Chapter 16 YE HAVE MY WORD
ARCHIE SHIFTED HIS weight, trying to ignore the dull throb of his arm.
The flea bite he’d scratched had soured.
His entire left arm was swollen now, the skin tight and hot.
Pus leaked from the bite. He needed to see a healer.
An irony, then, that they were hunting one.
Once they caught up with Hazel, he wouldn’t be asking her to tend to him though—he’d be swiping a blade across her throat.
Moy Castle loomed through the branches of sheltering oaks, its walls dark against the dawn sky. The fortress was waking up. Somewhere inside, Hazel Maclean was breaking her fast, completely unaware that death waited for her in the trees just a few furlongs away.
“This is bollocks,” Ross hissed, scratching his thigh. Flea bites still bothered him and Ian as well, just not as badly as their leader. “How much longer do we wait for the wee bitch?”
“For as long as it takes,” Archie growled.
Christ’s teeth, he couldn’t believe their ill luck.
The previous day, the three of them had looked on helplessly as their prey approached her cottage with Craeg Maclean at her side.
They’d visited a week earlier, kicking down her door and ransacking her belongings to frighten her.
Why not play with their quarry a little before the end? They’d then lain in wait.
They’d expected her to turn up that day. But she didn’t—not until five days later.
However, they hadn’t followed her into that cottage.
They couldn’t. Not with the local chieftain as her protector.
The man who was about to wed Macquarie’s daughter.
“She’ll come out eventually,” Archie added then, more to convince himself than the others. “She can’t stay locked in that castle forever.”
“And if she does?” Ian’s voice was tight. “What then? We go back to Hamish empty-handed? He’ll cut our balls off.”
The words hung in the soft morning air between them. Aye, they all knew what awaited them if they failed. Macquarie didn’t tolerate failure.
Archie’s hand drifted to the dirk at his belt. “She’ll come out. Healers always do … to forage in the woods.” His confidence swelled with each word. “She’ll need to gather her weeds and flowers, and when she does—”
A twig snapped behind them.
All three men whirled, hands flying to their weapons. But they were too slow.
Warriors melted out of the trees, surrounding them in a loose circle. Ten men, maybe more. All armed. All watching them with predatory stillness.
Ian breathed a curse.
A tall man stepped forward, his boots soundless on the mossy ground. Curly dark hair framed a face that was all sharp angles. Cool green eyes assessed them.
“Good morning,” the man greeted them softly. “We’ve been looking for ye.”
Archie’s throat went dry. His fingers tightened on his dirk, but he didn’t draw it. Not yet. The warriors around them shifted almost imperceptibly. The message was clear: try it, and ye’ll die where ye stand.
“And ye are?” His response was belligerent. Best to brazen this out.
“Captain Nathair Black. I lead the Moy Guard.”
Archie’s gut clenched. “We’re just travelers,” he said roughly. “Passing through.”
“Really?” Nat’s gaze swept over them, taking in their dusty, stained clothes, the red bites that covered their exposed skin, and the dirks at their hips. “Do travelers eye a castle like wolves watching a fowl coop?”
Archie started to sweat.
Shite. The woman had squealed. Black knew who they were. The bastard was playing with them.
The captain took another step closer. “Ye are Macquaries.” A statement, not a question.
Archie and his companions didn’t answer, although their silence was damning.
“Maclean would like a word with ye.”
The Moy Guard closed in then. Rough hands seized Archie, Ross, and Ian. They deftly stripped them of their weapons. They took Archie’s dirk, the eating knife tucked into his belt, and even the small blade he kept hidden in his boot.
Moments later, they were marching south toward the castle that loomed ever larger through the trees. Archie felt the cold certainty settle in his gut.
They weren’t going home from this errand.
And Hamish Macquarie was going to be angrier than a swatted hornet.
The sun rose over the eastern walls of Moy Castle, gilding the barmkin. Thrushes sang in the eaves. The air smelled of hay and horses, and fresh oaten bannocks from the kitchens. It was the kind of morning that promised warmth and gentle breezes off the sea loch.
Craeg felt none of it. All he could focus on was the pulsing anger in his gut.
He stood before the three kneeling men, arms crossed over his chest, gaze narrowed. Rage simmered in his gut. “Why?” The single word cut through the morning stillness. “Why does Macquarie want Hazel?”
The leader—Archie, Black had called him—kept his gaze fixed on the dirt. Sweat beaded on his brow despite the cool air.
“None of yer business,” he grunted.
Wrong answer.
Craeg nodded to Black, who stepped forward and drove his boot into Archie’s shoulder. The man sprawled sideways with a grunt, falling on his left arm. He hissed, clutching at the limb. Clearly, it pained him.
Vindication flashed through Craeg. Good.
“We know Hazel is Macquarie’s daughter,” he said, his pulse thudding in his throat now. “So, try again … and this time, give me something useful.”
Behind him, Hazel stood still and silent, upon the steps leading up to the tower house. He could feel her presence, sense the tension radiating from her. He hadn’t wanted her to see this, but when Black had come into the hall to fetch him, she’d overheard.
He couldn’t stop her from venturing outdoors. He didn’t blame her either. She deserved answers. Deserved to know why these bastards had been hunting her. Nonetheless, he’d have liked to have spared her this.
If things continued in this vein, the ‘interrogation’ would get ugly.
Archie pushed himself back upright, breathing hard. His face had turned ashen beneath his summer tan. Even so, his lips drew into a snarl. “I don’t answer to ye.”
This time, Black didn’t have time to land a blow.
Instead, Craeg moved. He lashed out, his fist catching Archie across the jaw. The crack echoed off the stone walls. The warrior’s head snapped back, and he spat blood into the dirt.
