by Emma Prince
Heat surged in his blood, but it wasn’t all from anger. His clan didn’t even know he lived.
He’d held himself to the pledge he and the others had made that fateful day not to return to their families and clans. It was for their protection, as well as his own.
But the darker truth was he’d barely thought of his people this past month, so hell-bent had he been on finding Murray.
Domnall shoved aside the sting of the questions she raised. Instead, he latched on to her final words. “Yer brother is no’ innocent.”
She searched him with dark, incredulous eyes. “What could he have possibly done?”
Did the lass truly have no concept of her own brother’s loathsome nature? Mayhap she was even more sheltered than Domnall had initially supposed.
“Dinnae concern yerself with that,” he muttered.
Belatedly, he remembered that he’d approached to offer her some food. He held up a bannock and a piece of smoked venison, giving her a scowl.
She hesitated, but eventually she took the proffered food and sank onto a nearby rock.
“Will you at least tell me what you have planned?” she asked after a few bites, sounding weary and defeated.
He took a swig of water, contemplating how much to share with her.
His mind drifted back several years, when a traveling bard had passed through MacAyre lands. The bard had regaled the clan with a tale of a knight trapped in a cave by a two-headed giant. The knight stalled the giant while he searched for a weapon, encouraging him to divulge in great detail how he would feast on the knight’s flesh and use his bones to pick both sets of teeth.
The knight eventually found the sword of one of the giant’s previous victims, and cut off not one but both of the monster’s heads. The bard had concluded the story with a warning to avoid explaining your schemes to those you meant to take advantage of, to the applause and laughter of Domnall’s clanspeople.
With a small start, Domnall realized that he was the villain of this story—a cruel monster in danger of revealing too much to his innocent victim.
So be it. Yet he needed to have a care when it came to divulging his plans to the lass. Mayhap he could reveal enough to frighten her into compliance. From the stubborn glint in her eyes he’d witnessed earlier, she might prove harder to manage than she’d seemed at first.
He sauntered casually over to the stream and knelt to splash cold water over his face. “Ye ken I meant to slit yer brother’s throat while he slept, aye?”
Casting a glance over his shoulder, he saw that she’d stiffened.
“Aye.”
“I have hunted him for more than a month now. I went to Tullibardine. I asked after him in every town and village between there and Stalcaire Tower, all the while dreaming of spilling his blood with my own hands. I cursed my luck when I found ye in his place.”
He rose slowly from the stream, dragging his wet hands through his hair. “But now I see that a swift, clean death is far too good for the likes of him. Nay, he deserves to suffer. That is where ye come in. Ye are going to help sweeten my retribution. Ye will provide an extra twist of the knife in Murray’s heart before I finish him.”
“I am to be your bait, is that it?” She lifted her chin in a show of bravery, but the rigidity of her slender neck was an unmistakable tell. Aye, this was what he wanted, he reminded himself.
“Indeed. Just as I did with yer steward, I plan to make it known in all those villages I passed through once before that I have Murray’s wee sister, and that if he wants to see her alive and well again, he’ll show himself at Tullibardine.”
Ailsa jerked up from her perch on the rock, but Domnall continued his casual amble forward as if the air between them wasn’t crackling with tension.
“This is Scotland, after all. Rumors and stories travel faster than a galloping horse. Word of my scheme will reach him as if it were flying on the wind. And when it does, he’ll live in agony until we meet at Tullibardine. His suffering will be slow, eviscerating him as he waits and wonders what his dear, sweet sister has endured.”
She took an unconscious step backward. “You are a monster.”
Domnall’s teeth ground together, but he forced himself to let her accusation lie unchallenged. The truth was, he would never harm a defenseless lass, but she didn’t know that.
Of course, neither did Murray, which made the threat such an integral part of his torture. Let the man’s mind stew in the dark over the rumors Domnall would spread.
“No more so than yer brother,” he growled in response.
They stood there for a long moment, locked together in a stare, neither flinching.
