Chapter 19
The moment Baird’s eyes fixed on the ridge, the nearest guard edged closer, his hand already on the hilt of his sword.
“What are yer orders, laird?” he murmured.
Baird didn’t answer immediately. His mind raced, comparing the number of men, distance to cover, Davina at his side, the failing light.
Then, a sudden movement snapped his thoughts clean through.
One of the Sinclair scouts stood in the stirrups and let out a piercing whistle. It was a signal meant to carry.
Then all four scouts wheeled their horses and burst into a full gallop across the ridge. Another whistle followed, but this time, it was a bone-deep, ululating call that echoed across the moor.
Davina’s horse jolted violently at the noise.
“Easy, lad, easy!” she gasped, but the animal had already reared back in panic.
“Davina!” Baird spurred forward.
She lost her seat in the next heartbeat. Her foot slipped from the stirrup. Her balance pitched sideways. The reins tore through her fingers.
For Baird, the world seemed to slow.
Davina’s body tipped dangerously, her hair whipping across her face as she fell backward off the saddle. A soft, terrified sound escaped her lips.
Baird didn’t think. He didn’t even breathe. He moved.
He kicked out of his own stirrups, launching himself from his horse with a force that tore the breath from his lungs. Mud splashed under his boots as he sprinted the last few steps. Davina’s shoulder struck his chest just as gravity wrenched her downward.
He caught her… not cleanly, for she collided with him hard enough to knock him back a step, but he managed to wind his arms tightly around her waist, hauling her against him before she could hit the ground.
Her breath burst out in a sharp cry as her weight collapsed into him.
Behind them, her riderless horse bolted forward with a panicked whinny.
Davina clutched at Baird’s coat. Her fingers were trembling, while her nails were scraping into the fabric as if anchoring herself to the only solid thing in the world. Her breath hitched against his chest. His heart slammed against his ribs.
“Are ye hurt?” he rasped through fear he had never felt before.
She shook her head, though she was pale, wide-eyed. “N-nay… I just… I lost the reins.”
“I saw.” Baird swallowed hard, tightening his hold without meaning to. “I’ve got ye. Ye’re safe.”
He forced himself to loosen his grip on Davina, though every instinct screamed to keep her pressed against him close and safe, where nothing could reach her. He turned sharply to his men.
“Four of ye stay with Lady Kincaid. Ye are nae tae leave her side, nae fer a single moment.”
The guards immediately circled Davina, but she reached out toward him. “Baird, wait—”
He swung onto his horse in one fluid, angry motion. “Davis! Ewan! With me!”
Two guards spurred forward at once.
Davina stepped into the mud after him. “Where are ye going?”
“Tae follow them,” Baird snapped. He didn’t soften his tone; he couldn’t. Not with adrenaline flooding his veins and with the image of her falling going over and over in his mind. “They came too close. I mean tae see why.”
Her horse, now calmer in a guard’s hold, snorted nervously. Davina planted a hand on the saddle for balance and looked up at Baird.
“Just… be careful!”
The wind caught the plea and carried it, thin and fragile, across the moor.
Baird froze. Her worry wasn’t polite, nor dutiful, nor the empty concern a wife was expected to show.
No… her voice trembled like someone who genuinely feared losing him.
And that undid him in ways he had no defenses against.
He wanted to turn back. He wanted to promise her he would return.
But his throat tightened, closing around the words.
He was still furious at everything, at the scouts, at the danger creeping closer, at himself, but most of all, he was furious that for one terrifying moment, he thought he’d lost her.
So, he didn’t answer. Instead, he jerked the reins sharply and his horse surged forward.
The cold air was slicing at his face, and branches were whipping past as he veered off the main path and into the narrow break in the trees only he and his men knew.
His guards followed closely behind, their horses thundering in rhythm with his own.
“This shortcut will bring us ahead of them,” Baird reminded his guards.
Their clan had hunted these woods since before he was born. Every bend, every ditch, every deer trail lived in Baird’s muscles as surely as bone. And tonight, those paths carried him straight toward the men who had dared come too close to Davina.
They burst through a thicket of birch trees and onto a ridge overlooking the lower path. There, he saw the four Sinclair scouts riding hard, completely unaware. Baird’s fury snapped like a whip.
“There!” he barked.
He didn’t wait for agreement. He angled his horse down the muddy slope at a reckless speed, with his men on his heels. The scouts whipped their heads around too late. Shock flashed across their faces.
“Sinclair bastards!” Baird growled, drawing his sword.
He drove his heels hard into his horse’s flanks.
His guards followed, splitting wide to trap the scouts between them.
The Sinclairs reacted instantly in a sharp cry and their reins yanked tight.
One scout broke left. Another spurred right.
The last two braced for the collision. Baird aimed straight for the one with the black-stitched bridle, who by the look of him, seemed to be the leader.
The scout swung a hatchet as Baird’s horse barreled past. Baird ducked, but the blade grazed him in a searing slice across his upper arm.
He hissed, feeling the pain sharp and hot under his skin.
But he did not slow. He wheeled his horse around, ignoring the warm trickle of blood sliding toward his elbow. Pain sharpened him. It clarified him.