“Macquarie sent three men to hound the daughter he’s never met,” Craeg said, crouching down until he was at eye level with his captive.
The morning sun warmed his back, yet he barely noticed.
Instead, his temper simmered. He wanted to kill this whoreson, but he needed him to spill his guts.
“There’s a reason for that. And ye’re going to tell me what it is. ”
Archie’s chest heaved. His companions stayed silent, heads bowed.
Danger crackled in the air.
“Last chance,” Craeg murmured. “Before my methods grow rougher.”
And by God, they would.
Careful, a voice whispered. Ye’re starting to sound like him.
A lump of ice settled in his gut, and the crimson shroud of anger enveloping him receded a little. Queasiness rolled over Craeg then. Aye, his father had possessed a black temper—one that made everyone duck for cover when he unleashed it. One that had terrified him.
Did he want others to cower in fear of him too?
No, but if these bastards didn’t fear him, they wouldn’t talk. Sometimes brutality was necessary. War had taught him that.
A long moment stretched between them. The thrushes kept warbling. Fowl clucked. A goat bleated.
Finally, Archie’s shoulders sagged. When he spoke, his voice was barely above a whisper.
“The crone.”
Craeg scowled. “What?”
“She’s a seer on Ulva.” Archie’s throat worked. “Macquarie’s been having … strange dreams … so he went to her to find out why.”
“And?”
“She told him …” Archie’s gaze flickered to Hazel, lingering on her for a moment, and then back to Craeg. Fear gleamed in his bloodshot eyes now. “She told him the seed of his loins … born of rape … would be his downfall.”
Hazel’s sharp intake of breath behind Craeg made him still.
“He wants me dead?” she asked. Her voice, although steady, was brittle.
“Aye,” Archie replied roughly.
“He decided to kill his daughter,” Craeg said slowly, measuring each word. “Based on some old woman’s ravings?”
“Not. Ravings.” Archie’s voice cracked. “The crone’s never wrong. Everyone knows it. Macquarie fears her prophecies, far more than he does God’s wrath.”
Silence crashed down over the barmkin. Even the thrushes paused their song.
Craeg rose slowly, his hands clenched into fists.
Fury pounded against his breastbone. These whoresons would take Hazel’s life on the word of a madwoman.
He wanted to draw his blade, wanted to end these men where they knelt.
But that would be too quick. Too clean. And these warriors were merely puppets.
Spilling their blood this morning wouldn’t punish the man responsible for this.
“Throw them in the pit,” he ordered Black. “I’ll decide their fate later.”
The solar was too quiet. Hazel stood at the window, staring out at the water sparkling off the sea loch beyond the castle walls without really seeing it.
Her fingers gripped the stone sill hard enough that they ached.
The morning sun streamed in, warming her face, but she felt cold all the way through.
The seed of his loins, born of rape, would be his downfall.
The words kept circling in her mind like buzzards. Her father—a man she’d never met, never even known existed until days ago—wanted her dead. Not because of anything she’d done. Not because she’d wronged him or threatened him.
Because a seer told him to fear her.
“How can someone be so” —she stopped, her voice breaking, and swallowed hard— “so easily led? So superstitious that he’d murder his own blood?”
Behind her, Craeg moved. His boots whispered on the oak floorboards, but she was acutely aware of every sound he made. The creak of leather as he crossed the room. His breath sounded slightly uneven, as if he too was struggling to contain his emotions.
“He’s a coward,” Craeg replied. “Frightened men do terrible things.”
A hot tear slid down her cheek. She dashed it away angrily. No, she wouldn’t weep over this.
All the same, it was too much. The lies. The loss. The guilt over the doomed woman who’d birthed her. Pain over a murderous father she’d never met.
“Hazel.”
Craeg’s voice was closer now. Right behind her. The heat of him radiated through the space between them, and despite everything—the anger, the shock, the sorrow clawing at her throat—she was painfully aware of him.
“I’m well,” she lied, keeping her gaze fixed on the water. “I suppose it’s a relief … to know the truth.”
“Aye.” His hand touched her shoulder, gentle but firm, turning her to face him. “But that doesn’t mean ye don’t have the right to be upset … or angry.”
And God help her, when she met his eyes—those dark eyes that saw too much—something inside her cracked.
“He has never met me.” Her voice didn’t sound like her own. “But he hates me. I’m nothing but a threat to be eliminated.”
Craeg’s jaw tightened. His hands came up to frame her face, thumbs brushing away the tears she couldn’t seem to stop now. The calluses on his palms were rough against her skin, but his touch was unbearably tender. “That’s his failing, not yers,” he said fiercely.
Hazel swallowed. She wanted to believe him, wanted to let his words fill the hollow ache in her chest. But the hurt was too raw, too fresh.
“Ever since Siùsan spilled her secrets, it’s as if my whole life has been a lie,” she whispered. “And I was angry with her for that … I still am, if I’m honest.” She broke off then, swallowing. “But now it’s even worse. It’s as if my entire existence is a mistake.”
“No, lass.” Craeg’s forehead dropped to rest against hers. His breath ghosted across her lips, and her pulse trembled. “Listen to me. Ye are Hazel Maclean. A talented healer. A brave soul. Yer life means something … and I will never let that bastard touch ye. Never. Ye have my word.”
The vow hung between them. Her hands came up of their own accord, fisting in the fabric of his lèine. She could feel the hard planes of his chest beneath, the steady thud of his heart.
“I’m causing ye far too much trouble, Craeg,” she said shakily. “And I’m sorry for it.”
His eyes darkened. One hand slid from her face to cup the back of her neck, his fingers threading through her unbound hair. When he answered, his voice held a hoarse edge. “I’m not.”