Against his wishes, admiration for the lass’s fortitude stirred within him. She had no defense against him—he was bigger, stronger, and completely in control of the situation. Yet there she stood, her head up despite the fear swimming behind her eyes.
“Come,” he said gruffly, breaking their standoff. “Rest time is over.”
The lass looked ready to drop. Even he was feeling the effects of a sleepless night spent riding hard. But he wasn’t quite ready to face the dilemma of how he was to sleep and keep an eye on her at the same time. It would undoubtedly mean keeping her close—a danger of another sort he wasn’t yet prepared to deal with.
As he reached cautiously for his horse’s tether and began working on the knot, she trudged forward. So focused was he on his task that he didn’t realize how close she’d drawn until she spoke again.
“When will we—”
“Dinnae,” he hissed as her hand lifted to stroke the horse’s nose.
A terrifying image of the hell-beast sinking his teeth into her slim, soft hand flashed before his eyes.
But to his utter shock, the animal nuzzled her palm like an affectionate puppy. Ailsa cast Domnall a confused look, then turned her attention back to the horse, murmuring a few soothing words.
He watched in stunned silence as the horse took a curious nibble at the end of her braid. At her gentle chastisement, the beast snorted and nuzzled her once more.
Had…had someone swapped his demon horse for this tame, sweet creature while he hadn’t been looking? Of course, it was the same animal—same snaggle tooth, same splotchy coat, same serrated ear. But while the beast had shown naught but aggression and resistance toward Domnall, he had already gone soft toward Ailsa.
“He isnae usually so gentle,” he muttered, at last freeing the tether.
To prove his words, the horse swung his head toward Domnall and attempted to nip the hand on the lead.
Domnall jerked back just in time. “Damn Devil’s beast.”
He vaulted into the saddle before the animal could do worse, then pulled Ailsa up across his lap.
“If he is the Devil’s beast, that makes you the Devil,” she murmured, holding herself stiff in an attempt to keep a sliver of air between them.
He kicked the horse into motion, forcing her back against the wall of his chest.
“Aye,” he breathed in her ear. “And ye’d do well to remember it.”
Chapter Six
Though her mind was muddled from lack of sleep, her whole body ached from the long hours of riding, and her emotions were in a chaos from all that had occurred since the night before, one thing had become abundantly clear over the last day.
Ailsa needed to escape.
They’d plowed through the forest at a relentless pace, only stopping for their most basic necessities. MacAyre’s horse seemed just as willing as the man himself to slog on indefinitely. Meanwhile, with each passing moment she sank deeper and deeper into a torpor of exhaustion and hopelessness.
Every step took her farther from Stalcaire Tower and her only allies, Nolan and Mira. Or they took her closer to her brother’s demise at Tullibardine. Either way, her chances of thwarting MacAyre’s plans were slipping through her fingers like sand.
Yet despite the fatigue and grueling conditions, her brother’s last words to her rang over and over in her mind.
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“You are worthless to this family. Learn your place before your foolishness costs us even more.”
The words had stung when Andrew had thrown them at her six months past, but she’d borne them in silence, fearing he was right.
She had been prideful and selfish when she’d refused to marry Lord Gormond de Laney. Her entire life, she’d known what her role was. A daughter was only good for marrying off—hopefully to the advantage of her family.
Her parents had only been blessed with one son and one daughter. She’d been raised with love and gentleness, yet she’d understood that one day, she would marry a man of their choosing. And she was amongst the lucky ones—her parents were caring enough to at least consult her for her preferences.
But then a vicious fever had stolen them away, and everything had happened so quickly after that. They hadn’t been the ones to select Lord de Laney for her—that had been Andrew. He’d arranged everything within weeks of their parents’ deaths, without so much as a word to Ailsa.
When Lord de Laney had traveled across the border to meet his future wife, Ailsa had been stunned to find that he was three times her age, gouty, bald, and soft in both mind and body. She had pleaded with Andrew to reconsider, but he’d icily told her to remember her role.
