Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
“Damn it all,” Kieran mumbled under his breath. The rain came down in needles, sharp and cold, stinging. His face felt as if the Highlands themselves sought to punish him for every heartbeat he had wasted.
His horse thundered over sodden ground, its hooves slipping on stone and mud, its breath tearing from its lungs in white plumes that vanished into the night.
Kieran leaned low over the animal’s neck, his cloak plastered to his back with the rain, his black hair loose and whipping across his eyes.
He did not slow, not even for a moment, not even for a breath. He could not.
Lydia.
The thought of her was a blade driven under his ribs.
He had sent her away to keep her safe; a decision made with iron logic and no mercy for his own heart. And now, Sebastian had revealed the full depth of his ambition—a full army. Not shadows like he had thought before. Not knives in corridors or poisoned wine anymore.
This time, he was trying to wage a war.
The rain turned the hills into slick, treacherous beasts. Wind howled through the heather, carrying the distant smell of smoke—Michael’s fires, set alight to deceive Sebastian’s men. Kieran trusted him with his life, but still, his jaw clenched until it ached.
He didn’t like leaving his men behind like that.
He didn’t like not being there when they could very easily be tangled into a fight, but Lydia’s well-being, her very life depended on him.
He had been the one to let her down, to send her away where he could not protect her.
Now, it was his duty to bring her to safety once more, away from the clutches of the man who wanted her dead.
Sebastian… that bastard. Once I get me hands on him, there will be nay hope for him. Nay mercy.
A flash of movement crested the ridge ahead as Kieran crossed the path where it snaked down the other side of the hill.
He reined in sharply, his horse skidding sideways with a distressed snort.
When it finally came to a sudden halt. Kieran tightened his hold on the animal to stop himself from falling off the saddle.
Jerked as he was by the sharp movement, he caught himself at the very last moment.
With a decisive pull, he urged the animal up onto a rocky outcrop, dismounting in one smooth motion. From there, crouched low, the rain streaming from his hair and beard, he scanned the valley below.
Torches.
There were dozens of them, bobbing in steady rhythm. The sign of men, most likely armed, marching with discipline.
His breath slowed, not in relief but in calculation. He observed them as they descended the valley and then stopped there to rest, slowed down by the rain.
They were not Sebastian’s men; they couldn’t be.
For one, they were marching towards the wrong direction.
And even from a distance, Kieran could see they were carrying different banners.
Theirs were darker, their formation tighter, and the way they moved spoke of a commander who knew exactly what he was doing.
There was only one stronghold in this part of the Highlands that could field such a force.
Castle McMurphy.
“So,” Kieran muttered to the rain, “ye’ve heard too.”
Elijah McMurphy would not have gathered his men without cause. If Elijah was marching, it meant a threat had reached his borders—or his wife’s ears.
It was then that relief finally flooded through him. If Elijah was already marching towards Sebastian, then that meant he was more than willing to help in their cause. He was the backup Kieran had needed, and he was generously giving his help before even being asked.
Kieran swore softly and swung back into the saddle.
With Elijah and so many of his forces there—though they were marching in the right direction—Castle McMurphy was defenseless.
Kieran wouldn’t put it past Sebastian to find a less than honorable way to attack the castle at its weakest, slipping past both him and Elijah to get to Lydia.
He was a man possessed, and Kieran was convinced Sebastian would do anything he could to kill her, just to break him.
Nothing mattered to the man anymore. He was not after the clan; he was after revenge.
Kieran glanced back down at the army. He did not charge down the hill like a fool, thinking that it was very likely he would be stopped by Elijah’s men, even if he was all alone.
Instead, he guided his horse along a narrow, half-hidden path, circling wide until he could approach the army’s temporary resting camp from the rear.
They had halted near a stand of old pines, their tents hastily erected, the men clustered around low fires sheltered from the rain by canvas and rock. The air smelled of wet wool, steel, and readiness, and the more Kieran looked at them, the more he feared they were Elijah’s full forces.
But he wouldnae leave the castle undefended. Nay laird would ever do such a thing.
Kieran dismounted again, tethered his horse on one of the pines, and moved on foot—silently.
Despite his size, he knew how to disappear when necessary.
Years of warfare and border skirmishes had taught him that brute strength meant nothing without restraint.
