Chapter 34
Calum was unable to wipe the smile from his face as he followed the team down to the boat slip.
He felt as though he’d just discovered a sea cave filled with gold.
As if what had happened between them the night before was stitched together by God like Freya’s needlework, a grand and perfect design.
Every moment of waiting, every ache of restraint, had been worth it.
Now he knew, beyond doubt, that all would be well.
There would be hardship still, as there had been these past four months. But with her at his side, he could face anything, just as he had known when he was sixteen.
Murdoch dropped Aoife’s trunk with a grunt, grinning wide. “Things are settled between you and Freya then?”
Emotion surged through Calum’s chest at the memory of his beautiful lass in his arms, the silk of her hair, the way she had held him close whispering how much she loved him as they slipped to sleep.
He nodded once, firm. “Aye. Permanently.”
David trudged by with their trunk, his scowl souring the morning. “Feels as though I’m the only married man among us no’ paired off like beasts for Noah’s ark.”
Iain snorted. “Och, looks like ah’m nae fit tae keep a lassie company. Skye, Garmoran… they jist gie me the laugh an’ gang awa’.”
Eoghan twirled a pink ribbon between his fingers, his grin sly. “Don’t take it too hard, mate. I’d wager the poor girls couldn’t make sense of that tongue of yours. More riddles than words.”
Murdoch’s gaze drifted to the shore. “I’ve already asked Aoife’s father for her hand. Only a matter of asking her next.”
Hector leaned on the rail, arms folded. “And you, Angus? Any love on the horizon?”
Angus shrugged. “Might get a hound after this.”
The men roared with laughter.
Murdoch tightened rope over the trunk. “Speaking of women—where’s Aoife?”
Hector tipped his chin toward Léo and Aileen. “Coming now.”
Calum stowed his pack, his contentment brimming over, then turned to Hector. “What did you want to discuss with me?”
Hector looked toward the shore. “It can wait till we cast off.”
A shadow flickered over his features—faint, but Calum caught it.
“What is it?”
Hector uncrossed his arms, holding a hand out to steady Cara as she boarded. “Just a small matter.”
It didn’t sound small. The man had one of the deepest voices he’d ever heard, but even laying that aside, it sounded serious.
Cara climbed aboard, wringing her hands. “Are we ready to go then? I’m missing my boys.”
The look on her face unsettled him further. “Have you seen Aoife or Freya?”
She swallowed. “Aye. Freya left your note behind. She went back to fetch it.”
Aileen’s brow tightened. They will only be a moment.
Calum braced one hand on his dagger. The fine hairs along his neck rose.
Aileen studied his face in the way she often did when they were on missions together, as if to discern how much he suspected. You know how women are. We always need an extra minute to gather our things.
Her attempt at reassurance only made his fear coil tighter, belting around his chest. And then sounds broke across the bay—sharp, splintering snaps, followed by the heavy, mournful toll of a watch bell.
In an instant, Angus staggered backward, knocked clean off his feet—an arrow buried deep in his chest, crimson spreading fast across his tunic. His calm, steady voice sounded eerily out of place. “I’m… hit.”
Before the horror could register, another shaft hissed across the deck. Cara crumpled beside him, arms flung wide, an arrow jutting from her back.
“NO!” Hector’s roar shook the loch, raw and terrible.
Arrows hammered down like hail, clattering into the deck. War instinct snapped the men into motion, closing around Aileen, Angus, and Cara in a living shield, eyes raking the treeline where the attack rained from.
Oh God, no. Freya.
Murdoch’s eyes locked with his, both men crouched behind the rail, the same terror written across his partner’s face.
Doc rolled to the side, fingers hooking his bow and quiver. In one smooth motion he strung the weapon, nocked an arrow, and waited for the lull.
Behind them, Hector scooped Cara into his arms. His horrified gaze fixed on the arrow lodged in her back. “Cara—no, no, no—stay with me, love, please—”
Her head lolled into his neck, her voice a broken whisper. “…My boys. Eamon… Finn…”
The color drained from her face, her eyes sliding back. Hector’s great frame shook as he clutched her tighter, his voice breaking apart. “Don’t—don’t you leave me—Aileen, help her! Somebody do something—”
“No! Stay down!” Léo hauled his wife flat, wrapping his body over hers, pinning her to the deck as another wave of arrows shrieked from the trees.