She’d tried to acquiesce. She’d tried to submit for the betterment of the family. De Laney held vast, fertile lands in Cumbria, after all.
But when he’d cornered her and torn the neckline of her dress in a callous attempt to force himself on her before their wedding, Ailsa had locked herself in her chamber at Tullibardine and refused to marry him.
Andrew couldn’t truly make her wed, nor could the priest. If a bride was adamantly against a union, she could be cajoled or coerced, but not outright forced. That was the law, as she’d reminded her brother.
Lord de Laney had eventually departed in a huff, declaring that such a willful bride didn’t suit his needs. From her chamber window, she’d watched Andrew practically cling to the hem of the man’s velvet cloak as he’d stormed out, begging him to reconsider.
Once de Laney was gone and Ailsa had emerged, she’d had to face Andrew’s cold wrath. That was when he’d banished her to Stalcaire Tower.
“Think on what you’ve done, what you’ve cost me,” he’d hissed. “I do not want to lay eyes on you again until you have learned to do my bidding without complaint.”
He’d called her selfish. Worthless. Foolish. And a burden to him. Then he’d sent her away, exiling her to Stalcaire Tower with no one but a few servants to keep her company.
She couldn’t regret refusing to wed de Laney, but it had broken her heart to leave things thus with her brother—her only living family. That had been six months past, and she hadn’t seen him since.
In truth, they’d never been close. Andrew was seven years her senior, and in many ways, she’d grown up an only child.
He’d gone away to foster with another Lowland noble’s family before she could walk. He only returned once or twice a year for most of her life. Once his education had been complete with his foster family, he’d spent much of his time away—where, she did not know.
Still, Ailsa wanted to be a good sister to him. She’d wanted to do as he’d asked of her, to serve her family as a daughter should. Yet she could not understand why he would have selected Gormond de Laney for her, an old lecher who had no qualms about mistreating her even before she had become his property.
Nevertheless, they were family. She refused to be treated as a pawn, a weapon brandished against her own brother. She could not allow herself to be used to harm him. And she couldn’t let the last words they shared to be spoken in anger. They only had each other now.
And when it came to getting free of MacAyre, she only had herself.
She was embarrassed to find that at one point earlier in the day, when the ground had leveled and MacAyre had slowed his horse to a steady walk, she’d fallen asleep against his chest.
When she’d started awake, she silently berated herself. She’d relaxed her guard. But she couldn’t let herself be lulled by her own weakness—or the warm comfort she’d taken from his solid body.
As the sky turned steely-blue with the rapidly falling twilight, he reined his horse at the edge of a dark, still loch. He dropped out of the saddle with a heavy crunch of his boots in the loose rocks lining the water’s edge. Before lifting her down after him, he took a long moment to roll his neck and shoulders, muttering an oath.
Though earlier he had seemed as hard and impervious as granite to their rough day of travel, even he was showing cracks now. Dark shadows lay under those cool eyes, and his brow was pinched into a scowl.
His hands closed around her waist and he lifted her easily to the ground.
“See to yerself,” he muttered, nodding off to the tree line behind her.
He stalked slowly toward the loch’s edge, not even waiting for her to do as he bid. Crouching, he cupped water and splashed it over his face.
Ailsa turned on legs of porridge and began to wobble toward a dense copse of shrubbery. But then she paused.
This just might be the best opening she would get—the only opening. She would likely fall flat on her face if she tried to run, so unsteady were her legs. But MacAyre hadn’t yet tethered his horse. The animal had been docile and acquiescent toward her before.
Her heart suddenly leapt into her throat. It was time to act. She had to take advantage of this opportunity before it was gone—and before MacAyre dragged her deeper still into this vast, unfamiliar forest.
Without wasting another moment on uncertainty, she spun back to the horse and flung herself into the saddle. MacAyre jerked up from the water, his hand flying to the dagger in his boot. But Ailsa had already yanked on the horse’s reins, pointing him toward the trees.
