Chapter 40
CHAPTER FORTY
Edith’s heart hammered against her ribs as the two men steered their horses toward her.
They made their way across the grass, neither man showing the slightest urgency, as though they had all the time in the world.
Perhaps they are lost.
She straightened, forcing herself to remain where she stood despite every instinct urging her to go back to the festival.
Her gaze flicked to the older rider as he drew nearer, and only then did she notice the fine tailoring of his clothes.
’Tis finer than most travelers would wear.
Her brows knitted together.
His garments bore no clan colors, no crests, and no markings that might identify them properly. The young man behind him was dressed in a similar plain outfit, with a black tunic and a black kilt.
The absurdity of it unsettled her even as they reined in their horses, stopping a short distance from her.
The older man’s face was weathered with wrinkles and harsh lines, though nothing about him looked frail, especially not the strong set of his shoulders. His eyes raked over her with an assessing intensity that made her skin crawl.
Surely, he is a Laird.
“Well met, lass,” he greeted pleasantly, though his smile did not reach his eyes.
Edith dipped into a careful curtsy. “What brings ye this way, sir,” she said, forcing herself to return a polite smile. “The celebration is being held in the courtyard. Ye should have entered through the main gates.”
The man glanced briefly toward the distant sound of music before looking back at her. “Aye,” he said. “I am aware.”
Something tightened low in her stomach. It was suspicious that a Laird would intentionally venture into Hallow lands through the bushes.
Was he nae invited?
“Then I shall direct ye properly,” she offered. “If ye follow the path past the—”
“I have no interest in the path.” The interruption was gentle. Nearly pleasant. The smile remained on the man’s face, though the coldness in his eyes unsettled her now more than ever. “I came seekin’ someone.”
Edith’s pulse quickened.
I shouldnae have waited.
“I am certain I can fetch whoever ye require, sir,” she said carefully. “If ye tell me their name.”
The older man regarded her for another long moment, then smiled again. “The soon-to-be Lady Hallow.”
Her heart lurched.
“I wish to congratulate her.” The man paused again, still holding her gaze. “And I wish for it to be somewhere private.”
The chill that swept through Edith had nothing to do with the breeze.
Surely he doesnae ken me.
“I shall inform her of ye wish,” she said, taking a careful step backward, her expression as neutral as she could manage. “If ye would excuse—”
“There is nae need.”
The second voice came from behind her, and she spun. It was the second rider. She had not even heard him move. He stood squarely between her and the path that led back to the festival.
Her heart pounded so violently that she feared he might hear it, and she swallowed.
The older man swung down from his horse with far more ease than his age suggested.
“Ye are Edith.” His voice had changed, now devoid of any trace of false courtesy. “Lady Hallow. Or soon to be.”
Edith staggered backward.
He kens. He has ken the entire time.
“I daenae understand—” she started.
The man waved a dismissive hand. “There is little need for yer understanding,” he said, his gaze moving over her with thinly veiled disdain. “I have watched ye all afternoon, and I have seen the way yer Laird watches ye.”
Edith froze, and he took a slow step toward her, a cold smile touching his lips.
“Ye dance well enough,” he said, his voice dropping to a sneer. “I nearly forgot ye are only a lowborn.” He spat on the grass before her.
Edith flinched, disgust curling through her.
“I have merely been waiting for ye to wander far enough from the crowd,” the man continued calmly.
Her heartbeat thundered in her ears. She looked quickly at the man and his companion behind her. There was no one around but the three of them. Music drifted faintly from the courtyard. Perhaps if she ran fast enough, she might run into a guard before they caught up with her.
“I shall take yer message,” she said, already edging sideways. “The Laird will gladly receive—”
“I have no message to send.” The words washed over her like ice. “I have business with ye.”
Edith’s mouth went dry. She forced herself to keep her breathing steady, though every instinct screamed at her to bolt.
“Whatever business ye have,” she said carefully, “ye have mistaken me for someone else.”
The man laughed quietly. “Nay. I very rarely mistake people.”
Every muscle in her body tensed.
The man folded his hands behind his back, and for one glorious heartbeat, she believed she had a chance.
There was no time to think about it. She gathered her skirt in her hands and sprinted toward the festival, the music suddenly sounding impossibly far away.
“Help!”
The cry barely escaped her lips when something snapped tightly around her ankle.
Twine.
It jerked her leg so violently that she pitched forward, crashing into the grass.
The fall was hard enough to knock the breath from her lungs. Pain splintered through her knees and palms, and before she could push herself up, a rough hand grabbed a fistful of her hair.
She cried out as the younger man dragged her backward with startling strength. “Let go!”
Her scream was shrill as she twisted violently, clawing at his wrist.
For a brief moment, his grip loosened, and hope flared in her chest. She sucked in a breath to scream again when a strip of cloth was pulled brutally over her mouth and another over her eyes.
Darkness swallowed her.
“Nay!” she groaned.
She kicked blindly, her heel connecting with something solid, and the younger man cursed. He caught her hands behind her back, his grip tightening.
