Taken By the Vicious Highlander (Taken by Highland Devils #5)

Chapter 27

27

T he study felt too small, the air too thick. The fire crackled in the hearth, oblivious to the way Damon’s entire world had just shifted beneath his feet.

Ryder’s gaze darted from the maid to Damon and back. His hair standing on end, he was ready to bolt at a moment’s notice, and Damon appreciated it.

Greer stood before him, her hands twisting into the fabric of her apron, her wide, terrified eyes saying everything she hadn’t spoken yet.

She’s gone?

The words echoed in his skull, a hammer striking against steel, ringing louder and louder until they were all he could hear. He didn’t understand.

What did she mean, gone?

Damon was rooted to the spot, unable to breathe. His mind—so quick, so sharp in battle—went blank, left only with a gaping, yawning pit of fear.

The Sinclairs.

His fists clenched at his sides.

“Where?” His voice was low, guttural, nearly unrecognizable.

Greer flinched, but she swallowed her fear and straightened her spine. “I… I dinnae ken, Me Laird.”

The silence after her words was deafening.

Damon’s body moved before his mind caught up, the chair behind him scraping across the stone floor as he surged to his feet.

“Where is she!” His roar shook the walls.

Greer recoiled, frozen in place.

Ryder threw the door open, his blade drawn, his eyes wild.

Damon saw the maid’s fear, tasted it, and it was enough to force his rage back—just barely.

“I dinnae ken, Me Laird. She wasnae there this morning when I went in to check on her,” Greer said quickly. “I… I only just went to check on her, and?—”

His hands curled into fists, his breath coming in sharp bursts through flared nostrils. “And what?”

Greer licked her lips nervously, glancing down at the floor. “Her room was a mess, Me Laird. Her bed empty?—”

Damon didn’t wait for her to finish, and neither did Ryder. He left her standing there in the study, her head in her hands, crying.

They had no time to lose. Both men were already moving.

He moved swiftly through the halls, his boots striking the stone floor hard, his blood boiling beneath his skin.

He didn’t hesitate. Didn’t even stop to tell the guards what was happening. It was Ryder who barked orders ahead of him, already halfway down the corridor.

He needed his horse. Needed to find her.

The moment he burst into the courtyard, Ryder tore past him, already on his horse, heading straight for the road to Branloch.

Damon’s chest tightened as his intrusive thoughts ripped through his resolve.

Had she been taken? Had the Sinclairs stolen her away while I was sittin’ in that damned study all night, worryin’ about matters that suddenly meant nothing?

The thoughts sent a bolt of pure terror through him.

But then Finely’s voice broke through the haze as Damon started to jog toward the stables.

“Me Laird!”

Damon didn’t stop.

“Damon! Stop!”

Finley had never used his given name, and Damon knew the man used it sparingly.

“What is it?” he asked, twisting around abruptly to face the man.

He skidded to a halt just before running straight into him, his face pale, his breathing ragged. He barely stopped himself from grabbing him by the collar, desperation threatening to take over his restraint.

“Tell me where she is. Do ye ken? Tell me everything ye ken, man!”

Finley exhaled sharply, his hands splaying between them in surrender. “I dinnae ken anything, but listen.”

Damon growled in frustration, but the rare desperation in Finley’s expression made him pause.

“I never left her door,” Finley continued, his voice rough, frantic. “She wasnae taken. At least, nae through the main halls.”

Damon felt his blood pounding in his ears. “Then how?”

Finley swallowed hard. “She escaped through the tunnels.”

Damon’s world spun.

The sealed tunnels? But how?

His hands curled into fists. “I thought they were sealed.”

“So did I,” Finley admitted, his expression dark. “Magnus swore he closed them up, but…” He exhaled sharply. “He used them, Damon. Constantly. He snuck men in and out of the castle at all hours. If anyone still alive kenned about them, it was Sebastian.”

Damned Sebastian Morris.

Damon’s jaw clenched.

