Chapter 4
Iona Pearson was infuriating.
Frederick stood in the shadow of a birch tree some distance from Erin’s cottage, arms folded across his chest, jaw set as he kept watch beneath the cover of night. The village had gone quiet hours ago. Only the faint glow of dying hearths marked signs of life.
Infuriating.
She had agreed too easily.
That alone had been enough to rouse his suspicion. The defiance in her eyes had not matched the compliance in her voice. A woman like Iona did not bend. She calculated.
Predictable, he corrected inwardly.
And there she was now.
The cottage door eased open with careful slowness. A slim figure slipped out first, wrapped in a dark cloak. Smaller footsteps followed close behind. The door shut without a sound.
He did not move.
He had expected this.
Iona paused, scanning the yard, posture tight as a drawn bowstring. Moonlight caught in her hair, setting it aglow like embers beneath the hood. Even in darkness, she moved with purpose, hand reaching back to ensure Jamie remained close.
They began toward the narrow path leading away from the village.
Frederick let them go ten paces before he stepped from shadow to shadow, keeping distance but never losing sight.
He would not stop them, but he would be damned before he lost them again.
Their whispers carried faintly on the night air.
“I daenae want to leave Granny Erin,” Jamie murmured, voice small but stubborn. “We didnae even say goodbye.”
Frederick’s jaw tightened.
“I ken,” Iona replied softly. “I daenae either.”
“Then why?”
“It is for her good,” Iona said at last. “If we stay, trouble might follow.”
“Aye,” Iona answered quietly. “Among other things.”
Trouble.
Frederick’s attention sharpened.
That single word settled heavy in his chest.
Were there others asking questions? Others searching?
He followed as they moved beyond the last cottage, toward the darker line of trees marking the edge of the village.
“Is his castle nae safer?” Jamie asked suddenly. “He said he could keep us safe.”
Frederick’s steps slowed.
He had not expected that.
Moonlight silvered her profile as she glanced down at the child walking beside her. Even from a distance, he could see the tension in her expression, the conflict.
Instead of replying directly, she asked a question of her own.
“What did ye think of the man with hair like yers?”
Frederick’s pulse stuttered.
Jamie kicked at a stone, sending it skittering ahead. “He is tall,” came the thoughtful response. “Strong.”
Frederick’s shoulders eased slightly.
“And?”
“And he looks like he has a stick up his… bum.”
Frederick bit down hard on the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing aloud.
Iona did not possess such restraint. Her laughter broke free, bright and unguarded, echoing softly through the trees.
The sound hit him unexpectedly.
He had forgotten that laugh. Or perhaps he had only remembered it dimly, filtered through memory and regret. Hearing it now, alive and unrestrained, stirred something beneath the armor he wore so carefully.
Jamie continued, emboldened. “He stares too much.”
Frederick lifted a brow despite himself.
“Does he frighten ye?” Iona asked gently.
“Nay,” Jamie replied at once. “But he looks like he wants to ask too many questions.”
A fair assessment, Frederick conceded silently.
“And what would ye answer?” Iona pressed.
“That depends,” Jamie said, chin lifting slightly. “On whether he deserves answers.”
Frederick almost smiled at the child’s loyalty and bravery.
They continued walking, unaware of the man trailing them with measured steps.
Then –
Frederick heard it before he saw it.
A faint snap of a twig behind him.
Not from Iona and Jamie.
From the opposite direction.
His body reacted before his mind finished processing. He turned his head slightly, listening. Another sound. Footsteps, deliberate but cautious.
Someone else was moving through the trees.
Not a villager wandering aimlessly. Not a child.
Adult.
Frederick’s hand dropped instinctively to the hilt of his sword.
At least two or three.
Iona had stopped walking ahead. She had heard it too. Her posture changed, shoulders tightening, head tilting slightly as she listened into the dark.
Jamie pressed closer to her side.
The night seemed to hold its breath.
Frederick stepped from the shadows then, closing the distance between them in long, silent strides.
Iona spun at the sound of his approach, eyes wide.
“Ye,” she hissed, recognition and frustration colliding in her expression.
“Quiet!” he hissed. His face dangerously fixed enough for her not to argue, for once.
“There is someone else here,” he said quietly.
Her face went pale.
Behind them, the underbrush shifted again.
Frederick positioned himself between Iona and the sound without thinking, body angled protectively.
The infuriation faded, replaced by an ice-cold sharpness. A hunter’s instincts fine-tuned.
Three figures stepped from the trees as if the night itself had shaped them.
Frederick counted without looking. One to the left, one directly ahead, one circling wider to the right. Not villagers. Their cloaks were travel-worn, boots thick with road mud. Faces partially shadowed beneath low hoods.
They halted when they saw him.
Then their gazes slid past him.
To Iona.
One of them leaned slightly forward, studying her in the moonlight. “Red hair,” he muttered to the others. “That matches.”
Cold certainty settled in Frederick’s gut.
They had not come by chance.
The tallest of the three took a step closer, eyes narrowing. “And the bairn,” he added, voice rough. “That too.”
Frederick’s grip tightened around the hilt of his sword.
“Stay behind me,” he said quietly without looking back.
Iona did not argue this time. He heard the rustle of her cloak as she pulled Jamie close. A small hand gripped her skirts. He felt rather than saw her turn, shielding the child.
“If ye are searching for a lass and bairn with red hair, ye must be snatchin’ all of the Highlands.”