They sheltered one another, wood splintering as arrows thudded into the planks—but no flesh was pierced this time.
At the prow, Iain struggled with the tether, frantic. “We have to get off the open shoreline!”
“NO!” Aileen, Calum, Murdoch, and David shouted as one—while Hector, Léo, Eoghan, and Iain bellowed back a resounding, “YES!”
Another thwip cracked from the woods. Léo shoved Aileen hard, as an arrow buried itself in the spot she’d been crouching a heartbeat before.
He spun, eyes raking over Cara and Angus, and screamed, voice desperate. “Hector! Allons-y! Sortez-la d’ici!”
The French broke through. Hector’s horror snapped into focus, his grief-wracked face hardening back into command. He met Calum’s eyes. “You three—find Freya and Aoife. Head north. Rally at Pornaluchaig by dusk. We’re driving for Lochbuie.”
He ripped his sword free and hurled it. Calum caught it clean, belting it on.
“Go!” Hector roared.
Sprinting past the others, Calum tore toward the cottage, arrows hissing around him. He screamed for Freya, hope clawing at his chest that she was still inside, safe behind its stone walls. Beside him, Murdoch matched his stride, shouting for Aoife. No one emerged from the cottage.
As they drew closer, panic surged through him.
The Shield had grown too comfortable in their skill, too certain of their stealth.
That confidence had left them exposed—left Freya exposed.
His mind reeled. They had never been ambushed.
Always the hunters, never the prey. If their enemies could strike with the same precision, then nothing, and no one, was safe.
Inside the cottage was bare. Silence. Empty Rooms. They flung open doors, calling out.
“Back door’s open! Movement on the loch—northeast!” David’s voice cut through like a spear.
Murdoch spun, shoulders heaving, eyes wild. The sudden force of his roar made Calum’s own heart jolt. “GO! Catch them!”
Calum tore for the open door, bursting out into the arrow-strewn field.
On the water, a boat cut steadily toward the horizon.
His stomach sank with dread, but his legs were already churning, fire exploding through every muscle as he hurled himself forward across the field.
Caterans spilled from the tree line, but he veered wide, heedless, his whole body straining for the shrinking vessel.
Each stride burned deeper, yet still he drove on, vision tunneling until the boat came into focus—and the sight of it nearly staggered him.
The MacLean standard whipped in the wind, his father’s owl painted upon its hull. No. God. No.
The sail caught, oars dipping in unison, manned not by Jurans but the same kind of noble-looking lowlanders who’d tried to seize Freya months ago. The boat began to pull away, moving farther into the loch. NO, God please!
He caught sight of Rory on the deck, sword drawn, aimed, and then—plunged forward.
Terror ripped through him as he screamed, still too far to reach her.
Then the boat shifted, and he saw the truth.
It was Ragnall who clutched his hands to his chest as Rory wrenched the sword free.
Ragnall who staggered backward and hit the rail, plunging into the loch. Freya’s scream split the air.
Calum hit the shoreline as the boat veered swiftly away.
He dove into the freezing tide, arms and legs burning as he swam.
Ragnall floated face down, and Calum rolled him over, the man choking, spitting water and blood.
Arms and legs screaming, he swam back to the beach, hauling his father-in-law out of the tide.
“WHAT HAVE YOU DONE? YOU AULD HORRIBLE FOOL, WHAT HAVE YOU DONE?”
Ragnall’s face twisted with agony, his eyes darting wildly as if he saw demons circling. “The…inheritance. He wanted…inheritance.”
Calum jerked him up by the shoulders, shaking him. “Rory?”
Ragnall nodded weakly. “He said…said he’d make me…Laird of Tioram.”
Confused, he eased the man back on the shore, ripping his kyrtill off and forcing it against the gushing wound. Every heartbeat mattered. The longer Ragnall lived, the more of their plan he could tear from him. “What inheritance? Speak, man!”
