Chapter 28
Ciaran had not slept.
He had lain in the dark until it thinned, staring at stone and hearing the same moments repeat themselves over and over.
Ava’s mouth on his cheek. Her voice, quiet and steady as she offered to tell her father the annulment was what she wanted. The sound of her footsteps retreating while he stood by the loch like a fool who could fight any man alive and still fail when truth had to be spoken quickly.
By dawn, his eyes burned, and his jaw hurt from clenching. He had not undressed. He had not done anything useful at all.
Bruce’s barking tore through the castle before the sun had fully risen, and he sat up at once. That was no ordinary yapping for scraps or attention. It came hard and fast, with a frantic pitch that jolted him to his feet before his mind had caught up.
The dog barked again, then again, each one sharper than the last, as if the small creature meant to wake the dead itself.
Ciaran yanked open his chamber door and stepped into the passageway. Servants were already spilling out of rooms and corners in half-dressed alarm. A maid clutched her apron to her chest, and one of the kitchen lads had flour on his sleeve as if he had run straight from the bakehouse.
What in—
Bruce shot across the passageway and doubled back again, barking up at every face in turn, then racing a few steps toward the stairs before returning furiously.
“What is it?” Ciaran snapped.
No one answered quickly enough.
That alone sent a chill down his spine.
Bruce whined, barked once more, then scratched at the floor and ran toward the stairs again.
A maid found her voice. “Me Laird…”
Ciaran rounded on her. “Speak.”
Her face had gone pale. “It’s Her Ladyship, me Laird. I just left her room to check in on her after the dog…she is missing.”
The words struck with the clean force of a blade, and for one second, he simply looked at her.
What?
“She is nae in her room and it looked like she had nae been there for a long time. We cannae find her anywhere.”
Ciaran wheezed like he had received the most devastating blow to his ribs. Before he realized it, he was moving.
He took the stairs two at a time, Bruce racing after him and barking still, the sound echoing off stone and wood. Somewhere below, more voices rose, and a door slammed open. Someone called for Hector.
Ciaran reached the lower hall and found his brother racing in from the yard, boots dirty, face set hard.
“What happened?”
Hector stopped in front of him. “We cannae find her.”
Ciaran’s whole body had gone rigid. “Find her, then.”
“We are trying.”
The answer only made his panic sharpen.
Ciaran dragged a hand over his face and forced the words out in better order. “When was she seen last?”
“Early. Before full light.”
He turned away one step, trying to think past the pounding in his head. Ava hurt. Ava angry. Ava waking with the same wreck between them that had driven them apart by the loch.
A sick, desperate hope pushed up through everything else.
“She wanted space,” he said. “After last night. She may have ridden out to clear her head.”
Even as he said it, he heard how weak it sounded. He held onto it anyway because the other possibilities were worse.
“She may have taken the northern path or gone to the lower ridge. She kens the grounds well enough by now.”
Hector stared at him. “Nay.”
Ciaran spun back. “What?”
“Nay, she didnae simply ride off alone in a temper.”
His hope cracked.
“She took a horse at first light, aye, but she didnae go without protection. Two guards rode after her.”
Ciaran felt the ground hold too steady under him. “Why?”
“Because yer wife is the daughter of a laird whose hall just burned, and because there is still unease enough in this castle that nay one thought it wise to let her ride out unguarded?”
That answer would have satisfied him under different circumstances. Now, it only made the next question worse.
“Then where is she?”
Hector’s mouth tightened. “That is the point. They lost the road. Either she took a wrong turn or was driven off it. We have men out looking already.”
Ciaran took one step toward him. “Lost the road how?”
“We havenae gotten all of it yet.”
“And what exactly have ye got?”
Hector held his gaze steadily. “There were track breaks near the birch line and some struggle that suggests she was…” he trailed off.
Ciaran knew where that response was headed, and he hated desperately that he did.
Nay. Nay, this cannae be it.
Bruce, on the other hand, had fallen silent. He stood near the wall, his ears pinned against the back of his head, his small body vibrating with the same alarm that gripped every person in the hall.
Ciaran heard himself speak again. “And the guards?”
Hector said nothing for one beat, and when he spoke again, the tremors in his voice grew more evident. “They were found dead.”
The hall seemed to narrow around those words.
Something broke open in Ciaran so fast it almost felt like relief, because at least this had a shape now. Horror. Violence. Enemy. He did not have to stand in uncertainty for one breath longer.
Ava had not ridden off to think. Ava had not chosen distance. Ava had not left him by choice or pride.
She had been taken.
“Damn him.” The words came out rough and low.
Hector’s head jerked slightly. “Who?”
Ciaran’s mind moved with sick, sudden clarity. Jack dead. The old explanation given. The neat account of blame contained. The fire with no face on it. The sense of being watched on the road. Guards murdered under his protection. Ava gone.
“The old bastard lied.”
Hector went still. “What old bastard?”
“Our only enemy.” Ciaran could feel the answer locking into place even while part of him still resisted saying it aloud. “The one who let us think Jack was the end of it. The one who sat behind the tale and fed us just enough to stop the search.”
