Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Connor sat at the long oak table in the council chamber, his shoulders squared though his mind churned. Michael stood near the wall, uneasy but proud, his hands clasped before him as the councilors stared. Connor cleared his throat and spoke firmly.
“I believe the lad before us is me brother, Michael Davies, lost to us twelve years past and thought dead.”
A low murmur rippled through the chamber.
Fergus leaned forward, his brows drawn tight. “Ye’re sayin’ the bairn is standin’ here in the flesh?” another councilor muttered.
Voices overlapped as disbelief, shock, and suspicion filled the air, some calling it madness and others whispering of miracles.
Connor raised his hand, but the noise swelled before it slowly ebbed. He looked at Michael, who shifted his weight, eyes darting as the men argued his existence like a problem to be solved.
“He has the mark. Show them, Michael,” Connor said.
Michael stood up and showed the birthmark on his neck. The council gasped.
“He's been in McKay lands all this time. Taken by Jack Welsh and raised as his own. It is possible that it was Jack who killed our maither and faither and then proceeded to take Michael.”
“Jack Welsh? But why?” Fergus asked.
The group groaned and argued in confusion to this news.
Connor listened, his patience thinning with every heartbeat. He opened his mouth to speak again when the doors burst open with a sharp crack.
Boots pounded across the stone floor, and all heads turned.
Amelie stumbled into the chamber, her hair loose and her face pale with terror. A trickle of blood ran down her cheek from her head.
“Me Laird!” she cried, clutching her chest as she fought for breath.
Connor was on his feet in an instant, dread flooding him before she even spoke the words.
“Eva, Eva’s been taken,” Amelie gasped, “A man with guards took her from the village.”
The room erupted anew, but Connor heard nothing beyond the roar in his ears.
“Did this man say his name?” Connor said as he grabbed his sword belt from the table and buckled it on.
“Aye, he said his name is Jack Welsh,” Amelie said.
Michael stepped forward sharply. “That’s nae possible,” he said, his voice strained. “Me faither wouldnae do such a thing, nae ever.”
Connor was already moving and giving orders as he strode toward the door.
“David!” he bellowed, not breaking his stride. “Get the men armed and saddled, now!”
Michael hurried after him, his long legs barely keeping pace. “I’m comin’ with ye,” Michael insisted. “I’ll see it with me own eyes for I daenae think it's him.”
Connor spun on him briefly, fire blazing in his gaze. “Then pray ye’re right, brother,” he snapped, “for if he’s touched her, I’ll show him nay mercy.”
Michael swallowed hard but nodded, his resolve firm despite the fear flickering in his eyes. Together they burst into the corridor, boots echoing like thunder as they made their way down to the courtyard.
Guards scrambled as Connor barked without pause. “Saddle the horses, we ride out!” he shouted. “Me betrothed has been taken!”
Steel rang as swords were grabbed, and the courtyard filled with frantic motion. Connor seized the reins of his horse, anger and terror twisting together in his chest.
Michael mounted beside him, hands shaking as he took hold of the saddle.
“Connor,” he said urgently, “if he’s innocent, ye must listen to me.”
Connor didn’t look at him as he swung onto his horse. “I’ll listen,” he growled, “but only after Eva’s safe.”
The gates flew open, and the group thundered out across the road, hooves striking sparks from stone. Wind tore at Connor’s cloak as the castle fell away behind them. His thoughts raced faster than the horses, each one circling back to Eva’s smile, her laugh, her stubborn courage.
He clenched his jaw, knuckles white around the reins.
I've already lost too much to Jack Welsh, whether by blood or by lies. If Eva has been harmed, there willnae be a reckonin’ deep enough to balance the scales.
Michael rode close, his face drawn tight with conflict. Connor could feel the boy’s turmoil like a storm at his side, loyalty pulling him in opposite directions. Yet Connor could not slow, could not soften, not now. Every beat of his heart screamed her name.
Connor rode into the village beside David, his jaw set as people paused in their tasks to stare. He reined in near the well and called out, his voice steady but edged with steel.
“Who saw aught this day when the lass went missin’?” he demanded, eyes sweeping the gathered faces.
A grey-haired farmer stepped forward, wiping his hands on his tunic as fear flickered across his features.
“Aye, me laird,” the man said, nodding nervously, “I saw three men, cloaks pulled low, headin’ west just after noon.”
A woman beside him crossed herself and added, “They rode hard, sir, like the hounds were after them.”
Another villager chimed in, voice trembling, “One had a scarred cheek, I ken that much, and they dinnae stop for aught.”
Connor thanked them curtly, his heart hammering as the direction settled heavy in his gut.
He urged his horse forward, David falling in close as they left the village behind.
“West, then,” Connor said grimly.
David nodded, scanning the ground. “Aye, and fast. By the sound of it they are nae goin' to McKay lands, though they dinnae hide their trail well.”
The wind whipped past as they broke into a gallop, hooves thundering over packed earth and stone.
They slowed at the edge of the woods, where Connor leaned low from the saddle.
“There,” he said sharply, pointing to churned mud and broken grass.
David dismounted and crouched, fingers brushing the ground. “Fresh tracks,” he confirmed, “four horses, shod heavy, headin’ straight into the trees.”
Connor’s breath came harsh as he swung down, leading his horse into the shadows.
