Chapter 3
CHAPTER THREE
Her scream tore down the corridor and came back to her distorted and unfamiliar, and in its wake she felt Gavin hesitate, the crushing pressure of his body lifting slightly as though something had reached him before she could.
His hand loosened at her mouth, enough that air rushed back into her lungs in a painful gasp, her chest burning as she dragged breath after breath through her throat.
She did not know what had changed, only that the fear inside her wavered, the moment cracked open without warning. Then she heard the sound of boots striking stone behind him, slow and heavy, and something in her loosened even before she understood why.
Gavin cursed under his breath, his grip faltering further as she twisted her head free and sucked in air so fast it made her dizzy, her palms scraping the stone as she tried to push herself upright, her body still shaking but no longer frozen.
“Get off her.” The voice was low and controlled, and it cut through the air with a force that made Gavin go still.
Marsaili felt it before she saw it, the way his weight changed, the way his body stiffened, as if a blade had been pressed between his shoulders. He turned his head slowly, disbelief making his movements clumsy and late.
She followed his gaze.
Laird Alasdair Grant stood only a few paces away, his presence crowding the narrow corridor, his attention fixed entirely on his brother. He did not look at Marsaili, not even once, but the force of his focus was such that everything else seemed to fall away, Gavin included.
Alasdair crossed the distance in two strides.
Gavin opened his mouth, but no sound came out. Alasdair’s hand closed in the back of his tunic and hauled him away with a force that snapped Marsaili forward as the weight left her, her shoulder striking stone as she slid down the wall, breath tearing from her lungs in a broken gasp.
She barely felt the impact. A wave of surprise crashed through her with such violence it left her lightheaded, her vision blurring as she dragged air back into her chest, her body still trembling. The pressure was gone, the weight had lifted and she was no longer pinned.
Relief followed so fast it left her swaying, her vision narrowing at the edges as her hands fumbled against the stone to keep herself upright.
Alasdair’s presence registered as something solid enough to hold to when everything else still felt on the verge of breaking, and the sight of him standing between her and Gavin settled through her like a tight embrace, steadying her even as her heart continued to race.
Gavin stumbled across the corridor and struck the opposite wall with a sharp crack, swearing as he caught himself.
Alasdair stepped forward, placing himself squarely in front of her, broad shoulders blocking her view entirely, his body a wall she could not see past even if she tried. The corridor felt smaller with him in it, narrowed and steadied by his presence.
His sword was in his hand.
Marsaili watched, breath still uneven, as he lifted it with a smooth motion and set the point at Gavin’s throat, close enough to make him gulp.
I am safe.
The thought consumed her completely, her fingers curling against the stone as her body finally understood what her mind was still catching up to. She had never known safety to arrive so abrupt and absolute, carried on the back of a man who did not hesitate to protect her.
Her gaze traced him without restraint, the rigid line of his back, the contained violence in the way he held himself, every movement precise, every muscle held tightly in check. Control radiated from him and something in her stomach tightened painfully at the sight of it.
Then, footsteps sounded at the far end of the corridor, followed by voices. Her scream had carried farther than she had thought.
Marsaili pushed herself upright on shaking arms, her nightgown torn and cold against her skin, her pulse still racing, but her eyes never left Alasdair.
He stood between her and his brother with a stillness that held fast, the sword steady in his hand, his body shaped by violence held in check.
As he shifted his weight, the torchlight caught along his forearms where his sleeves were pushed back, tracing the tension there as his grip tightened, and the sight of it made her breath hitch before she understood why.
Marsaili could not tear her eyes away from him.
Her heart hammered in her chest, the fear she had known burning down into something else entirely, hotter and more disorienting, as her gaze followed the breadth of his shoulders and the certainty in his stance, the unspoken promise that nothing would pass him to reach her.
The knowledge that he would not move, that he would not hesitate to defend her, stole her breath more completely than terror ever had, and with it came the sharp awareness of the pull she had felt since the first moment she had noticed him in the great hall, now laid bare and impossible to deny.
