Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Michael strode into the dungeons, his boots striking the stone floor with force, each step a barely restrained explosion of fury. The torches lining the damp corridor flickered wildly in the wake of his arrival, as if mocking him.
Leighton’s cell stood open.
Not broken, not forced. Unlocked.
Michael came to a sharp halt just outside the empty cell, his hands curling into fists at his sides. His jaw was clenched so tightly it ached, but he did not loosen it. Instead, he forced himself to take in every detail, every damning sign of betrayal.
Brodie stood a few paces away, watching him warily.
Michael turned slowly. “This was nae an escape,” he said, his voice low and dangerous. “This was a release.”
Brodie exhaled sharply, mirroring his laird’s dark expression. “Aye. Someone helped the bastard.”
Michael stepped into the cell, his keen gaze sweeping over the space. The chains still hung from the wall, their iron clasps open. The straw on the floor was disturbed, but there were no signs of a struggle.
No broken lock. No shattered door.
Michael’s anger burned hotter. Someone had walked in here, set Leighton free, and led him straight out of his own damned castle.
His castle.
Michael took a slow, measured breath. “We have a traitor.”
Brodie’s expression hardened. “Aye. And if they freed Leighton, they might do worse.”
Michael nodded grimly, his mind already racing ahead.
If there were men that would go against his orders and free Leighton, that meant the danger wasn’t just outside his walls.
No. It was within them. A man who would unlock this door, who would risk Michael’s wrath, was a man who had already chosen his side.
And that meant there could be others.
Michael turned abruptly, his patience frayed. “Double the guards. I want men at every entrance, every gate. None leave or enter without me word.”
Brodie nodded sharply. “Aye, I’ll see to it.”
Michael’s hands flexed at his sides, his fury a barely contained storm beneath his cold exterior. He had let Leighton live. Perhaps that had been his mistake.
But he would not make another.
His gaze swept over the open cell one last time, his eyes like steel.
Someone had let Leighton go.
Several minutes later, he was still standing in the torch-lit chamber. His arms were crossed over at his chest, and his expression was like carved stone. The two men who had been assigned to guard Leighton’s cell stood before him, shifting uneasily under the weight of his gaze.
They were both seasoned warriors, men who had served him for years. But now, faced with his fury, they looked like cornered beasts, tense and wary, their eyes flicking toward Brodie as if hoping for some reprieve.
They would find none.
Michael’s voice was quiet, but the force behind it was unmistakable. “Tell me what happened.”
The first guard, Dougal, swallowed hard. “Me laird, we—we daenae ken how it happened. The door was locked last we checked.”
Michael’s jaw tightened. “Ye checked? When?”
Dougal hesitated, glancing at his companion.
Michael’s patience was razor-thin. “When?”
“Nae long before dawn,” Dougal admitted. “He was still there. Chained, asleep.”
Michael turned his cold stare to the second guard, Fraser. “And ye saw the same?”
Fraser nodded quickly. “Aye, me laird. We made sure the door was secure.”
Michael exhaled slowly, his fury simmering just beneath the surface. “Then tell me how a man locked in iron chains, behind a barred door, managed to walk free before the sun had risen.”
Silence.
Neither man spoke, but their fear was evident.
Michael took a step forward, his voice dropping into something more dangerous. “Did either of ye leave yer post?”
Dougal’s face paled. “Nay, me laird. I swear it.”
“Did ye see anyone near the dungeon? Anyone who shouldnae have been there?”
Both men shook their heads, clearly rattled.
Michael studied them, his gaze sharp as a blade. These were not men who would betray him. Their fear was too real, their loyalty hard-won.
And yet, they had failed him.
Someone had walked into his castle, into his dungeons, and freed the man who had tried to kill his son. And these two had been none the wiser.
Brodie, standing to the side, spoke at last. “If it was one of ours, they’d have had the means to move unnoticed.”
Michael’s eyes narrowed. “Aye. Which means the traitor is still inside these walls.”
Fraser shifted uneasily. “What do ye want us to do, me laird?”