The forest swallowed them whole. Connor pushed aside branches, eyes darting for any sign of torn cloth or dropped trinket.
“Eva!” he called once, then again, the name cracking despite his effort to stay calm.
David stayed close, murmuring, “We’ll find her, me laird.”
“The villagers said the men are nae headed to McKay lands, instead the men are goin’ west. Why would Jack do that? I cannae believe it is him. The maid must be mistaken,” Michael said as he walked beside Connor.
“Perhaps to make us believe that it is nae McKay men,” Connor said.
They followed the tracks deeper, but soon the ground turned rocky and hard, the marks fading. Connor cursed under his breath, striking a tree with his fist.
“They kent what they were doin’,” he snarled.
David frowned, scanning the undergrowth. “Aye, they doubled back here, tried to lose any trackers.”
They split briefly, circling a small clearing where an old fire pit lay cold. Connor knelt, touching the ash.
“Nay more than a few hours old,” he muttered.
David shook his head. “They dinnae linger, took what they needed and moved on.”
As the light began to thin, Connor straightened, fury and fear warring within him.
“We’re losin’ them,” he said hoarsely.
David placed a steady hand on his shoulder. “For now, aye, but tracks can be found again.”
Connor nodded stiffly, though the thought of waiting tore at him.
He mounted again, casting one last desperate look into the trees.
“Hold on, Eva,” he whispered, the words a vow and a plea.
David swung up beside him, face set with determination. Together they turned back toward the road, empty-handed but unbroken.
As they continued down the path a thin thread of smoke curled through the trees like a warning finger.
“There. Smoke, see it?” Connor said.
“Aye,” David said.
“Tie off the horses. We move on foot from here so as to nae give warnin’ we are comin’,” Connor said.
The men walked through the woods with Connor leading the way. He edged toward a clearing. It was ringed with rough tents and tethered horses, and at its heart stood Eva bound to a post.
Connor drew his sword in one smooth motion, steel whispering as it cleared the sheath.
“Let her go, Jack,” he said, his voice low and deadly calm.
Jack’s laugh cut sharp through the clearing. “Give me back me son, and maybe I’ll consider it,” he sneered, tightening his grip near Eva’s shoulder.
Michael stepped forward, pale as ash, eyes darting between them. “Da,” he said hoarsely, “what are ye doin’? Why do ye have that woman?”
Connor kept his sword raised, every muscle screaming to charge.
“Michael isnae yer son,” he said, each word forced through clenched teeth.
Jack’s face twisted, rage and grief warring in his eyes. “He is in the ways that matter,” Jack screamed, spittle flying, “the ways that God himself decides.”
Jack stalked a step closer, blade flashing in the firelight. “Yer faither dinnae deserve a son,” he snarled, “nevertheless two, when he took that chance from me.”
Connor shook his head, confusion slicing through his fury. “I daenae ken what ye speak of,” he said, voice hard, “this is madness, let Eva go.”
Michael’s breath came quick as he stared at Jack. “Is that true?” he asked, voice breaking, “ye took me from me own family when I was a bairn? Why?”
Jack’s jaw clenched, his eyes darkening as if old ghosts had risen around him. “Because me wife was taken from me,” Jack said hoarsely, “by Connor’s faither.”
Connor froze, the world narrowing to Jack’s words. “What?” he demanded, disbelief crashing through him.
Jack’s laugh turned hollow. “Aye,” he said, “yer faither killed me wife, and when I saw that carriage overturned, I thought God had judged him.
They were injured gravely in that accident.
I did them a mercy in takin' their lives, but it was also justice. Yer faither lusted after me wife, and when she rejected him, he killed her. I deserved justice, and I got it.”
Jack’s gaze flicked to Michael, almost tender. “I saw ye there,” he said softly, “alive among the wreckage, and I thought ye were me reward. God was givin' me a bairn for the one I never had with me own wife.”
Connor felt his stomach twist as the truth spilled like poison into the air.
“God gave me a child,” Jack whispered fiercely, “to mend what yer faither broke.”
Michael staggered back a step, shaking his head. “That cannae be,” he said, tears shining. “Me da… me life… it was all a lie?”
Jack reached for him, then stopped, his hand trembling. “I loved ye,” Jack said, voice cracking, “I still do.”
Connor’s eyes never left Eva, her face pale, eyes wide with fear.
He felt the burn of rage claw at his chest, begging him to strike Jack down where he stood.
He tightened his grip on the sword, knuckles white, forcing himself to breathe.
He could only hold back because Michael stood between vengeance and ruin.
“Let her go,” Connor said again, softer now, dangerous as a drawn bow.
Jack glanced at Eva, then back at Connor. “When me son comes home with me,” he replied, bitterness thick in his voice.
Michael shook his head fiercely. “I cannae,” he said, “I daenae even ken who I am.”
The camp crackled with tension, guards shifting uneasily as Connor’s men closed in at the edges.
Connor took a careful step forward. “This ends now,” he said, eyes burning.
Jack’s blade wavered as doubt finally crept into his gaze. But that doubt soon disappeared, and madness took over.
Eva met Connor’s eyes, silent strength shining through her fear.
That look anchored him, steadied the storm within.
He would bring her home, or he would die trying.
And as the fire popped and the forest held its breath, Connor knew that blood and truth would both be answered before the night was through.