“Hold still,” he grunted.
Edith fought him. Her elbow drove backward, and her shoulders twisted violently as he attempted to fasten twine around her wrists.
The twine bit sharply into her skin as he bound her, and only then did she stop struggling long enough to breathe. Her chest rose and fell frantically, sweat gathering on her forehead.
“No one heard ye,” the older man said, as though this were a regular conversation. “The music is loud today.” His footsteps stopped right in front of her. “Ye made this remarkably easy.”
Edith glared toward the sound of his voice beneath the blindfold.
His hand came around her head, undoing the gag.
“If ye harm me…” Her words were nearly a growl. “The Laird will give ye nothin’.”
The man laughed softly.
“On the contrary,” he said, moving even closer to her. “I believe he will surrender everything he has, should the alternative be losin’ ye.”
Edith’s blood ran cold.
“Who are ye?” she demanded, though she already suspected the answer.
Only one man had a vendetta against Aaron, and she had heard of him enough in the past weeks to know this.
“Edward MacFaris,” he said simply.
Her heart sank, her mind flooding with everything she had overheard in passing over the past weeks.
Och heavens. This is the man who had wanted Scarlett for his son. The man whose daughter Aaron rejected.
“Ye understand now,” MacFaris said, his satisfaction evident in his voice. “Good. That should make this simpler for everyone.”
Edith shook her head desperately. She knew what he wanted. Her betrothal to Aaron was nearly over anyway. There was no point in holding onto something that was never hers to begin with.
“I can leave.” The words came out broken despite herself. “I can disappear from Hallow and never return if that is what ye want. Just, please, daenae harm anyone.”
MacFaris burst into laughter.
“Ye misunderstand,” he said. “I care nothin’ for yer betrothal to Hallow. Very soon, everything that is his will be mine.” His hand moved to the side of her face, sending a shudder through her. “And ye, lass, will help me get it.”
Edith’s heart broke at the implication of his words.
If only ye kent that it is only an arrangement.
“He willnae surrender Hallow,” she said quietly, shaking her head. “Nae for me.”
MacFaris clicked his tongue.
“We shall find out together,” he said, his footsteps moving away from her. “Bring her,” he called to the younger man.
Edith felt a pair of hands lift her as though she weighed nothing. She kicked again, attempting to bite the man’s shoulder, and his fist struck her side hard enough to make her wince.
He hoisted her onto the back of a horse, her stomach pressed painfully against the saddle. Her bound legs dangled uselessly on one side of the horse, and her heart on the other, blood rushing to her brain.
The man mounted behind her, and she squeezed her eyes shut beneath the blindfold.
Aaron, ye mustnae come after me. Ye mustnae.
Because if MacFaris was telling the truth, she could not bear to see him sacrifice everything he had worked for.
The ride felt endless, every movement driving pain and discomfort through her stomach. She had lost all sense of direction before it even began, and before long, she lost count of the horse’s steps as well.
The blindfold stole more than her sight. It stole every sense of certainty she possessed except one. She could still hear the music from the festival. That meant they were still near Hallow.
’Tis better if I can escape on me own.
MacFaris believed that Aaron would surrender Hallow for her. He was wrong. He had to be.
Eventually, the horse stopped, and MacFaris’s man dismounted behind her. The sound of a door creaked nearby, and she kicked her feet, realizing at once that it was a terrible idea as pain shot through her leg.
The man lifted her down from the horse, and her feet buckled. She caught herself against his arm, and he shook her off.
“Walk.”
Edith remained still.
“I said”—he shoved her forward—“walk.”
“Be gentle,” MacFaris said from behind them as she stumbled forward.
The man finally took her arm and led her through the doorway into what felt like a narrow corridor.
“Where are we?”
Her question went unanswered as the man forced her up a flight of stairs, then through another doorway, before he finally pushed her into a chair.
Edith sighed in relief despite herself, the tension in her stomach easing considerably.
The man moved behind her, removing the twine around her hands, only to tie her right hand to the right armrest.
“What are ye doin’?” she demanded, remembering at once that she was still a captive. She shifted violently, rattling the wooden chair against the stone floors as she waved her free hand about.
“Enough,” MacFaris said, his voice remaining infuriatingly calm. “This serves no purpose.”
His man caught her other hand and tied it to the chair. The rope bit into her skin harder than the first.
“Please,” she said, hating the desperation in her voice. “Whatever quarrel ye have with the Laird, I—”
The man tightened the strip of cloth around her mouth, muffling her words before she had even finished speaking. The fabric tasted of sweat and something bitter, and her eyes burned with furious, helpless tears.
“Aye,” MacFaris said, his satisfaction evident in his tone, then took a few steps away from her.
“Find someone to deliver this message to Hallow,” he instructed the younger man, his voice hardening.
“Tell him precisely this. I hold his betrothed. If he signs over his lands, she returns to him unharmed.” He paused.
“And if he refuses…” he trailed off, almost lazily.
“She dies, and war follows. He may choose which outcome he prefers.”