Highlander’s Evil Side by Shona Thompson

Chapter Thirty-Two

Beitris

Beitris stood still in the middle of the room as a servant tied the back of her dress. The servant girl kept looking at Beitris, worry etched on her face and her gaze drifting to the mark on Beitris’s cheek. Beitris ignored the servant and clenched her jaw, sniffing and swallowing her sobs. Her eyes were encircled with shadows. The guards refused to allow her to leave, and the servants had brought her food in her chambers, which remained untouched on her table. She hadn’t slept a wink the night before, haunted by nightmares of Fraser’s body slashed and torn. She couldn’t stop imagining Fraser’s double, this man she was about to marry, killing her love. Her lips quivered, and a whimper escaped her. She didn’t think she could go through with this. She didn’t think she could walk. Her legs wobbled underneath her, and she felt the darkness ebbing her vision.

Beitris stared at her reflection in the mirror before her, unable to look away, unable to feel anything as the servant dressed her like a common doll. She knew the moment she looked away, she would burst into a fit of tears. Her gaze settled on the cheek Fraser’s double had smacked. More tears welled in her eyes, taking in the blue and black bruise. She didn't know what hurt more: the bruise or the fact she was never going to see Fraser again. She felt beaten down. There was no more fight in her.

Fraser's double had won.

Music wafted up from the courtyard—music accompanied by the soft chatter of guests celebrating her wedding day. It was supposed to be a happy occasion. It was supposed to mark the beginning of her life with Fraser.

Beitris swallowed another sob as the door opened. She watched Helga’s form enter from the looking glass. Helga glanced uneasily around the room, her hands clasped in front of her. “I hope ye don’t mind,” she said shakily, “but I’d like to be alone with my daughter-in-law for a moment.”

“Of course, my lady,” said the servant as she dipped into a deep bow.

Beitris stilled as Helga approached. She concentrated on her hair, tied back into a low plait, knowing if she looked any longer at the elder Lady MacClery she would wail. Her hair had been done immaculately. The servants had seen to it that she was bathed properly. Her skin felt smooth. Her body smelled like blooming flowers. She was primped and prodded, donned in her mother’s necklace. Everything had been done to see she looked absolutely lovely for her husband-to-be. Even her dress was chosen to bring out the hue of her blue eyes. Yet, nothing could be done about the black and purple bruise marring her cheek.

“Ye look beautiful, my dear,” said Helga while stepping between Beitris and the mirror. Her eyes widened in horror as they fell on the bruise. Tears slipped from her eyes, and she raised a hand, gently touching Beitris’s injury. “What? I don’t understand."

Beitris flinched and turned away from Helga. She clasped her hands, trying to control the trembling in her hands. “He did it,” she whispered shakily.

“Finnegan?” Helga shouted, her voice shrill as she wrenched away from Beitris as if she had been hit. “Nae! It cannot be. He told me he would care for ye. Finnegan told me! He-he—” Helga gasped, her hand flying to her throat as if she could not breathe. “Nae, it mustn’t be so,” she whispers, tears spilling from her eyes. “It mustn’t be.”

“Finnegan,” Beitris spat. “So he has a name after all.”

Helga sobbed, her shoulders shaking as she turned away. She strode towards the window and stared out into the courtyard, where servants, soldiers, and guests waited for Beitris to make her grand entrance. Her cries were silenced, and Beitris wondered what had happened to this woman to make her like this, to scheme and plot for a man who wasn’t her son.

Beitris turned away as laughter surfaced through the window. She didn’t want to look outside, knowing it would only make her cry. She was marrying an imposter, a man who was not her Fraser. A man who was named Finnegan who had no problems with using physical violence to get what he wanted.

“How can ye be so cruel?” Beitris breathed, her hands fisting as she jerked away from her reflection. “How can ye let that man take everything from Fraser? Kill him—”

“Fraser isn’t dead.”

Beitris swallowed a sob. “What?” she asked harshly, stepping towards Helga and grabbing her shoulder.

Helga turned to her, her bottom lip quivering as she stared at Beitris, filled with remorse. “He’s not dead. I made Finnegan promise me he wouldn’t be killed. He will be sent to the New World, where he can begin a new life. A different life.” Helga nodded. “But he will be alive all the same.”

