Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Lachlan did not bother to wait for anyone. He shoved the door open, the hardwood nearly splintering under the sheer force of his push.
His breath was hard and uneven, his chest rising and falling with barely leashed fury.
The receiving chamber was a sight to behold.
Right in the center of the room, a chair lay overturned. One of its legs was broken off, with jagged wood jutting outward and pointing in his direction.
A small table stood at an unnatural angle, with nothing on its surface but a small, abandoned leather case that hung open at its very edge.
Lachlan’s jaw tightened as he moved toward it, emptying its contents on the table with a clatter.
A pair of gloves, pliers, and a couple of small knives that looked as though they had not yet been used.
He hasnae harmed her yet.
The knot in his chest loosened slightly… until he turned toward the wall and caught a stain that made his heart stop.
Blood.
Bright, fresh blood, glistening in the fading evening light.
It streaked along the stone wall in a violent smear, as though someone had struck it with enough force to split their skin.
As though Marian—
A muscle ticked in his jaw as he moved closer to examine the scene. There were more drops of blood scattered across the floor below, leading suspiciously to a clean stretch of floor that looked as though someone had been dragged across it.
Lachlan gritted his teeth as he bent to pick up a short piece of twine from the floor, stained with blood.
His stomach turned.
He had witnessed countless battlefields. He had seen men torn apart under the force of steel and fury and had even gotten his hands dirty many times before.
But this was different.
This was her blood.
The Sassenach who had arrived in his Great Hall merely weeks ago and changed everything.
The English lady who had learned a few Gaelic words in secret just so she could stand and speak for herself where it mattered.
The lass who had kissed him just this afternoon, like she was drowning and he was air.
She was gone.
And this time, it was his fault. Because he’d left her alone with that bastard.
His hand clenched into a fist, his nails biting into his palm as the rough material of the twine scratched his skin. Something dark and dangerous rose within him, his eyes dimming slightly.
“Mairi.” Her name was barely a breath as it left his lips.
His gaze swept over the room again, desperate for any sign that could lead him to her.
Behind him, Finn stepped into the room with Lilly close by his side.
“He…” Lilly pointed with a shaky hand to the corner behind the open door, catching a small detail he had missed. “He left his cane.”
Lachlan’s head snapped in that direction. He crossed the distance in only a few strides and snatched up the cane. His grip tightened on it, his hands trembling with a fury he could no longer contain.
The cane. The leather case. His hands must have been full.
“That bastard,” he growled.
Finn moved toward the window. “I have questioned the guards,” he said, scanning the courtyard below. “They didnae see anyone leave. We think he might have carried her through here.”
The room fell silent, but only for a moment before he spoke again.
“Aye!” he called sharply. “The carriage!”
Lachlan reached the window beside him before he finished speaking. His eyes fell on her—Marian. Her hands and feet were bound with the twine. Her body hung limp as two men hoisted her into the carriage, her head falling back at an unnatural angle, as though she were already—
It cannae be.
The thought stabbed at his heart like a blade. Bile rose in his throat.
Nay.
His hands slammed against the window frame as he hauled himself up, vaulting through it before Finn could stop him.
“Ready the horses!” he shouted, his voice cutting across the courtyard.
But he did not wait for anyone. His horse was already saddled. It had been since the Englishman arrived.
Lachlan mounted it in one clean motion and spurred it forward, chasing Lord Norton’s carriage through the castle gates before the rest of his men had even gathered in the courtyard.
Lachlan leaned low over his horse as it galloped through the gate.
Lord Norton must have seen him, because the carriage gained ground ahead of him, the horses running hard through the darkening road at an increasing speed.
They were trying to outrun him.
Aye.
A dangerous calm settled over him as he urged his horse onward, veering off the road and into the woods that lined it. This was his home. The Highlands were his territory, and nobody knew it better than he did.
He dug his heels hard into his horse’s flanks, and the beast surged beneath him, its muscles flexing as it moved faster.
Lachlan’s gaze did not leave the main road. The trees blurred past them, some of the low branches whipping at his face and arms. But he did not slow down.
He could not.
He caught glimpses of the carriage through the thick trees as the distance between them slowly began to shrink.
Every second that passed was another second Marian spent bound and bleeding in the back of it. Another second that her vile uncle hurt her. Another second that she might believe no one was coming for her.
He would not allow it.
The road narrowed as the carriage dipped into a valley, and he seized the advantage without hesitation.
The jagged rocks and uneven terrain forced his horse to slow down, but only for a moment. Lachlan leaned low further, gripping the reins tighter as his horse tore down the slope, the loose stones scattering beneath its experienced hooves.
He saw the carriage jolt violently as it forced its way through. One of its wheels struck a rock with a sharp crack that echoed through the valley, and his heart lurched.
Marian.
The thought of her getting more injured in there hit him like a blow, and his jaw clenched, something dark and relentless taking hold of him.
The wind roared in his ears, and he pushed himself harder, drowning out everything but the sound of hooves and the rattle of the carriage ahead. He was closer now.
One of the men riding along the carriage turned, spotting him in the forest, and shouted. Just then, a pistol cracked loudly, catching him off guard.
Lachlan squinted his eyes and kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks again, the beast veering just enough as the bullet struck one of the trees he sped past. He let out a sharp breath, drawing even closer to the carriage.
