Chapter Seventeen
If not for the way Blake squeezed her wrist in a brief moment of connection before he tied her hands together, Katrina might have thought that she had dreamed the previous day—when they had kissed, made love, when he had looked at her like she held all the answers to every question he would ever need to ask.
Because if not for that one, minuscule gesture, it would have all been too similar to when he’d first abducted her. Her hands tied. Guards riding beside them.
Her heart in her throat.
She just had to remember. She just had to trust in Blake.
With every hour that brought her closer to MacFarlane Keep, however, the harder it was to cling to that trust.
He had gone entirely silent since the MacFarlane guards had joined them. And while logically Katrina knew that was just good sense, it was hard not to let the drawing shadow of the keep from wearing thin at her nerves.
Think of Edward, she reminded herself whenever her doubts tried to sneak in. He needs ye.
Guards began scurrying like frightened little mice the moment they saw Blake at the helm of the approaching entourage, each falling over himself to fall in line before their captain’s steely gaze.
Nobody spoke to Katrina. Nobody even dared look at her.
She started to feel very alone.
Blake was just as silent as he lifted her down from the horse, and Katrina clung to the notion that he’d done this a dozen times before, that he’d done it before he had kissed her, that he wouldn’t let her be hurt.
“Is the laird aware of our arrival?” When Blake finally spoke, it wasn’t to Katrina.
“Aye, Captain,” a nearby lieutenant agreed with a crisp nod. “He awaits ye.”
Katrina fought for calm as Blake led her, his hand like a manacle on her arm, to the Great Hall.
It was empty, aside from Laird MacFarlane and a man that Katrina knew had to be Brodie, his son.
The man she was meant to marry.
She’d seen him before, of course, though not since they had both been children.
He’d been a surly thing back then, but Katrina hadn’t really thought all that much of it.
She didn’t care for being dragged around to clan business, either, not when she would have preferred to be gathering herbs or spending time with the women who made the clan’s medicines.
But she remembered seeing him out in the yard with some of the lads, playing at training more than actually accomplishing the thing.
Brodie had been smiling, but it had been…
unpracticed, like he didn’t get to do it often.
Now, he didn’t look as though he was capable of smiling, not unless it was a sneer at someone else’s misfortune.
He wasn’t unattractive. That almost made it worse.
It seemed as though someone whom she considered with such dread should have been less handsome.
But Brodie cut a good enough figure, with his dark hair and crystalline blue eyes, which reminded her of gemstones.
Even with him sitting, she could see that he was tall and broad—though, with Blake at her side, it was hard to think of anyone else as being tall or broad by comparison—and muscular in the way that came from frequent activity, rather than dedicated training.
But it was the haughty look on his face that undid the effect, that made him sinister and hard instead of appealing. He looked at her like she was a coveted possession, a shiny bauble to obtain and hoard, like a dragon pleased with his den.
“I thought ye were bringing me a bride, Bloodhound,” he drawled, apparently amused with the entire situation. “But this appears to be some creature ye dragged out of a hole in the woods. And it’s dressed in breeches. Ye couldnae even find a female when ye were rooting through the badger’s den?”
Katrina struggled not to roll her eyes.
Did he really think that, after everything, insulting her looks was going to be the thing that bothered her? It was almost anticlimactic, though she would take an anticlimax over any of the manifold terrors she’d imagined during the long ride here.
Still. How… unimpressive. Really, she might have expected more creative villainy.
Blake didn’t outwardly respond, but his fingers flexed briefly against Katrina’s arm. He ignored Brodie, speaking only to his laird.
“This is Katrina MacAllan,” he said, all business. “I take it ye were seeking her?”
The laird looked Katrina up and down. His flat expression somehow felt more insulting than Brodie’s cruel commentary, but Katrina reminded herself that she wasn’t going to be offended by what a kidnapper thought about her.
“I was seeking Arran Lennox and Makenna MacBrae,” the laird said after a long, ominous silence. “The MacAllan situation was in hand. Tell me, Bloodhound—why did ye see fit to bring me the lesser prize?”
Blake was as calm as still water. “They remain close, dinnae doubt,” he said.
“They objected to me taking their friend. I thought it easier to let them escort themselves here rather than drag them the entire way.” Blake paused.
“Though, if ye see fit to give me both MacAllans, I could have Lennox lured out in a moment.”
Katrina held her breath while the laird considered this, trying not to look too hopeful, lest she give everything away.
She fought not to look too disappointed when the laird shook his head.
“Nay. If ye say they are coming, I trust that ye are right about that. Why risk any of my prizes when I can have all four?”