Beitris gaped at the woman. Did she not hear her own words? Did she not see what she was doing to her own son? “Why would ye do this?” Beitris shouted while throwing her hands up. “Why would ye destroy yer own son’s life?”

Helga shook her head. “I have my reasons, Beitris. Reasons ye would never understand. Yer not a mother. At least, not yet.”

“So ye will do naething to help me? Naething to help Fraser?”

Helga smiled, yet she struggled to keep it. She looked on the verge of bursting into tears. “Ye do not need my aid, sweet child. Yer marrying the laird of the MacClerys. Yer right where yer supposed to be.” She chuckled, yet the tone sounded dark and lacked any joy. Nodding towards her hand, she held it out for Beitris to see.

Beitris shivered as she looked down at the golden ring on Helga’s finger. The ring held a dark red jewel, one that glimmered in the light. “This was given to me by the late Laird MacClery,” said Helga while she pulled it from her finger. She seized Beitris’s hand before she could wrench away from the elder lady. “And now it belongs to ye.” Beitris clenched her jaw as Helga shoved it on her ring finger. “Now, ye will be Lady MacClery.”

The ring was beautiful. It was everything she would have wanted if it was given to her by Fraser, if she was marrying the right man. Beitris shook her head. “I cannot—”

A knock sounded on the door, and Helga turned away from her, straightening her back while she opened the door. Beitris’s stomach clenched. If she had eaten anything, she would have retched all over the floor. A whimper escaped her, and she leaned against the wall to keep herself from falling onto the ground.

“They are ready, my lady,” said a servant girl while curiously looking between Helga and Beitris.

Helga smiled brightly and offered her hand to Beitris. “Then we shall go.”

“Nae,” Beitris whispered, her whole body trembling.

Helga nodded, her gaze solemn. “Aye, we must, my child.”

Beitris stared at Helga’s hand as if she was staring at the devil’s book, about to sign her soul away forever. For that was exactly how it felt. She was signing away her life to a man she did not love, to a man who had no honor and would lie and scheme to get his way.

A whimper escaped her as she slowly placed her hand in Helga’s. A lone tear slipped down the side of her cheek, followed by another. She felt numb as she allowed Helga to guide her through the dark halls. Her heart pounded in her throat. Her insides twisted round and round as if they were snakes wiggling within her. With each step she took towards the courtyard, towards the kirk waiting for her, she felt as if she was going to vomit.

She stepped out of the keep, her body stilling as her gaze lifted to the dark clouds. Her gaze shifted to the gate, closed. The bars reminded her of a prison, locking her inside, forever. A line of people, smiling joyfully, stood on either side of her, leading towards the kirk. Voices quietened. Her father moved to stand in front of her, offering his arm.

“Take yer father’s hand,” Helga urged when Beitris did not move.

Beitris shakily placed her hand on her father’s arm, her breath coming out in gasps.

Laird Gordon's smile fell, and his hand stroked the bruise on her cheek. "What happened?” he asked, his voice tinged with worry.

Beitris opened her mouth, wanting to tell him the truth, but her gaze filled with horror, and her words caught in her throat as she looked beyond her father to the tower behind him. A man stood in the darkened window with an arrow aimed at her father’s back. It was the same man she had seen in the village, with the scar on his chin. She stifled a scream and jerked away, facing forward.

“It’s naething," she forced out, swallowing her sobs and blinking away her tears. “I was silly this morn and tripped over a stone. I had quite a tumble.”

She stepped forward, but her father remained fastened to the ground. “A tumble indeed," said her father, touching her chin lightly and turning her to him. She ground her teeth, trying to keep back her whimpers and her cries of alarm as she gazed into her father's worried eyes. “Have ye had the healer look at it?”

Beitris shook her head. “There's no need.” She grimaced at the crack in her voice. If she wasn’t careful, her father would know something was dreadfully wrong. With each question he asked, he was putting himself in more danger. “Please, we must not let F-Fraser wait.” She closed her eyes, breathing in deeply to calm her pounding heart.

“Alright, daughter, if ye think yer well enough to continue. Ye look bonnie, despite yer injury,” he whispered in her ear. “Laird MacClery is a lucky man.”