The man cursed, reaching for his powder as they began to approach the plains, but his horse was hardly steady, and he was far too slow.
Lachlan tightened his grip on the reins, pushing his horse even faster as the path curved sharply ahead. It was his chance.
The carriage slowed as it drew closer to the edge of a cliff, and he surged forward, closing the gap at last.
“Stop!” he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos, but they did not.
He pulled on the reins one last time, trusting his horse as they jumped onto the main path, intercepting the carriage right at the mouth of the pass.
The horses neighed, confused, and came to a violent halt.
“Marian!” Lachlan shouted, his heart thundering against his ribs.
There was no answer. Instead, the door to the carriage creaked open, and her uncle stepped down with a loaded pistol in hand. His men dismounted their horses, and Lachlan’s gaze flickered over them, sharp and assessing.
There were four of them in total: Lord Norton and three armed guards. But their hands shook as they aimed their pistols at him.
Cowards.
Lachlan’s eyes flicked past them to the carriage, searching for any sign of further movement. There was none.
His jaw clenched.
If Marian was hurt worse than he’d assumed earlier, if that man had done anything more to hurt her while in the carriage…
He dismounted his horse, his fingers closing around the hilt of his sword with practiced ease.
Up close, Lord Norton looked every inch the English aristocrat—tailored coat, polished boots, silver-streaked hair that was perfectly arranged despite the wild ride. But he was a small man. And his cold eyes reflected his emptiness to anyone who looked closely enough.
Lachlan had killed men like him before. Men who thought titles and lineage placed them above consequence. Men who believed the lives beneath them were worth less than property.
He would kill another today.
“Ah,” Lord Norton said, his tone sarcastic. “The ghost arrives.”
Lachlan had no mind for his humor. Now was not the time. But he responded anyway, his focus still on the carriage.
“Ye wanted me dead, me Lord?” he asked mockingly.
He took a step closer, and the first shot came without warning. A crack split the air, and he moved instinctively, shifting just enough for the bullet to whizz past him, tearing through the sleeve of his tunic.
Still, he did not stop.
The second guard raised his pistol, but this time, Lachlan was better prepared.
He closed the distance between them in two strides. His sword drove forward with brutal precision, cutting clean through the man’s chest before he’d even had a chance to pull the trigger.
His blade gleamed in the dimming evening light, blood dripping from the tip onto the ground as the man collapsed onto the dirt with a gurgle.
There was no time to slow down. Another guard rushed him, and Lachlan turned sharply, avoiding the strike that was meant for his ribs. He slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest with enough force to send him stumbling backward, dangerously close to the cliff’s edge.
“Look,” he hissed, then he gave the guard one final kick to the chest, causing him to lose his footing.
The guard’s arms flailed at once, and then, with a loud howl, he was gone.
There was only one guard left now. He crashed into Lachlan from behind, driving forward with desperate strength.
Lachlan grunted, his boots digging into the earth as he absorbed the impact. He twisted sharply, catching the man’s arms and wrenching him around with practiced ease.
“Ye should have used yer pistol,” he sneered, his forearm locking tight around the man’s throat.
“Enough!” Lord Norton barked, his voice cutting through the air like a blade.
Lachlan went still. He lifted his gaze to look at the man, his eyes blazing as though they could burn him to the ground.
Lord Norton aimed his pistol at Lachlan’s head, with no hesitation in his gaze.
He will shoot.
Lachlan’s eyes narrowed as he measured the distance between them. If he tried to dispose of the guard, he would not have enough time to escape Edmund’s shot. Not with him so close.
His grip loosened just slightly—a mistake on his part—and the guard jerked violently within his hold, twisting just enough to drag a blade across his thigh.
Lachlan groaned. Pain splintered through his leg, and his jaw clenched hard as his grip faltered. Warm blood soaked through his trews almost instantly, but he did not look down. Not while Marian was still inside the carriage.
Lord Norton’s fingers tightened on the trigger, and Lachlan tightened his grip on the guard’s neck again, even as the blade drove deeper into his thigh. He shifted his weight despite the pain.
The world seemed to narrow down to the barrel of the pistol as a shot rang out. But it was not Lord Norton’s pistol.
The guard in front of Lachlan jerked violently, his body going rigid right before he collapsed to the ground.
For a brief second, everything stilled. Then more shots followed in quick succession.
Lord Norton’s expression faltered. Lachlan looked up, his breathing still uneven as his eyes fell on them—Finn and a few dozen of his men. They hurried up the road, their horses’ hooves thundering against the ground.
Lord Norton staggered back a step, his pistol still raised, though his hand had now begun to tremble.
Lachlan straightened, stepping forward despite the pain in his leg. Lord Norton’s eyes darted between him and his men as they drew closer, his panic growing.
There was nowhere left to run.
“Drop it!” Finn barked, his voice sharp as steel as he leveled his weapon.
For a moment, Lord Norton hesitated. His eyes flicked back to Lachlan, then the pistol slipped from his fingers, hitting the ground with a dull thud.
Lachlan walked past him without sparing him another glance, heading straight toward the carriage.
“Bind him,” he ordered, without looking back. “If he moves, kill him.”