“Ye said it yerself,” Finley continued. “Sebastian told ye things were already in motion.”

Damon’s stomach twisted.

“They willnae stop until they get what they want…”

Ariah’s words echoed in his mind.

Had they waited, kennin’ I would do anything to get her back?

Damon felt sick.

Finley’s voice softened. “This isnae yer fault.”

Damon forced himself to breathe. He could not let himself drown in the terror clawing up his throat. He had to think.

Lilith was smart.

If she had been taken, there would be signs. He turned on his heel and headed back into the keep, striding past Finley.

“Check the road to and past Kiel,” he barked over his shoulder. “Make sure to question everyone who might have seen her.”

Finley hesitated, his concern evident in his lack of response.

Damon doubled back and clapped a hand on the man’s shoulder, firm, understanding. “Find her, Finley.”

Finley nodded, then turned on his heel, mounted his horse, and rode hard toward Kiel.

Damon inhaled sharply as he strode back into the keep, heading directly to Lilith’s chambers.

He reached her chambers and shoved the door open.

The room was an absolute mess. Clothes were strewn across the floor, and an open trunk was missing several items. The bed was unmade, the blankets kicked aside as if in a rush.

This isnae the chaos of an intruder.

He noted that all the furniture was still upright, and there was no sign of struggle.

This wreckage was of someone leaving.

Damon exhaled sharply, scanning every detail. Her dressing table had been left open, and a few personal belongings were missing. The candle on the bedside table flickered, burning low. Her boots, the sturdy ones she rode in, were gone. Her mother’s press book was also gone.

His jaw tightened. She hadn’t been kidnapped.

She chose to go?

A sharp gust of wind made him turn around. The tapestry at the far corner of the room shifted eerily, caught in a draft that should not have existed.

Damon moved toward it, his pulse hammering. He lifted the heavy fabric, revealing what he had feared—and expected.

The tunnel.

The damned tunnel.

He stepped inside without hesitation. The air was damp, the scent of earth and cold stone filling his lungs. He followed the narrow path, his hand skimming the rough walls as his eyes adjusted to the darkness.

“Hello?” he called out, and received no response.

The tunnel twisted and turned, a silent passage through the very heart of the keep. And then, suddenly, it spat him out directly by the stables.

His horse was still there, its reins tied loosely around the tie post, and he thought it strange.

Had she readied me horse so I would come after her, or had Ryder ordered the stable boy to ready him for me?

Damon stuck with the latter option, though the former still burned his insides. He quickly mounted his horse and spurred the beast forward, toward Branloch.

If she had meant for me to come after her, then by God I will.

The ride there was brutal, the cold wind nipping his face, his heart hammering too fast.

By the time he reached the village square, Ryder was already there, speaking in a hushed tone to a few gathered villagers.

Damon barely waited for his horse to stop before jumping down, his boots hitting the dirt hard.

“Anything?” he barked.

Ryder shook his head. “Nay sign of her.”

Damon’s jaw tightened. He didn’t tell the man that she was taken when he knew very well that she had left.

Then, a warm, familiar voice called from behind him, “Me Laird.”

“Emma? What do ye ken?”

Damon turned around, his sharp gaze landing on the old innkeeper as she stepped forward, her hands folded, her face unreadable.

She exhaled, as if bracing herself. “She was here.”

Damon’s stomach clenched. “When?”

Emma sighed. “Nae long before daybreak.”

Damon took a step forward, every muscle in his body coiled tight. “Did she say where she was goin’?”

Emma lifted her chin. “She made me promise nae to tell. I told her I would help her, but I wouldnae lie to ye.”

Damon’s eyes narrowed. “Do ye ken where she went?”

Emma smiled sadly. “Aye, I do.”

Damon’s patience snapped. “Christ alive, woman! Tell me where she went before I rip me beating heart out of me chest!”

Emma met his gaze, hers steady and knowing. “She’s gone to Brahanne.”

Everything inside him froze.

“Brahanne,” he echoed. “Brahanne.”

