Chapter 4 #2
He repeated it like a prayer, a desperate attempt to ignore the heat pooling low in his belly, the tightness in his breeches that had nothing to do with the saddle and everything to do with the woman in his arms. He'd taken her to send a message to her uncle, to make the bastard understand that actions had consequences.
When MacMahon came crawling with apologies and reparations, Ewan would return her unharmed.
Eventually.
Until then, she was his captive. His leverage.
Me responsibility.
And that meant keeping his hands to himself, no matter how much his body protested. He wasn't his father. Wouldn't take what wasn't freely offered, wouldn't force himself on a woman who had no choice but to submit.
I stole her away, aye, but I'll be damned before I become the kind of monster who takes more than that from an unwillin' lass.
Even if every fiber of his being was screaming at him to find out what her skin tasted like.
Even if his fingers were already imagining the texture of her hair, the curve of her jaw, the hollow of her throat where her pulse would flutter like a trapped bird.
Even if…
"I'm cold," Maia whispered, pulling him back to their current situation and what was at stake. The admission seemed to cost her something, and Ewan shifted, pulling his plaid cloak around both of them.
"Better?"
"Aye," she whispered after a moment. Then, even more quietly: "Thank ye." The gratitude in her voice did something strange to his chest.
He told himself it was nothing. "Cannae have ye freezin' to death before we reach McGill lands. Yer uncle needs to know ye're alive, or this whole thing is pointless."
"Of course." Her voice had gone flat again. "Wouldnae want to damage yer precious leverage."
He let that lie. Let her think the worst of him.
There was no other reason for taking her except for clan business.
"What have ye done?"
The whisper cut through his thoughts like a blade, sharp and cold. Maia's voice was strangled, horrified, and when Ewan followed her gaze back toward the castle, he understood why.
Flames licked up from the servants' quarters, orange and gold against the black sky. Smoke billowed in thick plumes, visible even at this distance. The fire his men had set was burning exactly as planned, a final insult, a demonstration of how easily he'd breached MacMahon's defenses.
A message written in ash and embers.
"What have ye done?" Maia repeated, louder this time. Her whole body had gone rigid in his arms, trembling for an entirely different reason now. Every soft curve that had been pressed so sweetly against him turned to stone. "The servants, me maid Mollie, they are all in there."
Her voice broke on the name, raw with anguish that cut through the air like a physical thing.
Ewan's jaw tightened. He hadn't expected her to care. Most nobles viewed their servants as little more than furniture, easily replaced and rarely mourned.
His own mother had been like that before she died—dismissive of the staff, cruel when the mood struck her, utterly unconcerned with their well-being.
But the grief in Maia's voice was real, genuine in a way that made something uncomfortable twist in his chest. This wasn't performative sorrow or aristocratic hand-wringing. This was true horror, bone-deep and devastating.
He shoved the feeling aside.
"I'm sendin' a message," he said coldly, keeping his gaze fixed on the road ahead even as he felt her try to twist around in the saddle. His arm locked tighter around her waist, holding her in place. "Yer uncle needs to understand what happens when he takes what doesnae belong to him."
"They dinnae do anythin'!" Maia's voice climbed higher, edged with panic. She struggled against his hold, trying to look back at the castle despite the horse's breakneck pace. "They're innocent! They're just, they're just servants, they had nothin' to do with whatever me uncle did to ye!"
"War has casualties." The words came out harsher than he'd intended, sharpened by his own discomfort with her distress and his body's traitorous continued awareness of every place she touched him. "Best ye learn that now, lass."
"Mollie." The name was a sob, broken and desperate. "She was still in there. She was hidin' in me wardrobe, she brought me books, she was the only friend I had."
Her voice dissolved entirely, replaced by a sound that was half-gasp, half-cry. Her whole body shook with it, trembling so hard Ewan could feel it through every point of contact between them.
The arousal that had been simmering in his blood turned to ash.
Ewan felt that twist in his chest again, stronger this time, accompanied by something that would have felt like guilt if he allowed himself to feel such things.
He knew the servants were safe—his men had cleared the quarters before setting the fire, just as he'd ordered. But he couldn't tell her that. Not yet. Not until he was certain of her compliance, certain she wouldn't use the knowledge to bargain or manipulate the situation.
He didn't look at her face. Couldn't. Even if he saw tears streaming down those soft cheeks, even if he watched the way her face twisted in pain for a servant who'd shown her kindness in what was clearly a life lacking in it.
She's a prisoner. Her feelings daenae matter.
But even as he thought it, even as he hardened his expression and tightened his grip on the reins, he couldn't quite silence the small voice in the back of his mind that whispered he'd miscalculated.
"Please," she whispered, and he realized she was praying aloud, her words tumbling out in broken fragments. "Please, God, let them have gotten out. Let Mollie have found a way. Let her be safe." The desperation in her voice made something twist uncomfortably in his chest.
Ewan's jaw tightened. He'd thought taking the niece of Clan MacMahon's laird would be simple. Kidnap her, use her as leverage, get what he wanted, and return her when it was done. Clean. Efficient. Effective.
He certainly hadn't accounted for the guilt that now gnawed at him as she silently wept for what she believed was a dead friend.
She glanced back at him, and through her tear-streaked face, he saw something. Her eyes reflected a new emotion. She thought him a monster for letting the servants burn.
Nay. Focus.
Ewan set his jaw and urged the horse forward at a faster pace.
They had miles to cover before dawn, and he needed to put as much distance between them and Castle MacMahon as possible.
The guards would eventually organize a pursuit, once they had the fire under control and realized their laird's niece was truly gone.
Let them come. He'd be ready.
Maia had gone quiet now, her body limp against his as if all the fight had drained out of her. But he could feel the occasional shudder that ran through her, could sense the tears still streaming silently down her face even though he refused to look.
She'd curled in on herself as much as his hold would allow, making herself smaller. One of her hands had come up to press against her mouth, as if trying to hold back sobs that wanted to escape.
The sound of her muffled crying was worse than if she'd wailed.
But he told himself he didn't care. Told himself her grief was irrelevant, that she'd get over it eventually.
But his arms tightened around her anyway, pulling her more securely against his chest in what could almost be mistaken for comfort if he were the kind of man who offered such things.
Just to keep ye stable on the horse.
Just to make sure she didn't fall.
The lie tasted bitter on his tongue. He knew they were still alive. But Ewan swallowed it down and rode harder into the night, trying to outrun the uncomfortable realization that the woman in his arms might be far more complicated than he'd bargained for.
And far more dangerous to his carefully controlled heart than any enemy he'd ever faced.
Behind them, Castle MacMahon burned.