“Freya’s mother’s inheritance.”
Calum’s mind seized on the name, panic rising. “Amie Godfrey—Amie Godfrey! What was her inheritance?”
“MacRuari.” Ragnall’s jaw locked with pain, blood bubbling at his lips. “Her name was…Amie MacRuari. The king’s first wife.” He coughed, spitting red into the sand. “Lands…left to Freya. On her marriage…she inherits Amie’s lands…Garmoran.”
Calum’s blood froze. His thoughts scattered like leaves in a gale. “What are you saying?”
Ragnall’s gaze rolled, terrified, as if he were staring into the abyss. “She’s no’ my daughter—I’ve said it, I’ve said it.”
Cold dread gripped Calum’s chest. “Whose daughter then? Who is her father?”
Ragnall clawed at the air, his eyes glazing. “John… the King of the Isles. The fruit of a night…with his wife after divorce. When she was exiled…to Iona Nunnery.” His voice dropped, hoarse. “I took the bairn. Kept her. The king paid me…to keep her hidden.”
Ragnall began to shake. “If Rory marries Freya. Promises Jura for me. Tioram for me. Lands for Rory…” His lips worked barely forming words. “Rory betrayed me…wants Tioram, Jura, everything. Dómhnall, Stewart…”
Calum pressed down firmer on the wound, the kyrtill soaking. “What did they do?”
“Killed the king.” The words tore out in a gasp. “Rory and Dómhnall plot. Rory gets more lands in Argyll from Dómhnall for helping…Stewart…new Council of the Isles with his loyalists…and Ardtornish.”
Calum was dumbstruck. The sheer scope of the scheme left him reeling.
“I suspect Freya… Storyteller.”
Calum went rigid. “What do you mean?”
Ragnall’s breath rattled. “Must keep quiet… must no’ anger Stewart… we lose everything. We followed her. We know. Rory will use it—to force her hand.”
Ice flooded Calum’s veins. “Rory is taking her to Ardtornish. He means to drag her before the new Council of the Isles, to threaten her with exposure. He thinks he can coerce her into marriage, claim her lands, claim her.”
Ragnall managed a jerky nod. “Aye.”
A bitter laugh escaped Calum, sharp and raw. “He will not. Our marriage is consummated. He will never take Freya from me.”
Murdoch and David came stumbling down the shore, gasping for breath. They dropped to the sand beside him, eyes wide at the sight of the dying chieftain.
Ragnall’s ruined face twisted into a smile. With trembling fingers he clawed at his shoulder, dragging free the chieftain’s brooch. He tossed it into the sand at Calum’s side. “I name you my heir… Get MacDonald.”
Blood surged through Calum’s veins. “Get MacDonald? Not save my Freya? Not a thought for the daughter who still loves you as her Papa? Still only yourself?!” Contempt dripped from his voice, feral rage surging back to the surface.
“You vile, godless traitor.” He ripped his hands from the wound, letting the man’s life spill out unchecked.
Ragnall’s gaze broke, eyes rolling wild, as if staring into horrors only he could see. He writhed against the pebbles, voice rising in a final, broken cry. “Oh God… oh God! No! Dinnae take me—no! No!”
Calum stared down at the lifeless body, chest heaving, every nerve ending on edge. The man was gone. Ragnall MacSorley—chieftain, traitor, fool—was gone, leaving behind nothing but riddles and ruin.
Murdoch looked at him, his eyes hard. “Rory’s taken them?”
He nodded. “But that’s the least of it.”
The brooch lay in the sand where it had fallen, glinting in the gray light. His father’s brooch. The symbol of everything he had lost now thrust back into his hands by a man so wicked he could hardly fathom it.
He pressed a shaking palm over his face, trying to wrestle sense from the storm in his head. Freya’s mother… Garmoran… the king murdered by his own son…Stewart’s takeover of the Isles… Rory scheming to force her into marriage. It was too much, too fast, confusing every thought.
One truth broke through, more terrifying to him than all the others. Freya. She was the center of it all—her inheritance, her bloodline, her secret. And she was in Rory’s grasp.