Chapter 21
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Ada sat on the edge of the bed, her fingers worrying at the fabric of her nightdress.
Magnus had been gone for nearly an hour now. She'd heard his boots fade down the corridor, heard the low murmur of voices as he and Torvald moved toward the war room. Then silence.
She'd tried to sleep. Had lain down, pulled the blankets up, closed her eyes. But her mind wouldn't settle. The worry in Magnus's face when he'd left kept replaying in her thoughts. The way he'd kissed her forehead, so tender and careful, as though she were something precious he feared losing.
Something was wrong. Something bad enough that he still had not returned to their chamber despite the late hour.
"Emergency meetin'," she whispered to herself, standing and pacing to the window. "In the middle of the night. That's never good."
The keep was quiet below, no signs of disturbance. Just torches burning in their sconces, guards making their usual rounds. Everything looked normal. Peaceful even.
But Ada's instincts—honed by years of reading her father's moods, of sensing danger before it struck—told her otherwise.
She turned from the window, hugging her arms around herself. The chamber felt too large with Magnus gone. Too empty. She'd grown accustomed to his presence those past weeks. The sound of his breathing in the darkness. The warmth of him beside her, even when he stubbornly slept on top of the covers.
Her gaze fell on the empty worktable where she kept her herbs and supplies.
Her satchel.
Ada's stomach dropped. "Oh, nay."
She'd left it in the kitchens, where she had brought it to make a calming tea or milk, when she and Magnus had been cooking.
Had set it down on the worktable and forgotten to bring it back, too distracted by the warmth of the moment, by the way he'd looked at her in the firelight.
By the feeling that maybe—just maybe—they were becoming something real.
"Foolish," Ada muttered, moving toward her cloak. "What kind of healer forgets her supplies?"
She needed that satchel. Her healing supplies, her herbs, the needle and thread for stitching wounds. If something happened—if Magnus's emergency meeting turned into something worse—she'd be useless without it.
Ada grabbed her cloak from the peg by the door, threw it around her shoulders. Her hand hesitated on the bolt.
Magnus had told her to stay. To lock the door. To wait for him.
But he'd been gone for an hour. And the kitchens were just down two flights of stairs. Five minutes there and back. He'd never even know she'd left.
"Just down and back," she whispered, lifting the bolt as quietly as she could. "Quick as a ghost."
The corridor stretched dark and silent before her. Ada slipped out, pulling the door shut behind her. Her bare feet made no sound on the cold stone.
She moved quickly toward the stairs, her cloak pulled tight against the night chill. A few torches burned in their sconces, casting dancing shadows on the walls. The keep felt different at that hour. Emptier somehow, despite her knowing many people slept behind closed doors.
Ada descended the first flight of stairs, her hand trailing along the rough stone wall for balance. Halfway down the second flight, a sound made her freeze.
Metal scraping on stone. Close. Too close.
Her heart jumped into her throat. "Who's there?"
Silence pressed back, heavy and waiting.
Then, after a long moment that stretched her nerves taut, a familiar voice drifted from somewhere down the corridor. "Just checkin' the locks, me lady. All's well."
One of Magnus's guards. She recognized the voice—older man, graying beard, always polite when she passed him in the halls.
Ada released the breath she'd been holding. "Thank ye. Sorry tae startle ye."
"Nay worry, me lady. Ye should be abed though. 'Tis late."
"I ken. Just fetchin' somethin' I forgot. I'll be quick."
She continued down, more cautious now. Every shadow seemed deeper, every sound magnified in the quiet. Ada told herself she was being foolish. It was Magnus's keep. His men guarded every entrance. She was safe there.
But that prickling awareness wouldn't leave her. That same instinct that had kept her alive during her year on the run.
The kitchens were darker still when she reached them, the fire reduced to dying embers that cast barely enough light to see. The massive hearth loomed like a great mouth, breathing faint orange heat into the shadows.
Ada moved carefully toward the worktable, her eyes adjusting to the gloom. There. Her satchel sat exactly where she'd left it, the worn leather familiar and reassuring in the dimness.
"Found ye," she said with relief, grabbing it and slinging the strap over her shoulder. The weight of it settled against her hip, comforting. "Now back tae—"
A scraping sound. Behind her. Close.
Ada spun around. "Hello? Is someone there?"
The shadows near the storage room door shifted. Moved.
Two figures detached from the darkness, their forms large and menacing in the faint firelight.
Ada's breath caught. "Who—"
She didn't even have time to finish the question before they were on her.
Rough hands seized her arms, yanked her backward with brutal force. A palm clamped over her mouth, cutting off the scream that tore from her throat. The taste of leather and salt flooded her senses as she tried to bite down, tried to wrench free.
