Highlander’s Evil Side by Shona Thompson

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Fraser

“Brother?” Fraser breathed, his eyes widening.

Fraser knew deep down Finnegan spoke the truth, but hearing the words aloud pained his heart. Laird Douglas had made it known Fraser's father wasn’t above doing wretched deeds for the sake of the clan. Even Hamish acted strange when Fraser had asked him about that night so long ago. He had known something foul was afoot.

Fraser shook his head. His own father had sent away his son. It was unheard of. Why would he do such a thing? Fraser wondered, hating the disgust filling him. He knew he shouldn’t think ill of the dead. His father had been a good man, so why? There was no reason Fraser could think of that could warrant such a drastic measure.

“Oh, it’s true,” said Finnegan while circling around him. “Ye know it to be true.”

“Why are ye doing this?” Fraser shouted. “If we are brothers then—”

Finnegan scoffed. “Ye would welcome me home with open arms?” He tossed back his head and laughed bitterly. “Please, Fraser, ye don’t think I’m so daft to believe such foolery. Aye, we are brothers. Aye, we share blood, but we are not family.”

“I would have taken ye in.”

Finnegan grabbed Fraser’s shoulders and shoved him against the wall, leaning in close while he whispered gravely, “Don’t make me laugh, Fraser. Yer just like him.” He inhaled deeply. “Aye, ye smell like him. Like wealth and honor, not caring for anyone but the clan.”

“Ye didn’t know father.”

“Nae, I didn’t know him, but I certainly knew of him.” Finnegan smiled, his eyes crazed as he tilted his head to the side. “Father—the man I was given to told me one night after a long bout of drinking.” Tears welled in Finnegan’s wild eyes, and Fraser watched as he clenched his jaw and fisted his hands. “Told me I wasn’t wanted, told me I was given away. The blasted old fool was angry, ye see, for the gold Laird MacClery had given him to care for me had run out, and the manor had fallen to ruin. Servants let go. Livestock sold. There was naething we could do.” Finnegan slammed his fist against the wall. “He wrote and wrote, beseeching Laird MacClery for more gold, but his missives went unread, and we were thrown out into the cold.” Finnegan chuckled bitterly and shook his head. “He drank his pain away. I will never understand why our father decided I would be the lucky babe to go and why he chose not to help a family in ruin. I suppose we were far enough away for him to ignore. Ye nor mum would never see or know of me.”

Finnegan slipped away from Fraser, moving towards the middle of the cave. He walked in a circle while running his hands through his hair, pulling at the locks slightly. Fraser feared this man's mind, wondering if the knowledge of what their father had done had somehow driven him mad.

“My father—” Finnegan grit his teeth and looked away, “nae, that man, became an angry drunk. Took his aggression out on me whenever need be. And my mother—” Finnegan shook his head while clucking his tongue. “When the money ran dry, she did things, terrible things to put food in our mouths. Things I don't think I can ever forget. Eventually, she nae longer cared what befell me. Often, I wondered why they didn’t cast me away, but I suppose,” Finnegan rasped, “there was a time they loved me. It had been a short time, but it was there. In their own way, they cared for me.”

Fraser watched in horror as Finnegan continued pacing around and around, wondering why his father never looked in on his son or replied to the family’s pleas.

"I ate their scraps,” Finnegan continued on while striding towards Fraser, “and wore whatever garments I could steal. Both died of the lung one winter, although I hardly felt any sorrow at the matter.” Finnegan cocked his head to the other side as he stared down at Fraser. Fraser grimaced at the smell of ale and rot wafting from Finnegan’s breath. “Just think of it. I was a lad of ten summers then, barely scraping by, while ye,” he spat, slamming his fist against the stone wall, “were cared for by our mother, donned in clothes that weren’t torn nor dirtied. Ye ate what ye willed. Ye didn’t have to lift a finger to survive. Ye had everything.”

Finnegan shoved himself away from Fraser. He turned around and stalked around the cave in a circle once more. Murdo watched him with a deep frown, still holding the torch. “And I had naething,” Finnegan shouted while pulling at his hair and kicking at the stone floor.