Michael straightened, his voice hard. “Ye will stay at yer posts and speak of this to nay one. If the traitor thinks we’re blind, they’ll grow careless.”
Both men nodded hurriedly.
Michael turned to Brodie. “Find out who had access to the keys. I want a name.”
Brodie grunted in acknowledgment. “Aye. And when we have one?”
Michael’s gaze was cold. “Then we make an example of them.”
Freya woke with a start, her throat dry and aching.
Blinking in the dim candlelight, she glanced around the chamber. Abigail and Marissa lay curled beneath the blankets, with their breathing soft and steady in the quiet of the night.
Still half-dazed from sleep, she reached for the water jug on the table beside her bed… empty.
She frowned. They’d had water before retiring, but it must have been finished. With a sigh, she swung her legs over the side of the bed, careful not to disturb her sisters, and padded toward the door.
The corridors were eerily silent as she made her way toward the servants’ quarters. The castle never truly slept. There were always guards, always the distant sound of movement, but at this hour, the halls felt different. Still. Watchful.
She shook off the unease, filled her cup from the large water basin near the kitchen, and quietly returned to her chamber.
As she reached for the door, she noticed something on the ground. A folded piece of parchment.
Frowning, she bent and picked it up, her heart giving an uneasy thump as she turned it over. There was no seal, no sign of who had left it.
Slowly, she unfolded the note.
Meet me in the garden. By the willow tree. —M.
Michael.
Freya’s pulse quickened.
She glanced toward her sisters. They hadn’t stirred.
Why would Michael call for her at this hour? The castle was on high alert, a traitor hidden within its walls, yet he wanted to meet in the gardens—alone? Was this the walk he had in mind?
She hesitated only a moment before grabbing her robe, slipping it over her nightdress, and quietly stepping out into the corridor.
The castle’s torches burned low as she made her way toward the gardens. Her heart thudded with every step, though whether it was from apprehension or anticipation, she wasn’t sure.
When she reached the outer courtyard, the night air hit her, crisp and cool. The gardens stretched ahead, darkened shapes of hedges and flowers shifting gently in the breeze. The great willow loomed ahead, its long branches swaying gently in the night breeze.
A shadowed figure stood beneath it. Her breath hitched.
Something was wrong.
Even in the dim light, something about the figure’s stance, its shape, felt… off. Michael carried himself with rigid control, always poised, always sure. This man, whoever he was, stood differently, his shoulders hunched, his weight shifting uneasily.
A warning prickled at the back of her neck.
But it had to be Michael. Who else would it be? Her mind was playing tricks on her in the dark.
She swallowed, forcing herself forward. “Michael?” she called softly.
The figure didn’t move. It didn’t answer.
Steeling herself, she stepped forward. The moment she did, the figure lunged. A rough hand clamped around her wrist.
Freya gasped, instinct kicking in as she wrenched back, but the grip was unyielding. It was iron-strong, brutal. Panic shot through her as she opened her mouth to scream, but another hand clamped over it, muffling the sound.
The scent of sweat, leather, and something else hit her in a nauseating wave. Then, a voice, low and mocking in her ear.
“Clever lass. Ye came all on yer own.”
Leighton.
A bolt of terror struck her like lightning. She twisted, fought, her bare feet digging into the damp earth as she struggled to wrench free. She kicked out blindly, her nails clawing at his wrist, but he barely flinched. His hold only tightened.
Nay, nay, nay!
There was a sudden press of cloth against her mouth, and a thick, cloying scent filled her lungs. It was sickly sweet, suffocating.
Freya’s head spun violently. The garden blurred, the towering willow warping and twisting like a specter in the dark. Her limbs weakened, her strength ebbing away like water slipping through her fingers.
She fought to stay conscious, to stay upright, but her body betrayed her. Leighton’s grip was the only thing keeping her from crumpling to the ground. Her vision darkened.
The last thing she heard was his voice, a sinister whisper against her ear.
“Sweet dreams, lass.”
Then, the world vanished into blackness.