk and felt the letter Tam had given her press against her ribs beneath her plaid. Her mother’s words. Donal’s true name. The crime Gregor’s father had done at Donal’s bidding.

They did not stop at the gates. Iona kicked her horse forward, and the beast surged through the puddled yard, scattering a stable boy who dove for cover. The door of the manor crashed open under her shoulder, and she was inside, her boots loud on the flagstones, before the first guard could shout.

“Donal!” Her voice rang off the stone walls. “Come out and face what you’ve done!”

The great hall was empty, but a fire crackled in the hearth, and a half-finished glass of whisky sat on the table—still warm, still sweating. Men poured in behind her. Lachlan’s hand found her shoulder, steadying, and she heard the scrape of steel as the MacTavish men formed a line behind them.

Donal appeared at the top of the staircase, descending with maddening slowness, his hands clasped behind his back. “Miss MacTavish. How bold of you to come to my home uninvited. And with a Campbell escort, no less—how the world has turned.”

“Where is your ledger, Donal?” Iona drew herself up. “Where is the evidence of every acre you stole, every man you bought? I have it hidden, and I have witnesses enough to see you hang.”

Donal smiled. “You have a cave full of paper, girl. I have the law.” He gestured, and from the side doors came a dozen armed men, rifles raised. “And I have these. Drop your weapons, or we’ll bury you in the moor and no one will think twice.”

Iona heard the shift behind her—men tensing, hands tightening on hilts. Lachlan stepped forward, placing himself between Donal and her. “The bargain is done. Gregor is free, and Alistair walks by nightfall. You swore it.”

“I swore nothing I intend to keep,” Donal said. “Your father sold me your whole estate out of cowardice, boy. I’ll take what’s left of yours when it suits me, and the MacTavish land besides. You’ve brought me all your swords, so I’ll thank you for them.”

A shout came from outside—the gate. Shots, then more. Donal’s smile faltered, and Iona heard the thunder of hooves. Morag MacTavish, grey hair flying, burst through the door with the rest of their allies, paid men and crofters alike, and the great hall erupted into chaos.

The first shot took a chandelier, sending crystal and candlelight raining down. Iona drew her dirk and lunged toward the table where Donal was scrabbling for something—a document case. The deed to the Campbell estate. He snatched it up, his eyes wild, and made for the hearth.

“No!” Lachlan threw himself at Donal, wrestling the paper from his grip. They crashed against the stone hearth, the fire roaring beside them, and Iona saw Donal’s hand close around a fire-iron and swing.

Lachlan grunted and fell back, blood streaming from a gash across his brow. Iona screamed, and Donal turned on her, brandishing the iron, the deed burning in the flames at his feet.

“There!” he snarled. “Your precious papers. Your bond. I’ll burn it all, every last acre, and you’ll have nothing to show for your treachery but graves.”

He had not counted on the man who stepped out of the shadows by the hearth. Tam. The old servant moved with stolen grace, his voice low and steady. “You killed her, Donal. You watched Angus push my lady into the loch, and you did nothing but smile.”

Donal froze. “You—you were no MacTavish. You were a stable hand.”

“I was her brother,” Tam said. “Your half-brother’s daughter’s keeper. And I have waited eighteen years to say this before the truth could spread.” He pulled a battered dirk from his belt. “You are no laird. You are a coward who killed his own kin for land.”

Donal lunged—not at Tam, but at the hearth, to knock the glowing coals across the room and into the dry wood of the document shelves. The deed scattered in flames. Iona dove for the remnants, beating at the fire with her hands, but the room had become a storm of smoke and steel, men locked in combat on every side.

She heard a crack above her. The chandelier, its chains severed by an errant shot, swung and broke free. Donal looked up too late, his face white in the firelight, and the great iron mass came down. It caught him square in the chest, driving him to the flagstones with a sound that turned every weapon in the hall quiet.

For a long moment, no one moved. Then Tam walked to Donal’s body, crouched, and pressed two fingers to his throat. “He’s gone.”

The door of the manor burst open, and lawmen in black coats pushed inside, pistols drawn. “In the king’s name—lower your weapons.” The magistrate who had arrested Alistair stepped forward, took one look at Donal’s broken body, and went pale when Tam pressed the ledger’s burned remains into his hands.

“He was a murderer and a thief,” Tam said. “And everyone in this hall will swear it.”

Iona stumbled toward Lachlan, reaching for his bleeding face. He caught her hand, pressed his forehead to hers. Beyond the door, dawn had broken over the highlands, pale and cold, and the truth lay at last in the open for all to see.