“Ye should have come to Father,” said Fraser. “He would have taken ye in. It’s not too late. Ye can still—”

Finnegan’s dark chuckle interrupted Fraser’s words. “I did go to Father while ye were away.” He flashed Fraser a bitter look, the rage burning brightly in his eyes. “Not until the end, though.”

Fraser shook his head, not quite understanding why Finnegan was staring at him, looking so fierce. “Ye went to him? Ye saw him on his death bed?”

Finnegan nodded. “Aye, I did. He thought I was ye, of course, rather than his other son. Interesting, how he assumed I would never come for him, that I would never discover the truth given the letters he received. Perhaps he thought I died of disease. But I knew, when I saw him, there was only ye on his mind. His prized son.” Finnegan scowled. “Which was why I had no guilt for what happened, no shame in how or why he died.”

Tears stung Fraser’s eyes, and his lips parted. “Guilt?” his voice cracked. “Why would ye have any guilt?”

Finnegan chuckled. “Well, it wasn’t me who did it.” He nodded at Murdo. “I have the Black Stags to thank for getting into the castle. Well,” Finnegan paused, “for doing more than just that.”

Fraser jerked towards Murdo, his gaze darkening on the elder man. “What did ye do?” Fraser asked, his tone biting. Murdo didn’t say anything, yet his cruel smile was answer enough.

“Murdo has a few skilled men known for their knowledge in poison and how to do it quietly without anyone suspecting a thing.” Finnegan smiled bitterly, and Fraser’s breath left him as he continued, “Why do ye think he died so suddenly, Fraser? A strong laird like him could have seen better days—could have known his grandchildren, could have seen ye take over the castle.”

Fraser choked, not knowing whether to scream or sob. He bit back the anger and sorrow overtaking him. “Yer,” he started but quickly stopped as a pained cry threatened to take him. He swallowed it, burying it deep inside him, and willed the rage to take over, knowing now was not the time to allow sorrow to overtake him. “Yer the reason why he’s dead?”

Finnegan clenched his jaw, his gaze intense in the torch’s flickering light. “I suppose I am partly to blame.”

“Why?” Fraser shouted while lunging towards Finnegan, stopping when Murdo brandished a sword aimed at his neck. “Why are ye doing this?”

“Because, MacClery, it’s not fair,” Finnegan roared. “I was sent away for something that wasn’t my fault. I was given a life of squalor while ye lived like a king. All because I was born the same day as ye.”

Fraser blinked away the tears. In Finnegan’s stare, he could see the pain, the turmoil he suffered through all these years. Fraser couldn’t understand his need for vengeance, but he did understand his anger towards their father. He had left him. He had never cared for him, as if he had decided the second child was worth nothing.

“I never asked for this life,” Finnegan breathed. “I never asked to be yer twin, yet here I am.” Finnegan stretched his arms wide. “Here for all to see. And I will take back what is mine. Even if that means destroying a few obstacles in my way.”

Fraser shook his head. “We could have—”

“Ye could have done naething. Ye would have sent me away like all the others before or had me put to death.” Finnegan shook his head. “Nae, it is my turn now. I will be laird, and ye will be cast away to live a life of poverty, to live in loneliness.”

Fraser took a step back, his body shaking with anger and remorse as Beitris’s swollen red eyes flashed in his mind. “And Beitris? What will ye do with her? Ye cannot harm her!” Fraser shouted. “I will not let ye.”

“Oh, Brother.” Finnegan clucked his tongue while pacing back and forth. “Ye think she belongs to ye, do ye?” He shook his head. “She doesn’t. She’s never belonged to ye. I’ve always had my eye on her, watching and waiting until the time was right.”

Fraser shuddered, his insides twisting with worry at the implication in Finnegan’s words. “For how long?”

“Since before the celebrations at the Dunbars.” Finnegan chuckled. “I’ve been spying on them for the better part of a year while working for the Sire.” Finnegan gestured towards Murdo, who smiled bitterly. “And that’s when I saw her. Beitris. She visits them often. A fiery thing she is, like a wild mare waiting to be tamed. Strong-willed. Bonnie. Just the way I like them.”

Fraser’s skin ran cold at Finnegan’s words, his bones becoming brittle as if he had shattered through a frozen loch. There was hate in Finnegan’s gaze, a burning desire to consume and destroy. He would break Beitris. Fraser could see it. The thought of it made his legs wobble with fear, and his gaze search for any escape.

