Ghost River by Jon Coon (best non fiction books of all time TXT) 📕

“Who?”

Duncan shook his head. “You would never have heard of him. He was the merest of ciphers, a sharpener of quills and a pusher of paper. I discounted him as a threat. And his worst crime is, in a sense, the result of my stupidity and arrogance. It is as you said, he is my obligation, my burden.”

He stood beside her at the water’s edge, staring into his distorted image, his shoulders tensed, waiting. What that admission had cost him, Kate could only guess. But there was but one reason that she could discern for Duncan to swallow his pride, to admit failure. He had spoken for her sake, giving her the only comfort that he could. Now he seemed very much in need of solace himself. Slowly, her fingers reached out to twine with his. In the wavering loch, two reflections embraced, sharing a silent understanding that was beyond passion, beyond tears.

“The world is filled with wickedness, Duncan,” she said at last. “Sometimes it cannot be fought.”

“Aye, there’s evil aplenty to be found,” he agreed softly, cupping her chin in his palm. “And it is true that you have to choose your weapons wisely, giving yourself safety and distance to understand the enemy before you attack. That was my mistake. I underestimated. I believed that my foe had some shred of honor, some spark of decency left within him. I’ll not make that error when next we meet.”

“You intend to go after this man then?” But there was no need to ask the question. Once more his aspect had changed, and the gentle concern had been replaced by a fierce determination.

“I shall.” With that simple resolution, Duncan felt a sudden lightness, as if a tremendous weight had suddenly shifted. He would go to Edinburgh. If the volume of Blake were to be found, then Duncan would have the satisfaction of seeing Vesey face the King’s justice. If not, there were other ways to exact retribution. Duncan himself would be witness, judge, jury and . . . if need be, executioner. It was difficult to decide which possibility was more pleasing. “I swore it on the day when I realized that my men and I had been deliberately led to slaughter. But ‘tis waiting, I have been, to make my charge of treason. Unfortunately, while I rotted in prison, my adversary has become more formidable than before. I begin to wonder if it is wise to bide any longer.”

“Yet you think it hopeless?” Kate questioned, hearing the skepticism in his voice.

“I doubt anyone will believe me,” Duncan said. “Then again, they dinna call me the “Mad MacLean” for naught,”

A brief smile lit his face, transforming it, and Kate knew why women had nearly swooned at the mere mention of his name. But the grin was quickly gone, replaced by a thoughtful expression. His palm caressed her cheek, smoothing her hair back with a languorous touch.

“It used to be that I would hear those voices calling me . . . my men asking ‘why?’” He inhaled the scent of her, feeling the warmth of that silken skin beneath his fingers, as if that reality could banish the chimeras that plagued him. “Sleeping . . . waking . . . till sometimes the din was so loud that all I wanted was silence. The shame, the guilt, was the center of my existence. I wondered why they had died, all of them men with much to live for, wives, children, sweethearts . . .” His lip turned up slightly in a lopsided self-deprecating smile. “Yet, now I realize that I have hardly heard them of late, those voices in my head. They have become faint . . . distant . . . and I have been waiting for the right time. Or so I told myself.”

“There is nothing ignoble in acknowledging that your enemy’s strength is superior.” Kate said, giving voice to a growing dread. There was a withdrawal in his tone as if a chasm was suddenly yawning between them. “As you yourself just said, only a fool would confront sure defeat. Perhaps it is better to defer?”

“It has been years now, since I saw their blood mingling with the dirt,” Duncan said hoarsely, letting the memory stir the crucible within. “In your case, a retreat was both prudent and honorable. You were attempting to shield your daughter. However, unlike you, I have no one to protect, save myself,” Duncan said. “Ah, Kate. It would be so easy to let those voices echo into oblivion, to convince myself that vengeance will be a fruitless pursuit.” Her eyes glistened and he felt a curious wonder, knowing that her tears were for him. “But now, I begin to think upon what you have told me, and I realize that evil cannot be ignored. I cannot stay forever, hiding, as you said, like a wounded beast?”

“I did not mean . . .” Kate flushed, stepping back in mortification.

“Never apologize for the truth,” Duncan said, putting a restraining hand on her shoulder. “It seems to me that I have been running for as long as I can remember. Fleeing from my father, escaping my grandfather’s house by bolting to the army and now, it appears that I have come full circle, back to Eilean Kirk.” He shook his head, his hands falling to his sides. “As you say, I am my own ghost, with chains of my own making. I am going to Edinburgh.”

“Why?” Kate whispered, aghast at what she had unwittingly caused.

“You,” Duncan said, “and Anne. You have reminded me that corruption thrives in the dark, it festers and grows. I may not have the evidence that I once possessed, and if I speak out, I will likely be called a liar. But I am thinking that there are a few who might listen. At least there will be a brief light shining in those shadows and perhaps