Chapter 21 #2
Two sets of footprints, one slightly larger than the other, heading deeper into the forest along what looked like an old game trail that wound between the massive pines.
Maia and Mollie. Has to be.
His destrier picked its way carefully through the underbrush, Ewan's eyes never leaving the ground even as his mind raced with possibilities. Where were they going? Did they have a destination in mind, or were they just running blind?
Twenty minutes. Maybe twenty-five now since Aisla said they'd left. They couldn't have gotten far on foot, especially not in terrain like this, especially not in the growing darkness that made every step treacherous.
He would find them. He had to find them.
He needed to explain about Laura, about his feelings, about everything he'd been too afraid and too stupid to say before.
He would have to make Maia understand that what she'd seen wasn't what she thought, that he'd never wanted Laura, that the only woman he wanted—the only woman he would ever want—was her.
A sound cut through the forest. Distant but unmistakable.
Shouting. Men's voices, rough and angry.
And then—
"EWAN!"
Maia's scream.
The sound of it, the sheer terror in her voice, made Ewan's blood turn to ice in his veins.
He spurred the horse forward, abandoning all caution for speed. Branches whipped at his face, caught at his clothes, tore at his skin. He didn't care. Didn't slow. Just urged the destrier faster, following the sound of the commotion ahead, and the scream that still echoed in his ears.
Please. Please let her be all right. Please let me nae be too late.
He burst into a small clearing and saw them immediately—two men in MacMahon colors, clearly separated from a larger group. Guards who'd probably been told to watch the rear, to make sure no one followed.
They looked up in alarm as Ewan appeared, their hands going to their weapons.
But they were too slow. Far, far too slow.
Ewan was off his horse and on the first man before the guard's sword had even cleared its sheath.
His fist connected with the man's jaw, and he felt bone crack and give beneath his knuckles. The sensation was satisfying in a primal way that should probably concern him, but didn't.
The guard went down hard, groaning and spitting blood.
The second man managed to draw his blade, swinging wildly at Ewan with more panic than skill. The sword caught him along the ribs, a shallow cut that sliced through leather and shirt to score the skin beneath. It stung like fire, and Ewan felt blood begin to seep from the wound.
But pain only fed the rage burning in his chest.
These were MacMahon's men. The men who'd taken Maia. The men who'd made her scream his name in terror.
The men who were going to pay for that in blood.
Ewan grabbed the guard's sword arm and twisted, hard and fast and with all the strength born of years of training and combat. He heard something pop, the shoulder dislocating with a wet sound that would have made him sick under other circumstances.
The man screamed and dropped his weapon, and Ewan's fist drove into his stomach, doubling him over. Then his other fist came up, connecting with the guard's face, and the man crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
Ewan stood over him, breathing hard, blood seeping from the cut on his ribs and dripping down to stain his shirt. The first guard was struggling to sit up, his jaw hanging at an odd angle, his eyes glazed with pain.
Neither of them would be following. Neither of them would be raising any alarms.
"Where is she?" Ewan's voice was deadly calm as he drew his own sword and pressed the tip to the conscious guard's throat. "Where is Maia?"
The man's eyes went wide with terror, focusing on the blade at his neck. "I—I daenae—"
"Wrong answer." Ewan pressed harder, drawing a bead of blood that welled up and trickled down the man's neck. "Try again. And this time, think very carefully about how much ye value yer life. Because right now, I'd very much like to end it."
"Up ahead!" the man gasped, the words tumbling over each other in his panic. "Maybe half a mile! The Laird has her, has both of them, they're headin' for the north road where the rest of our men are waitin' with horses!"
Ewan's grip tightened on his sword, his knuckles white. "How many men total?"
"Four! The Laird and three guards!" The man was babbling now, words flowing like water. "Please, I've told ye everythin', just daenae kill me! I have a wife, children, I was just followin' orders—"
Ewan reversed his grip on the sword and brought the pommel down hard on the man's temple. The guard collapsed, unconscious but alive.
Four men plus Callen Ferguson. Against one.
I've faced worse odds.
Though not often, and usually with backup. But there was no time to ride back to the castle, no time to gather Leon and reinforcements. Every second he delayed was another second Maia was in her uncle's hands, being dragged toward whatever nightmare the man had planned for her.
Over Ewan's dead body.
Or preferably, over Callen Ferguson's dead body.
Ewan ran back to his horse, ignoring the burn of the cut on his ribs, ignoring the way his hands were shaking with adrenaline and rage. Half a mile. He could cover that in minutes if he pushed hard enough.
He swung into the saddle and urged the destrier forward at a gallop, dodging trees and jumping fallen logs with the kind of reckless abandon that would get him killed if he wasn't careful. But careful took time, and time was something Maia didn't have.
The forest was a blur around him—dark shapes and deeper shadows, the last traces of twilight fading into true night. But his eyes were adjusting, and the path ahead was clear enough. Clear enough to see—
There.
Maybe a hundred yards ahead, he could see them now. A group of figures, darker shapes against the darkness, two smaller forms being dragged along by larger ones.
Even from this distance, even in the failing light, Ewan recognized Maia's brown hair catching what little moonlight penetrated the canopy. Recognized Mollie's smaller frame struggling against her captor.
And standing in the center of it all, clearly giving orders even though Ewan couldn't hear the words, was Callen Ferguson.
The man who'd tried to take her away from everything she'd found at Castle McGill. From her freedom. From her friends. From the happiness she'd only just started to believe she deserved.
From him.
Fury, unlike anything Ewan had ever felt, surged through his veins like liquid fire.
Mine. She's mine. And I'll destroy anyone who tries to take her.
The possessiveness should have frightened him. Should have reminded him of his father's obsessive control. But this wasn't the same. This wasn't about owning Maia or controlling her.
This was about protecting her. About making sure she never had to be afraid again. About destroying the monster who'd hurt her.
Ewan drew his sword, the blade singing as it left its sheath, and spurred his horse forward with a wordless cry of rage.