“I knew I had to have her. After being alone for so long, why shouldn’t I have her?”

“Ye keep yer hands off her!” Fraser shouted, lunging forward.

He knocked Finnegan to the ground before Murdo could step between them. Finnegan laughed as Fraser straddled him. He punched his brother, aiming for his face, but his arms were seized before he could do any damage. Finnegan laughed as Fraser was pulled off him.

Murdo threw Fraser into the stone wall. Fraser’s head knocked against it, making his vision blur. A dull ache surfaced at the back of his head, one that thudded loudly in his ears. Fraser stepped forward, about to tackle Finnegan once more, but the push of Murdo’s blade at his neck halted any movement. He hissed at the bite of steel cutting into his skin. Tears sprung to his eyes, and he couldn’t stop the influx of Beitris’s smile, her beautiful face, from assaulting him.

Finnegan chuckled while brushing the dirt from his leine, which did nothing to tidy the frazzled garment. “Mother was more than happy to aid me.”

Fraser’s heart stopped. All air left him.

Finnegan looked at his nails, picking the dirt and grime from underneath as he added, “But, I suppose, she doesn’t know all my evil deeds. She certainly doesn’t know about our father.”

Fraser gasped, choking on a sob as a tear slipped down his cheek.

“She wrote to Gordon, asking for Beitris’s hand. For me, ye see. Not for ye.”

“And the village?” Fraser asked hoarsely.

Finnegan ran a hand through his hair, slicking it back. “To lure ye away. I had to speak with our mother to know if my plan was coming to fruition.”

Fraser swallowed the bile rising in his throat. His own mother was against him—his men and his mother. This brother before him was like a disease, sweeping across his lands and taking whomever he befell with him. How could he win? How could he escape when his brother, Finnegan, had already taken everyone close to him? Including their mother.

Finnegan sighed. “I suppose she only wanted to see the good in me. Perhaps,” he said while sauntering towards Fraser, “she never recovered after giving me away. Her guilt was so great she would do anything to rectify the terribleness that befell me.” Finnegan stopped before Fraser. “Of course, she would only agree so long as ye lived. If we merely switched places and ye were sent off to the New World. She only wanted for ye to live.” He tilted his head to the side. “But, do I really wish that for ye?”

“Shall I slit his throat for ye, Finnegan?” Murdo asked, pressing the blade harder into Fraser’s neck.

Finnegan regarded him for a moment. Fraser held his breath, waiting for the word, waiting for death. His eyes turned to the dark ceiling of the cave, staring at the spikes. He prayed for Beitris, for her well-being, for there was nothing he could do. At least, not now. Not while Kenneth and Gavin were being held at sword’s point, staring death in the face themselves.

“Nae,” came Finnegan’s harsh voice. “Not yet.”

Fraser slowly closed his eyes. He still had time. He could still figure a way out of this.

“Take his clothes. If I’m to make the switch, they’ll be expecting me in finer garments, now, won’t they?”

Men surged around him. Men he recognized and men he did not. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched as Gavin and Kenneth were led in at sword’s point. Gavin teetered on his feet. Blood soaked his leine where the arrow pierced through. He needed a healer, but there was none to come by, and he doubted Finnegan would offer any aid in the matter.

Fraser was very still as they stripped him, hoping if he obeyed they would leave Gavin and Kenneth alone. They took his leine and tights, donning him in Finnegan’s tattered garments and ill-fitting boots.

“And what of Beitris’s father?” Fraser called while watching Finnegan stalk towards the light at the end of the cave, where his horse and sword lay, still waiting for his return.

“He’s about to be rescued, dear brother,” Finnegan called without turning around. “By the honorable Laird MacClery.”

“And my men?”

Finnegan glanced over his shoulder, flashing an evil grin. “Oh, fear not, Brother. They will be released once I am good and wed. Off to the New World with ye.” He cackled bitterly while tossing back his head. “And of course, by New World, I mean dead and gone.” He nodded to Murdo. “Get everything ye can out of him about Castle Dunnegan and the elder lairds. If we’re to succeed in our plans, we must get all the information we possibly can. Then slit his throat.”

Murdo bowed his head. “Of course, Laird MacClery.”