His breath left him in a rush, his vision tunneling.

Her sister?

“Why the hell would she go there?” he muttered.

Right where the Sinclairs probably want her to go. Alone.

It wasn’t safe.

Fear gripped his throat, knowing that the Sinclairs were behind it all. They had backed Sebastian, after all. Brahanne was the last place she should be.

Fear—raw, unrestrained, suffocating—wrapped its hands around his throat.

Damon turned to Ryder. “We ride, now.”

Ryder nodded, already moving.

Damon swung himself onto his horse, his entire body humming with urgency.

He had wasted enough time.

God help anyone who tries to stop me.

The ride toward Brahanne was swift, the urgency pounding in his chest like a war drum. The night had long given way to early morning, the mist curling low over the ground as he and Ryder pushed their horses harder, faster. Every second wasted was another second Lilith was ahead, slipping further from his grasp.

Suddenly, the path narrowed, forcing both men to slow down.

“Christ!” Damon spat out, anger dripping from the corners of his mouth as he ducked under low-hanging branches and his horse dodged the tree trunks.

Ryder cast him a sidelong glance, his horse galloping alongside Damon’s. “Ye think she’s in trouble, Damon, or just bein’ stubborn?”

Damon’s grip tightened on the reins. “If I kenned that, I wouldnae be after her like the devil himself was on me trail.”

Ryder smirked, though there was tension behind it. “Ye ken she’s got a mind of her own. Maybe she just needed time.”

Damon exhaled sharply, his eyes locked onto the road ahead. “Time for what?”

“To make ye suffer a bit.”

Damon shot him a glare, but Ryder only chuckled.

“Ye deserve it,” he added. “What was it ye said to her? That she was a distraction?”

Damon’s stomach twisted. He didn’t need to be reminded of his mistakes. “I didnae mean it like that. I dinnae ken what I said.”

Ryder snorted. “Aye, but ye said it just the same.”

Damon gritted his teeth. “She wouldnae leave without a reason.”

“Nay,” Ryder agreed. “Which means we had better find out what that reason is.”

They were nearly out of the narrow paths and about ready to spur their horses to a full-on gallop as they crossed into the open stretches of land near the Brahanne border when the first arrow struck.

It whizzed past Damon’s head, missing him by inches before embedding itself deep into the ground beside his horse’s hooves. The beast reared, its nostrils flaring, but Damon yanked the reins hard, steadying it just as a second arrow sliced through the air.

“Ambush!” Ryder roared, turning his horse around.

Damon’s instincts took over, his sword drawn before he even had time to think. Shadows emerged from the tree line ahead, their forms solidifying into armored warriors—these were Sinclair men. The gleam of steel caught the pale morning light as the attackers surged forward.

“Come on then, ye bastards,” Damon growled, spurring his horse forward.

The clash of steel rang out as the first attacker came within reach. Damon swung hard, his blade slicing through flesh and bone, the man’s scream barely audible over the thunder of hooves.

Another came at him, swinging a heavy axe. Damon ducked low in his saddle, the blade narrowly missing his head. He retaliated with a brutal slash across the man’s stomach, sending him tumbling to the dirt.

Ryder fought beside him, his sword flashing in quick, deadly arcs. He took down two men with practiced efficiency before an enemy spear caught him in the side. He let out a sharp grunt, the wound shallow but enough to slow him.

“Ryder!” Damon shouted, cutting down the man who had struck him.

“I’m fine,” Ryder gritted out, though blood soaked into his tunic. “Keep goin’!”

Damon wanted to stop, to make sure, but the fight wouldn’t allow it. He twisted in his saddle, parrying a blow that nearly hacked his arm off. Every move he made was focused, calculated .

Get through, get to her .

His desperation mounted with every second. He had no time for these Sinclair dogs. He needed to break through. He needed?—

A horn sounded in the distance. A warning. A signal.

And then another force entered the fray.

Keegan’s men. Brahanne men.

