Chapter 21 #2
Blood dripped from Ewan’s left hand to the floor. His body roared with energy, even as his knees did not feel strong enough to support him, ready to fight to the death. He put his hand against the wall behind him to steady himself in preparation for yet another onslaught, his blade raised.
An eerie silence fell over the cottage. Ewan followed everyone’s stare and found Blair lying on the ground with Cruim standing over her. A dagger jutted from her throat, and her blue-gray eyes stared sightlessly upward.
“Blair.” Cruim fell to his knees with a choked cry that blossomed into a wracking cough.
“I…I dinna mean…to,” a man stammered. “She was attacking me, I meant only to keep her off, but she moved—”
“Kill him,” Cruim shouted, his face contorting with rage.
His men hesitated to obey his order.
Cruim leapt to his feet and flew at the man with an unholy speed, plunging a dagger into the man’s throat, as had been done to Blair. A wet choking sound emerged from the man’s mouth in a spatter of blood. He crumpled to the ground in a pool of blood that spread toward the one beneath Blair.
“Take him outside,” Cruim said to his men. He looked pointedly at Ewan. “I wouldna struggle if I were ye.”
Ewan couldn’t pull his gaze from the two bodies, the man who had supported Cruim only to be killed by him. And Blair, who had sought to save herself.
Cruim was mad. And dangerous.
The fear for Faye washed over Ewan anew.
“Where’s my wife?” he demanded.
“Ye need no’ worry about her.” Cruim lifted his head from Blair’s body. “Moiré is seeing to her.”
Rage and fear tangled against one another at the thought of what Moiré might do to her. “If she’s harmed…”
“She’s no’ any of yer concern.” Cruim coughed, a thick rattling coming from his chest. It was followed by a harder hack that made his entire body spasm.
“Take him to the manor,” Cruim ordered through a wheezing inhale.
“We’ll put him in the cellar for now.” He indicated the bodies on the ground.
“And bring them with us. I’ll no’ have my wife rotting in a village hut.
” His jaw clenched as he stared at her one final time before turning and leaving the small cottage.
Ewan wanted to fight, to throw his fist and his blade at each of the men. But it would be a battle he would not win. One that would cost him his life. And his life, however long or short it might be, would be used to keep Faye safe.
Even as he thought her name, his chest squeezed with a visceral ache.
Surely Moiré would not harm her, not after the time they’d spent together, after the bond of their friendship.
But then, he truly didn’t know Moiré at all.
For he would have never anticipated that she was capable of devising a way to betray him to his uncle in such a manner.
Cruim’s men caught Ewan in a hard grip as two men lifted Blair’s body.
The sword was wrested from his hand, and his wrists were bound with a rope.
The fibers were thick and coarse, working against his bare skin like a bevy of splinters.
A sack dropped over his head, leaving him blind and momentarily disoriented, as he was shoved forward.
Light punctured through the loose weave of the sack and told Ewan he was outside.
He walked several steps before he was pushed violently.
Unable to see, he fell and landed against a hard edge.
Before he could right himself, a loud thwack sounded over his head and dulled out all noise.
The sweet smell of freshly cut wood filled his senses.
A box.
He’d been put into a box. Most likely, something akin to what Faye had been forced into on her journey to Sutherland.
He gritted his teeth against the pain lashing through him.
What did Moiré intend to do with Faye? Metallic fear lingered in the back of his throat and overwhelmed the physical hurt of the injuries his body had sustained.
He writhed in the small, coffin-like space.
The action pulled at the ropes on his hand, so they bit into his flesh.
He didn’t care. He wouldn’t stop fighting. Not until he was free and could find some way to get to Faye. To save her.
Ewan waited for the telltale lurch of a cart being drawn onward before he resumed his attempts to liberate himself.
He fixed his mind on Faye as he worked, using the sweet cherub’s bow of her lips to take his mind from the sting of the ropes.
The silkiness of her hair luxuriously slipping through his fingers kept him from thinking of the sticky dampness from the cuts on his hands.
But the ropes were bound too tightly, and the box too small to properly move. Still, he struggled in vain. And as he did, he recalled the way she looked at him, her blue eyes soft with words neither of them had said: I love you.
A knot formed at the back of his throat.
He should have told her. He’d been so damned worried about scaring her off, and now he might die without telling her what she meant to him. Determination fired through him.
He had to stay alive. For Faye.