The man on the right smirked and advanced. “We will take the lass. The bairn too. We have coin waiting.”
He reached, hands nearly on Iona’s shoulder, but Frederick moved first.
Steel sang as it left its scabbard.
He closed the distance in two strides and drove his blade straight through the man’s abdomen before the fool’s hand ever brushed Iona’s sleeve. The impact jarred up Frederick’s arm as resistance gave way. The man’s eyes widened, mouth opening in a wet gasp.
Frederick twisted and ripped the blade free.
Blood spilled dark and fast, steaming faintly in the chill air. The man collapsed, clutching at the ruin of his stomach, choking on his own breath.
The other two staggered back in shock.
They had not expected him.
Good.
The one in the center recovered first, drawing a short sword with clumsy haste. The third lunged from the side, dagger flashing.
Frederick pivoted, bringing his blade up in time to deflect the dagger. Metal clashed, sparks bursting. The impact rattled through his bones. He shoved hard with his shoulder, slamming into the attacker’s chest and sending him stumbling backward into a tree trunk.
The second man charged.
Frederick met him head-on.
Steel met steel in a vicious arc. The force of the blow numbed his hand briefly. He countered, stepping inside the man’s reach and driving his elbow into the attacker’s jaw. Bone cracked with a dull snap. Teeth scattered.
A snarl tore from the man as he swung wildly.
Frederick ducked. The blade sliced through the air above his head and nicked his shoulder as it passed, tearing cloth and skin. Heat flared along his upper arm.
He did not slow.
He drove his sword upward beneath the man’s ribs.
The resistance was thick this time. He felt cartilage give way, felt the shudder as steel pierced lung. The man’s breath burst out in a wet gurgle. Blood bubbled at his lips.
Frederick shoved him off the blade with a brutal kick.
Behind him, the third man recovered and lunged again, dagger aiming low.
Frederick turned too late to avoid the strike entirely. The blade bit into his side, shallow but sharp. Pain flared bright and immediate.
He grunted, pivoting with the momentum rather than fighting it. His sword came around in a brutal horizontal sweep.
It caught the man across the throat.
The cut was not clean.
Skin split. Blood sprayed in a hot arc across the dirt and tree bark. The man staggered back, hands flying to his neck as crimson poured through his fingers. He tried to speak, but only a ghastly bubbling sound emerged. He collapsed to his knees, choking on his own blood.
Frederick stood over him a heartbeat longer than necessary.
The man’s eyes rolled back.
Silence returned in heavy waves.
Except –
A crack of branches.
Frederick snapped his head up.
The first attacker, the one he had gut-shot, was dragging himself through the underbrush, leaving a thick smear of blood behind him. Not toward them.
Away.
Frederick considered pursuit for a fraction of a second.
But behind him, he felt the tremor of Iona’s breath. The rigid stillness of a child witnessing something that could not be unwitnessed.
He let the man go.
If he survived long enough to reach whoever had sent him, he would carry a message carved into flesh.
Frederick wiped his blade once against the fallen man’s cloak before sheathing it.
The smell of blood was metallic and thick. It clung to the back of his throat.
He turned.
Jamie stood wide-eyed, hands clenched at his sides. No tears. No scream. Just intense, unblinking focus.
Iona, however, was frozen.
Her hands still covered Jamie’s eyes, though the child had clearly pushed them away to look. Her knuckles were white. Her gaze fixed somewhere beyond him, unseeing.
“Lass?” he said, stepping closer.
No response.
He reached out and touched her cheek lightly with blood-streaked fingers before remembering himself and withdrawing.
Her skin was cold beneath his palm.
“Iona,” he said more firmly.
She blinked as if surfacing from deep water.
Her eyes dropped immediately to Jamie.
“Are ye hurt?” she demanded, voice shaking now that the danger had gone.
Jamie shook his head. “Nay.”
She dropped to her knees and ran trembling hands over small shoulders, down arms, checking for wounds that were not there.
Satisfied at last, she exhaled in a broken rush and pulled Jamie tightly into her chest.
Frederick felt an unfamiliar twist low in his ribs.
Jamie looked over Iona’s shoulder at him.
“Thank ye,” the child said quietly.
There was no fear in those green eyes now. Only appreciation and respect.
Frederick inclined his head once, not realizing he had to prove himself to a bairn.
Iona rose slowly, keeping one arm wrapped around Jamie as if the world might snatch the child away if she loosened her hold. And her body angled toward his.
For the first time since he had seen her again, the defiance softened.
“Thank ye,” she said. And this time there was no bitterness. No pride. Just truth.
He nodded once. “Aye, anytime, lass.”
She nodded.
“We are returning to the cottage now. Where ye will remain until morning.”
She did not argue.
He walked ahead this time, senses sharp, scanning the tree line for further movement. Blood soaked through his torn tunic, the raw skin tugging sharply with every shift of the fabric, and it trickled warm beneath his tunic from the cut at his side, but he ignored it.
As they approached the faint glow of Erin’s cottage, he spoke quietly without looking back.
“These may be the same men who took the other lass.”
Iona’s grip tightened on Jamie.
“They kent what to look for,” he added grimly. “They were given a description.”
She said nothing.
But he felt the weight of her silence.
Whatever she had been running from, was probably the same she had been running from seven years ago, and it had just followed her into his lands.
Whatever it was now, it had his full attention.