One of his guards clashed with another scout further down the path, the two men striking with brutal efficiency. The other one wrestled a third scout off his saddle, both of them hitting the mud hard.
The leader turned his horse again, aiming straight for Baird. This time Baird charged head on. Their horses collided with a bone-rattling thud, both men half-losing their seats. Baird’s sword struck the scout’s forearm, disarming him. The hatchet flew into the brush.
But the scout was fast, faster than expected. He leapt from the saddle, tackling Baird with a ferocity that sent the laird crashing backward onto the wet earth. Baird’s injured arm screamed.
The scout straddled him, and his knife was drawn from his belt. “Ye should’ve stayed home, Kincaid.”
Baird blocked the downward strike with his forearm, ignoring the sting of reopened flesh.
They grappled in the mud, each trying to gain the upper hand.
The scout slammed an elbow into Baird’s cheek.
Stars burst behind his eyes. Baird responded with a savage punch to the man’s jaw, feeling the crunch of bone.
The scout reeled, dazed, and Baird seized the moment.
He surged up, flipping them until he was the one pressing the man into the mud.
The scout spat blood and snarled. “Sinclairs will burn yer lands.”
Baird drove his fist into the man’s gut. “Nae today.”
Before he could strike again, a shout rang out behind him.
“Three of them are getting away!” his guard yelled.
Baird twisted only to see three dark figures on horseback slipping between the shadows, then vanishing into the thick forest. He almost tore after them. But his vision blurred for a second, because now, the wound on his arm was pulsing hot, with blood dribbling freely beneath the torn sleeve.
He couldn’t leave Davina unprotected, not with three enemies now loose in the woods. He turned back to the scout under him, the one he could still control.
“Bind him,” Baird ordered, pushing him to his feet with a grimace.
His guards hurried over, securing the scout’s arms behind him, and tying the rope tight. The man writhed and cursed, but the guards held firm. Baird took a step back and swayed for half a heartbeat.
One of his guards saw it. “Yer arm, me laird… ye’re bleeding hard.”
“It’s naught,” Baird snapped.
Another lie. His entire sleeve was soaked with crimson, and his fingers tingled where the blood loss had begun to reach them.
But he straightened, breathing through the pain. “Get him up. We’re taking him back.”
The guards hoisted the bound man onto the horse, ignoring the spit and snarled insults.
They rode toward the place where he’d left Davina with his guards, with the captured scout still muttering curses through bloodied lips.
Baird’s injured arm throbbed with every jolt of the horse, but he ignored it.
He kept ignoring it, until the trees thinned and he saw the cluster of guards waiting ahead.
Davina was standing beside her reclaimed horse, her hands gripping the reins. Her gaze was fixed on the path with such fierce worry that Baird’s chest tightened. The moment she spotted them, her eyes swept the line of returning riders, searching and counting. Then, she saw the blood.
“Baird!” She rushed forward, not taking her eyes off of his bloodied sleeve. With each step, she grew paler and paler.
One of the guards dismounted first, trying to reassure her. “He’s all right, me lady…”
“That is nae all right!” Davina snapped, cutting him off. She reached Baird before anyone else, her hands flying to his arm without hesitation, instinctively protective. “Ye’re hurt… ye’re bleeding! Why didnae ye come back sooner?”
Baird forced himself to sit straighter in the saddle, ignoring the wave of dizziness that pressed behind his eyes.
“It’s naught,” he said gruffly. “Just a scratch.”
“A scratch?” Her voice cracked. “Yer entire sleeve is soaked!”
He clenched his jaw. He didn’t want her frightened. He didn’t want her watching him like he might fall from the saddle. But the look she gave him was not something he could deflect, for it held fear, anger, and relief tangled together so tightly it stole his breath.
“Davina,” he said, softer. “I’m standing, am I nae?”
“Ye’re slipping,” she shot back, glaring at him through unshed tears.
Damn it.
He almost smiled despite everything, because she was right. His fingers were beginning to numb, and his horse shifting beneath him sent sparks of pain through his shoulder. But pride would never let him admit it.
He reached out his uninjured hand and brushed his knuckles against her cheek. “I’m fine.”
She shook her head, blinking hard. “Ye’re stubborn. And foolish. And…” She swallowed. “And I thought ye wouldnae come back.”
His gut twisted not at her accusation, but rather at the truth beneath it.
“I told ye,” he murmured. “I’ll always come back.”
Her breath shuddered out of her.
Behind them, the captured scout snarled. “Sweet words from a dead man walking.”
One of the guards cuffed him sharply in the back of the head. “Quiet, ye rat.”
Baird forced his gaze away from Davina, lifting his chin toward the waiting guards. “We ride home. Now.”
Davina stiffened beside him, with her eyes still locked on his wound, as though she feared looking away for even a heartbeat.
“Stay close,” he told her quietly.
“I will,” she whispered.
They mounted again, slowly this time, and turned toward the castle. Davina rode so close their knees almost brushed, as if proximity alone could keep him upright.
Baird pretended not to notice. He pretended her presence didn’t steady him more than any bandage could.