She should have been thinking of the torn fabric at her shoulder, of Gavin’s hands, of the humiliation still clinging to her skin, but her attention refused to obey, drawn instead to Alasdair with a force she could not reason away.
“Get up,” Alasdair hissed, his voice stripped of all patience.
Gavin scrambled to his feet, one hand pressed to his bleeding face, his eyes flicking toward the sound of approaching steps, already measuring his chances. “Brother, this is nae what it looks like—”
“Dinnae.” Alasdair’s voice cut through Gavin’s words without rising, sharp enough to still him where he stood. “Dinnae insult me with lies. I saw what ye were daein’. I saw what ye meant tae dae.”
Gavin backed a step, then another, his heel catching against the wall as his courage deserted him, his hand lifting as though to ward off the blade still aimed at his throat. “Alasdair, listen tae me,” he said hoarsely. “I had too much tae drink. I didnae mean—”
“Another word,” Alasdair said quietly, the sword lifting a fraction higher, “and I will end ye where ye stand.”
Gavin fell silent. His shoulders slumped as he pressed himself into the stone, blood still tracking down his cheek, his eyes fixed on the blade with naked fear, his breath coming shallow and fast as though he dared not draw it too deeply.
Only then did Alasdair lower the sword.
His attention shifted from his brother to her, and the change in him was immediate and unmistakable, the violence drawn tight and contained as he crossed the short distance to where she sat against the wall, every step measured, every movement controlled.
“Can ye stand, me lady?” he asked, and though his voice softened, the control in it did not.
He held out his hand.
Marsaili took it without thought. His palm was warm and rough against hers, the strength in his grip steady and sure as he drew her to her feet with restrained care, as though he was holding back far more than he allowed himself to show.
She swayed, unsteady, and he stepped closer at once, his body angling subtly toward hers, placing himself between her and the corridor without looking back.
For a moment they stood too close for courtesy, enough that she could see the tension working in his jaw, the fury still alive in his eyes, sharpened and contained, but never once turned on her.
His gaze dropped briefly to the torn fabric at her shoulder, then lifted to meet hers, and the look he gave her there rooted her to the spot.
Nothing would reach her while he stood there.
“Did he hurt ye?” he asked quietly, the question meant only for her, his thumb tightening around her hand as though anchoring her in place.
“Nay,” she managed, her voice unsteady despite her effort. “Ye came in time.”
Something passed over his face at that, swift and unguarded, relief cutting through the hardness before it was mastered again, and his grip tightened for the barest instant as his eyes held hers, steady and intent, and it struck her like a promise he did not need to speak aloud.
He released her hand only to shrug out of his cloak, settling it around her shoulders with a care that belied the violence still coiled in him.
Marsaili drew it close at once, shuddering as the warmth and the weight of it registered, the scent of leather and smoke grounding her where she stood. “Thank ye,” she murmured, the words catching as she wrapped herself tighter, as though the cloth itself were holding her together.
A figure appeared at the end of the corridor. Tavish, her brother, his face flushed with panic as his eyes found her. He most likely had been roused from his chamber, still in his shirt and trews, his earlier claim of exhaustion forgotten in the chaos.
"Marsaili!" Tavish ran toward them. His gaze took in her torn nightgown, Alasdair standing protectively close, Gavin bleeding against the wall. His expression went dark with rage. His hand went to his dirk.
"Tavish, nay." Alasdair's voice carried command despite its quietness. "Nae here. Nae like this. Me solar. We must speak o’ what happened. Decide what is tae be done." He looked at Gavin, who still stood against the wall, and his voice went hard again. "Ye will come too. Now.”
More footsteps came down the corridor behind Tavish, men roused and confused, torches bobbing, voices already gathering questions.
Alasdair felt the castle’s attention turning toward them like a tide, and he moved before the moment could become spectacle, before gossip could take shape in the mouths of servants and guards.
He lifted his hand once, a small, precise gesture toward the nearest of his men.
“Bring candles tae me solar,” he ordered, his tone flat. “And send fer Fergus. I want him at the door.”
“Aye, me laird,” the man said, and turned at once.