With a sharp kick to his flanks, the animal surged forward, sending her crashing into the woods once more.
“Nay!” MacAyre bellowed behind her.
With a darting glance over her shoulder, she saw that he gave chase, but he was no match for the horse, who seemed full of boundless energy despite so much riding already. As he fell away into the descending gloom, his shouted words pursued her.
“I will find ye, lass. I will hunt ye down. I willnae give up, do ye hear me?”
A shiver of foreboding raced over her skin at his ominous pledge, but she didn’t look back again. Instead, she lowered her head over the horse’s neck, murmuring encouragements as they hurtled deeper into the darkening forest.
Chapter Seven
Ailsa had no idea how long she’d ridden, but by the time she slowed the horse, full night had descended.
The forest had come alive. Hoots echoed in the trees above, and leaves rustled from unseen creatures as they scurried across the ground.
It was then that she realized she had no idea which direction she’d ridden in. And without the sun to guide her, she couldn’t be sure if she’d turned back toward Stalcaire Tower, or if she’d in fact carried herself farther into the Trossachs.
Her gaze darted over the shadowy outlines of trees. Naught was familiar now that darkness had fallen. No landmark emerged from the night, and no wide, straight road cut through the woods to lead her to a town or village.
When a twig snapped somewhere behind her, Ailsa nearly leapt out of the saddle. She scolded herself for being as jumpy as a pampered cat let out of doors for the first time. Straightening her spine, she urged the horse onward.
“It was likely naught but a tiny mouse,” she said aloud to the horse, patting his neck.
He made a snuffling noise that she took for agreement.
Abruptly, they broke through the trees and into a clearing. In the middle of the opening stood a small cottage.
Relief flooded her as she noticed the soft glow of light around a small set of shutters. Someone was in there, which meant she might find help—or at least confirmation on where exactly she was.
She pulled the horse to a halt and slipped fro
m his back, taking a moment to steady her fatigued legs. Then she took him by the bridle and started off toward the cottage. To her surprise, the horse huffed and tossed his head. Though MacAyre had claimed he was an ornery creature, it was the first resistance the animal had shown her.
“Come along,” she urged, tugging gently.
The horse nickered again, but allowed her to pull him toward the cottage.
Before they’d gone three paces, the cottage door banged open and light spilled in a rectangular shaft into the clearing.
“Who’s out there?” a silhouetted man demanded, holding a tallow candle aloft. “Show yerself.”
“I mean no harm,” she called hastily.
The man swung the candle around so that the light fell on her and the horse. He squinted at her, frowning.
“I-I am lost,” she continued, “and in need of help.”
As she drew closer, his frown melted into an ingratiating smile, revealing a few gaps in his teeth. He bobbed a mop of brown hair toward her.
“Och, ye are welcome, lass.” His gaze drifted slowly over her. “A wee thing like ye, alone and in need on such a gloomy night? Come in, come in.”
She hesitated for a heartbeat, a prickle of unease chasing over the nape of her neck.
Silly, she chastised herself. Only a few moments before, she’d been scaring herself witless over a mouse, and now she was entertaining a flutter of apprehension about someone who was offering to help her?
“Thank you,” she said, lifting her mouth into a grateful smile.
“Ye can tie the beast up around the back,” he offered, stepping out of the doorway to guide her.
She took the opportunity to look him over in the flickering candlelight. He was middling in years, on the thin side, but with a slight paunch that overhung his belt. He was dressed plainly, and she noticed the frayed edges on his homespun tunic and trews.
He halted at the back of the cottage, where a sapling grew close to the wooden siding. As she tethered the horse’s reins to a thin branch, the animal shifted and stomped one hoof. Given the trouble he’d apparently given MacAyre, she wondered fleetingly if she ought to tie the horse more securely to a thicker branch, but the man interrupted her thoughts.