"Got her," a voice hissed near her ear. Male. Unfamiliar in the panic flooding her mind. "Finally. Thought she'd never leave that damn chamber."
Ada thrashed, her boots scraping against stone. She kicked backward with all her strength, felt her heel connect solidly with someone's shin. A grunt of pain, but the grip on her didn't loosen. If anything, it tightened until she could barely breathe.
"Hold her still, damn it!" A second voice, rougher than the first. "She fights like a wildcat—"
A second set of hands grabbed her flailing arms, forced them down to her sides with bruising pressure. Ada tried to scream again, tried to bite the hand covering her mouth, but they were too strong. Too practiced at this.
Like they'd done it before.
"Get the gag," the first man ordered. "We need her quiet before someone hears."
A rough cloth pressed against her face that tasted of dirt and oil and something metallic. Blood, maybe. They forced it between her teeth despite her attempts to keep her jaw clenched shut. Tied it tight behind her head until her jaw ached and her muffled protests died to nothing.
"Good. Now move. We dinnae have much time before someone notices she's gone."
They dragged her backward toward the storage room door. Ada's satchel fell from her shoulder and hit the floor with a soft thud. She heard the contents spill—glass vials shattering, herbs scattering across stone.
No. No, no, no.
Panic clawed at her throat, made her vision blur. She threw her weight to one side, trying to make herself as difficult to carry as possible. Her elbow connected with something solid—ribs, maybe—and she heard one of the men curse.
"She's goin' tae wake the whole damn keep—"
"Then move faster! The laird's in his war room. By the time he realizes she's gone, we'll be through the gate and ontae the horses."
The storage room door opened with a groan of hinges. Cold night air rushed in, sharp and bracing after the warmth of the kitchens. Ada could see stars through the opening, could smell the sea.
They were going to take her outside. Through one of the hidden passages Magnus had mentioned. The ones he'd been worried about.
Terror gave her strength. Ada redoubled her efforts, twisting violently, throwing her head back. Connected with something—a chin, maybe. Heard another curse.
"Hold her, ye useless—"
"I'm tryin'! She's stronger than she looks!"
They hauled her through the storage room, past barrels and crates stacked in the shadows. One of the men was breathing hard now, struggling with her constant thrashing.
"Why are we even daein' this?" the second voice panted. "Just kill her and be done with it."
"Because the laird wants her alive, ye fool. Fer the ransom."
Ransom.
The word cut through Ada's panic like ice water. They weren't just taking her. They were planning to use her against Magnus.
"MacTavish is promisin' us enough gold to keep us comfortable for years. And once Magnus Haraldson is bankrupted payin' tae get his precious wife back, MacTavish can take Barra without a fight. Nae coin fer soldiers, nae coin fer weapons—the serpent will have nae venom left."
MacTavish. Her father.
Of course. Of course, it was him.
Ada's eyes burned with fury behind the gag. Her father was behind this. Behind everything—the poisoned well, the fire, the attacks. Using her as a pawn again, just like he'd always done.
Her shoulder slammed against something mounted on the wall—a torch, she realized as pain shot down her arm. The impact loosened it from its bracket, sent it wobbling.
"Watch what ye're—"
The torch fell.
Time seemed to slow. Ada watched it tumble end over end, trailing sparks like a falling star. The burning end hit the ground with a shower of orange embers that scattered across the dried rushes someone had laid down for cleaning.
Small flames caught. Spread across the floor toward a wooden crate.
"Damn it!" One of the men released her arm to stamp at the growing fire. "Put it out before—"
Ada took her chance. Twisted hard, broke free of the other man's grip with a burst of desperate strength.
She didn't get two steps before he caught her again. Spun her around, and in the flickering firelight she finally saw his face.
Not Donnan. Someone else. A guard she'd seen around the keep, one of the men who'd come with her from her father's lands.
One of her father's spies.
"Stupid lass," he snarled, his face twisted with fury and growing fear as the flames spread faster. "Look what ye've done!"
The fire was spreading now, flames licking up the side of the wooden crate and onto the stacked barrels beside it. Smoke began to fill the small storage room, thick and choking. The heat grew intense.
The man grabbed her roughly, threw her over his shoulder like a sack of grain. Ada's ribs screamed in protest, her breath driven from her lungs.
"We're leavin'. Now. Before this whole place burns down."
"What about the fire—"
"Tae hell with the fire! Move!"
They burst through the outer door into the night. Cold air hit Ada's overheated skin, made her gasp against the gag. She could see the postern gate ahead, small and unguarded in the darkness.
Behind them, a shout went up from somewhere above. Then another.
Someone had seen the smoke. Seen the flames through a window.
"Fire!" The cry echoed through the keep, high and urgent. "Fire in the kitchens!"
The alarm bells began to ring.