Chapter 70: Scars and Lies
Chapter 70: Scars and Lies
While Lachlan spent his days cloistered in council meetings, Isla had busied herself with a quiet rebellion of her own. His things were gone—the furs, the weapons, the carved chest he had once claimed as his. The marriage bed, soiled with his betrayal, had been dragged out into the courtyard and set aflame. The fire had raged until nothing but ash and smoke remained.
Now the chamber felt different. Her chamber. The new bed stood neatly dressed, the furnishings freshly chosen, and for the first time in months she felt a fragile sense of belonging. A place that was hers, not his, not theirs—hers.
She was smoothing the last fold of linen when the door swung open.
Lachlan filled the threshold, his presence dark and thunderous. His gaze swept the room, disbelief quickly turning to fury. “What is the meaning of this?” His voice cracked like a whip. “Where are my things? This room—nothing here belongs to me.”
Isla straightened, her chin lifting. “You’re right. It doesn’t. You gave up any claim to it the night you chose another woman over your wife.” Her words were even, but the steel behind them rang clear. “I will not live surrounded by the memory of your betrayal. This is my room now.”
She stepped to the open door, hand raised in silent command for him to leave.
Lachlan strode forward until the space between them was perilously small, his height casting her in shadow. His eyes blazed down at her. “You’re playing with fire, Isla. This isn’t—”
“No.” Her voice cut sharp across his. “You do not get to threaten me. You are my husband—the one who should have trusted me, had faith in me. Instead you came home with poison in your head, believing the lies that forest fed you. And then you bedded another woman in our marriage bed.” Her chest rose and fell, her eyes locked on his. “For that, Lachlan, I could never forgive you.”
His laugh was bitter, sharp enough to wound. “That’s rich coming from someone who spread her legs for my brother.”
The words struck like a blade. Isla’s breath caught; her hand flew to the doorframe for support. That’s what this was? That’s the shadow twisting his heart? He thought she had lain with Alistair.
And then she remembered—the strange slip Alistair had made weeks ago, hinting at an intimacy she did not recall, an impossible moment she knew could never have happened. She had been with Fenella and Vaelen the night she was freed. How could Alistair believe otherwise?
Her gaze snapped back to Lachlan, fury and despair tangled in her chest. “Get out. You have no idea what you’re talking about. And if I had slept with him, Lachlan, how is it that only now—after your betrayal—have our scars appeared?”
The question cracked between them like a whip.
She shoved the door forward, pushing him out, and leaned against the heavy wood as it slammed shut. Her breath trembled in her chest, her pulse thrumming like a war drum.
The chamber seemed smaller now, the walls pressing in. She wrapped her arms around herself and stared at the flicker of firelight from the hearth. Divorce did not exist here. She was bound to him in name and in law. In 1213 Scotland, a husband could claim everything—a wife’s dowry, her labor, even her body—and call it his right. Whatever protection she had once believed in, whatever faith she’d held in their bond, had been stripped away with one brutal accusation.
She had no allies she could openly trust, no court to appeal to. The weight of his suspicion felt like a blade suspended above her neck, already quivering. The clock on her death date—Book Isla’s death date—was now ticking, and she could almost hear it.
Her jaw clenched, and she forced herself to straighten. This was not the time for tears. Not anymore. If she let despair root in her heart, she’d be as good as dead before Lachlan ever raised a hand. She needed to uncover what had happened that night with Alistair—prove that someone else’s trickery was at work—before the darkness completely consumed Lachlan and dragged her with it.
She pressed her palms flat against the new bedspread, grounding herself in its clean scent. “I will not die like her,” she whispered to the empty room. “I will not.”
The words steadied her. Her heart was bruised but not broken; her resolve, like tempered steel. She would keep writing her letters, keep searching for the Clach Dìomhair, keep peeling away the layers of lies until the truth stood bare before them all.
Isla lifted her head and stared at the door where Lachlan had stood. Whatever he had become in the forest, whatever poison still ate at him, she would fight for her name, for her life, and for the truth Book Isla had died with. She only hoped she wasn’t already too late.