He did not need to say the name yet. It was there in him all the same, old and poisonous and suddenly far too near.
Hector’s face hardened. “Ye’re sure?”
“I am sure enough.”
The panic from moments earlier had turned into something colder and far more dangerous. Ciaran looked toward the door leading out to the yard, where horses, men, and open ground waited.
“Ava has been taken.”
When he spoke it aloud, every man within earshot understood from his voice that the true enemy had not been buried with Jack at all.
For one beat, nobody moved.
Then Ciaran did.
“Gather some men,” he ordered, his voice hard and level. “And saddle every fast horse we have. I want trackers, archers, and men everywhere.”
The hall sprang into motion at once.
A stableboy ran for the yard. One of the guards turned and shouted for the others. Bruce barked again and ran in a frantic circle before racing after the first moving legs. Servants flattened themselves against the wall to clear the way. Hector was already moving with him.
“Take six now,” Ciaran added. “Another six follow with supplies. Water, rope, blankets, torches, and spare mounts. If she is hurt, I want men ready to carry her back. If she is bound, I want knives in hand before anyone has to ask for one.”
“Aye,” Hector said.
“Lock the gates after we ride. Double the wall watch. Nobody comes in or out unmarked. I daenae care who they say they serve.”
“Aye.”
The orders came easily. The guilt underneath them did not.
Ciaran had let his wife walk away wounded, and before he could even decide how to fix what he had broken, someone else had taken her.
Every second he had lost to silence sat inside him now like a sickness.
A part of him wondered if she would still be here if he had gotten brave enough to speak out loud.
He took the note Hector had handed him earlier and crushed it in his fist without knowing he had done it. “Where is her father?”
“Here.” The answer came from behind him.
Laird MacKenna had crossed the hall without Ciaran hearing him. He wore no formal coat, only a hastily tied robe over a shirt. The side of his face still bore the healing burns. His hair was mussed from sleep. But his eyes were fully alert.
Ciaran turned to him and did not waste either of their time with comfort he could not justify. “She has been taken.”
MacKenna’s face tightened. He absorbed the blow in silence, then asked, “How many men do ye need?”
Ciaran answered at once because there was no room left for false pride. “All ye can spare.”
“Ye shall have them.”
MacKenna did not raise his voice. He did not stumble. He turned toward the nearest guard and began issuing orders of his own. “Wake me men and arm them. Nay one rides half-prepared and slows the rest. If there is news from MacKenna lands, I want it held until I ask for it.”
The guard ran.
Ciaran watched him for one second with a bitter taste in his mouth. MacKenna had placed his people under this roof. He had trusted him, and he had been grateful. Yet, Ava had been taken anyway.
“I thought ye could protect her.”
The words came out quietly, but they landed harder than any rebuke could have.
Ciaran met the older man’s eyes. There was grief there. There was an accusation, too. MacKenna had not come to rage at him like a broken father in a ballad. He had come to speak the one truth that had already sunk its teeth into Ciaran’s throat.
He was supposed to protect her.
Every part of him wanted to say that he had tried. That he had sent guards. That he had opened his home. That he had done every practical thing a man could do after the fire. But none of it mattered enough. His wife was gone.
“I will bring her back,” he vowed.
MacKenna said nothing.
Ciaran took one step closer, the crushed note still in his hand. “If it is the last thing I do, I will bring her back.”
MacKenna held his gaze for one long second and then gave a short nod. “Then go.”
Ciaran turned without another word.
The yard was already alive. Men were dragging saddles into place, tightening girths, and checking blades. Horses stamped and blew clouds into the cold morning air. One of Hector’s men was fastening a waterskin to the rear of a saddle while another slung a coil of rope over his shoulder.
The gates stood open just wide enough to let the first riders through when the order came.
Hector met him on his horse. “Tracks?”
“We ride first to the break in the road.” Ciaran took the reins. “After that, we follow whatever the ground will give us. If it splits, we split. I also want runners back to the castle every hour, whether they have news or nae.”
“Aye.”
“This isnae just any other task, Hector. This is me wife. I want her found.”
Hector handed him his gloves. “And if we find the bastard himself?”
Ciaran pulled his gloves on, finger by finger. “Then pray he has already made peace with God.”
He mounted in one motion.
The horse shifted under him, eager and ready. Around him, the other riders swung themselves up into their saddles. Bruce tore into the yard and barked furiously at the horses as if he meant to join the search. One of the grooms caught him before he was crushed by a hoof.
Ciaran looked once toward the upper windows of the castle. Somewhere behind that stone was Ava’s chamber, empty now because he had failed her too many times and someone else had taken advantage of every crack left by his weakness.
He would have time later to hate himself properly for that. He had no use for the feeling now except as fuel.
He drew his sword and lifted it. “Ride!”
The gates opened wider, and horses surged forward. The castle dropped behind him, and the road stretched ahead.
With the morning breaking cold around him, Ciaran rode out with one single purpose: to find his wife.