Beitris opened her eyes and forced a smile at her father, hoping he wouldn’t read much into it. Her feet slowly took her to the kirk. She heard the guests stepping behind her, following her inside.

As she entered the small building, her eyes fell on Finnegan, standing in front of the kirk, smiling at her as if she was nothing more than a piece of meat for him to sink his teeth into. A man stood at his side, one she recognized with a mark on his temple. He had been leering at the women in the tents. Of course, she thought. It all made sense now. Finnegan had sent men to spy on the MacClerys. He had sent men to deliver Fraser into a trap. That was why it was so easy for Finnegan. He knew how to get in and out of the castle because some of the MacClery men had been working for him all this time.

Beitris sniffed and wiped her tears. They were doomed from the start. Finnegan had it all planned out from the beginning. She should have begged Fraser to stay. She should have done more to stop him from going.

But, then, what would have happened to her father?

“Oh, my sweet child,” said her father while patting her hand. “I’m happy, too. So happy to know yer future will be safe in his hands.”

Beitris closed her eyes. She imagined what Fraser would look like if he was here, if they were actually celebrating their wedding day. She imagined him with his clear blue eyes, filled with love. A smile on his lips conveying his joy. His hands held in front of him, possibly Scott standing at his side, whispering something humorous in his ear.

Her father stopped in front of Finnegan, and her heart lurched as she opened her eyes. She struggled to contain her cries as her father placed her hand in Finnegan’s—this imposter of the MacClery Clan. She turned to her father, wanting to tell him this was a lie, this wasn’t her Fraser, but Laird Gordon was already leaving her.

“Wait, Father,” she called but immediately stopped when the man at Finnegan’s side stepped forward, his hand on his hilt. If she said anything, her father would be killed.

“Aye, daughter?” Laird Gordon asked while turning to face her, his brows tented in worry and confusion.

Beitris forced a smile and shook her head. “Naething. It’s naething.”

Finnegan clasped her hand, turning her to face the priest before him. “Very good,” he whispered into her ear, making her shudder in response.

The priest cleared his throat while opening his book. “We are gathered here today to bring—”

Beitris’s body slumped, her head lulling to one side. She couldn’t listen to this. If they only knew who truly stood at her side, there would be no ceremony. Perhaps, but then again, there were many women forced to marry men they did not wish to marry. How was she any different?

Her eyes drifted closed, and she listened to the whispering of voices and the thundering of horses in the distance. Thundering? she wondered, her brows furrowing in confusion. Was it merely the rumble of a storm coming on, or were there really horses approaching? She heard shouts, and she frowned, opening her eyes and watching as several guests looked curiously around.

“Stop!” someone shouted from outside the kirk.

Through the windows, Beitris could see horses storming into the courtyard. Several men dropped to the ground, running towards the doors and throwing them open. Her eyes widened on Scott, standing in the front, Hendry following closely behind him.

“I beg ye to stop at once!” Scott shouted while dropping into a kneel at the entrance to the kirk.

“What is this?” Finnegan shouted, his grasp tightening on her hand. He flashed her a dark look as if she had something to do with Scott and Hendry standing before him.

Beitris smiled bitterly. “Was I not to invite the Dunbars, my laird?”

Finnegan scowled at her, his grasp becoming bruising and making her wince. He turned his dark gaze on the soldiers at the front. “I demand ye to leave us be at once. Do ye not see that we are in a house of God?”

“Aye, I see ye,” said Scott while rising and stepping away. “And in the house of God, I call for ye to speak the truth.”

“What is going on?” Laird Gordon shouted. “What do ye mean the truth? This is a wedding for heaven’s sakes.”

“This man is not who he says he is,” said Hendry.

Laird Gordon turned to Finnegan, his eyes widening in alarm. “He is Laird MacClery!”

“Nae, he is not,” called someone standing behind Hendry and Scott.

Laird Gordon scoffed. “Well, if he’s not Fraser then who is?”

Beitris’s heart swelled with hope as Hendry and Scott stepped away, and her gaze landed on a man she knew well and true, one with clear blue eyes and a gentle smile.

“I am,” said Fraser as he stalked down the aisle, gasps surrounding him. He jutted a finger at Finnegan. “And this man is an imposter.”