They came from the east, charging fast and hard, their banners snapping in the wind. Sinclair’s warriors hesitated, their attack faltering as Keegan’s forces crashed into them like a storm. But the Sinclairs did not flee immediately. They rallied, turning their focus to the new attackers with renewed aggression.

The battle continued in a blur of movement and violence. Damon drove his sword through one man’s gut before kicking another off his horse. The metallic tang of blood filled the air, mixing with the scent of earth and sweat.

A Sinclair brute lunged at him with a mace, but Damon ducked and slammed his blade into the man’s exposed ribs, wrenching it free as the warrior crumpled.

Ryder, though wounded, fought beside him. He was slower now, his left arm pressing against the wound on his side, but his blade still struck true. A Sinclair warrior swung at him, and Ryder barely had time to deflect. Damon cursed and rushed forward, cleaving the enemy’s skull in half.

Keegan’s forces pressed harder, cutting down the Sinclairs with ruthless efficiency. Each man cutting through their ranks like a battle-hardened reapers.

Damon saw his opening.

He spurred his horse forward, slashing his way through the thinning enemy warriors, his eyes fixed on the tree line ahead. He was close. So close. He just had to?—

Another attacker lunged at him. This one was different—his movements quicker, more precise. A commander, perhaps. Damon barely had time to raise his blade before the man struck, his sword slicing dangerously close to Damon’s ribs. He moved like the assassin…

It all started to make sense now.

Damon gritted his teeth, countering with a brutal downward strike that sent sparks flying as their blades clashed. The commander snarled, shoving forward, their strengths evenly matched.

Then, with a sharp pivot, Damon twisted his sword, driving it between the man’s ribs. The man gasped, his body stiffening before going slack. Damon yanked back his blade, letting the body fall unceremoniously to the ground.

And just like that, the remaining Sinclair warriors dispersed. Some fled to the forests, others were cut down as they turned tail.

Finally, it was over.

Damon’s chest heaved, his blood still running hot with the thrill as he surveyed the field. Bodies littered the ground, the scent of blood thick in the air.

Ryder, though injured, was still on his feet, wiping blood—both his own and his enemies’—from his face.

“Ye all right?” Damon asked, his voice rough.

“I’ll live,” Ryder muttered, pressing a hand to his side. He lifted his gaze toward the battlefield, scanning it. “Her horse is nae here.”

Damon’s heart lurched. “Ye sure?” he demanded.

Ryder nodded. “Aye. If they had her, they’d have taken her horse.”

Relief mixed with frustration. If Lilith hadn’t been captured by the Sinclairs, where the hell was she?

Damon turned around, spotting a familiar figure among Keegan’s men—Rodrick, Keegan’s man-at-arms.

He was built like a fortress. Had seen far too many battles and survived them all. His armor was permanently dented and worn, forever prepared for another fight.

Damon dismounted swiftly, striding toward him. “Rodrick.”

Rodrick wiped his blade clean before turning to him. His expression was calm, as if this skirmish was nothing more than a mild inconvenience. “Laird McCallum.”

“Where’s Keegan?” Damon demanded. “Why are his men here and nae him?”

Rodrick tilted his head, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Keegan had… other business to attend to.” His eyes darted between Ryder and Damon.

Damon’s patience snapped. “Enough with the riddles, man. Tell me where me braither is.”

Rodrick’s smirk faded, his tone turning serious. “Escortin’ Lady McCallum to the keep.”

Damon’s breath caught in his throat. His entire body went rigid.

“What?” he rasped.

Rodrick nodded in the direction of Brahanne Keep. “She’s safe.”

Damon’s chest constricted with something he refused to name. Relief. Anger. A tangled mess of both.

Lilith was safe.

She had gone to Keegan.

Without him.

Damon exhaled sharply, forcing himself to stay in control. “Take me to them. Now.”

Rodrick gave a curt nod. “Follow me.”

Damon swung himself back onto his horse without hesitation. He had wasted enough time.

And he had words for Lilith. Whether she wanted to hear them or not.