And though now he was looking to avoid a skirmish rather than instigate one, the skill was just as useful.
He slipped between the trees, his boots soundless on pine needles, his eyes sharp as he searched for the man who could be Elijah.
He had a vague description of him, as much from Lydia as from the reports his men gave him throughout the years. Though he and Elijah weren’t acquainted, every laird in the Highlands knew enough about the others to be able to recognize them upon meeting them—and carry a pleasant conversation.
He was halfway to the nearest fire when a sword suddenly pressed against his throat. Kieran felt the chill of the blade pass through him like a shiver, his eyes darting to the side in an attempt to see who it was who held that sword on his throat.
“Daenae move,” a voice snapped, the sound of it young and tense. “Or I’ll open ye from ear to ear.”
Kieran froze, his hands slowly lifting away from his sides in a show of surrender.
“Well,” he said calmly, rain dripping from his lashes, “that’s a warm welcome.”
Another blade appeared at his ribs. Then another voice barked, “Who are ye? Speak fast.”
Kieran turned his head just enough to glimpse them—three soldiers, their cloaks soaked through, their eyes wide with the thrill of a possible enemy slipping into camp. One looked barely old enough to shave, but that didn’t stop him from threatening to use his blade on him.
“If I were here to kill ye,” Kieran said dryly, “ye’d already be dead. And cold.”
The youngest soldier bristled. “Arrogant bastard.”
“Observant bastard,” Kieran corrected.
But then, just as Kieran was about to try and reason with them, a heavier presence approached, boots crunching deliberately through wet earth. The men stiffened, their swords lowering just a fraction as if uncertain they should be using them at all.
“Explain,” came a deep, controlled voice as calm as it was dangerous.
A man stepped into the firelight. He was broad-shouldered with hair darkened by rain and tied back at his nape, a sword hanging easy at his side as if it were an extension of his arm rather than a weapon.
His gaze swept over Kieran with a commander’s precision, taking in the fine steel of his boots, the cut of his cloak, the way he stood unbowed despite three blades threatening his life.
“Either ye’re a very brave scout,” the man said, “or a very stupid one.”
Kieran met his eyes evenly. “I’ve been called both.”
There was little doubt in Kieran’s mind that this man was Elijah. He matched the description Kieran had of him, but it was more than that: the man carried himself with the air of someone who was in charge, as if he owned every place he entered.
Elijah’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Name.”
“Kieran Gillies,” he said. “Laird McDawson.”
The reaction was immediate. Around him, steel wavered. One of the men swore, while another took an unconscious step back, putting some space between himself and Kieran, as if he feared the mere mention of his name would strike him.
Elijah’s brows drew together, not entirely convinced. He gave Kieran a scrutinizing look, as if he was trying to decide whether or not what he knew of him matched the man standing before him, and in the end, Kieran didn’t seem to satisfy his criteria—at least not entirely.
“That’s a bold claim.”
“As bold as sneakin’ into another laird’s camp alone in a storm,” Kieran replied. “Yet here I am.”
Elijah studied him in silence for a long moment, the rain hissing as it struck the fires around them. Then he gestured sharply to his men.
“Lower yer swords.”
Reluctantly, they obeyed, and Kieran let out a sigh of relief when those blades stopped being pressed against his body, close enough that one wrong move could have taken off his head.
Elijah stepped closer, peering into Kieran’s face. “Ye’re taller than I imagined.”
Kieran huffed a short, amused laugh. “And ye’re less inclined to kill strangers than I expected.”
“That depends on the stranger,” Elijah said. “And the reason he’s here.”
Kieran didn’t waste time. Surely, Elijah knew much of the story from Lydia, and if he was already on his way to Sebastian, it could only mean he had figured out the rest on his own.
“Me uncle, Sebastian Fraser, has raised an army on yer border,” he said.
“I’m sure ye’ve had news of it yerself since ye seem to be on yer way to find him.
I was comin’ to find ye and inform ye that he is here, and he marches to take Lydia.
He has enough of an army with him to attempt an attack on the castle, and when he does, we should be there. ”
The camp seemed to still around them.
Elijah’s expression hardened, all traces of humor vanishing. “Yer uncle. So those men flyin’ yer banners… they’re nae with ye.”