“A wise choice, your lairdship,” Blake said mildly. Katrina whipped her head around to look at him. He was still acting, right? He was still pretending?
But he was… so very good at it.
After all, there was what sounded like genuine malice in his voice as he said, “Why dinnae we send this one to the dungeon, too, so we can scheme how to best lure Lennox and the MacBrae lass into our control?”
The laird smiled, but it was more like a wolf baring its teeth before it attacked.
“Och, my Bloodhound. It is so good to have ye back.”
The instant that Katrina was taken from his hold, even if it was to the dungeons where she would be reunited with her brother, Blake felt as though he’d had his arm cut off his body.
It was as though he stood there, bleeding and mortally wounded, yet unable to show even the faintest hint of a reaction.
Fortunately, he’d had plenty of practice with such things.
In his mind, however, he carved Brodie apart, piece by piece, for the way he was looking over Katrina—both like he disdained her and like he desired her.
When the door closed behind Katrina, Blake fixed his attention on the laird.
There were things that needed to be done.
“A private word, your lairdship?” he asked after they had settled into their usual anticipatory silence. He had less than his usual patience for the games between them.
Brodie’s face twisted into a snarl.
“Ye think ye can exclude me, Bloodhound—”
“Silence,” the laird commanded, interrupting his heir. “Captain. As ye wish. Follow me.”
The familiar stone walls felt foreign to him now. Or, no—the keep was the same, but he was different.
Meeting Katrina had changed him.
Hell, maybe even these encounters with Arran Lennox had changed him.
It had been easy before. Simple. Blake hadn’t had anything to live for except his duty to his clan, so he’d fought for it, killed for it. He hadn’t worried that he might die for it, because who would have truly cared if he died?
But now, he needed to survive. For Katrina.
It made the world seem different.
He settled into his usual chair across from the laird’s desk, then folded his hands carefully.
“So,” he said carefully. “What next?”
A slow, delighted smile crossed the laird’s face, and Blake felt a sinking feeling of dismay.
“What was it that got to ye?” he asked. “It cannae be that she is such a beauty—even at her best, she isnae bonnie enough for that. Was it the breeches? Because there are plenty of women with round arses, if that’s what ye like.”
“I dinnae ken what ye mean, my laird,” Blake said through clenched teeth, and the laird laughed again.
“Ach, dinnae fash,” the laird said. “We have all been victims of a bonnie lass from time to time. And it’s clear as day that ye desire the MacAllan lass.
But ye cannae have her. She’s for Brodie.
But,” he went on with the air of someone bestowing a great favor, “I recognize that ye have provided me great services over the years. It is natural for a man, even one as disciplined as ye, to seek reward for his hard work.”
Blake’s only reaction was to tilt his head curiously.
This was…interesting. If the laird was willing to offer something in exchange for Blake giving up Katrina, then he must think Blake could take her away.
Which was correct.
He could and he would.
But there was no harm in letting the laird think he was open to bribes.
“I think lands would be suitable,” the laird went on. “Ye have power on your own merits, of course, but we could make it formal. A seat among my councillors, perhaps?”
Hm. That was a good offer. Not one that would tempt him away from Katrina—nothing would do that now, after he had kissed her, held her, tasted her—but one that revealed something valuable.
The laird was afraid of Blake’s power.
Good. He should be.
Blake let a slow smile creep across his face.
“I think that will suit me quite well,” he said. “Assuming that I dinnae need to wait long to see these rewards. As ye mentioned, they are overdue.”
The laird gave him a warning chuckle. “Watch yourself, lad. I am still the laird. But aye, I willnae delay. I will speak to Brodie about getting matters arranged. Wait here. When I return, we will make a plan for capturing that Lennox pest once and for all, aye.”
Blake inclined his head slightly, then watched as the laird rose and left the room.
As soon as the study door closed, Blake was on his feet.
The room was lined with shelves full of old ledgers and papers. They weren’t locked away, but rather hidden in plain sight. The organization left much to be desired, which Blake assumed spoke to the laird’s laziness rather than any genius when it came to securing his secrets.
After all, it didn’t take Blake very long at all to find the records from ten years ago.
At first, everything seemed normal, and Blake cursed Arran Lennox for making him doubt. Certainly Laird MacFarlane was no saint—and Blake would be extracting Katrina from the man’s clutches as soon as he was finished here—but he wouldn’t…
Blake turned another page in the ledger and his blood ran cold.
His fingers paused on a document that showed MacFarlane payments to MacBrae after Lennox fell. Land transfers. He flipped more pages, his chest growing tighter and tighter with each page. Troop movements. Orders for explosives, taken from MacFarlane mines.
It was true. All of it was true.
Blake’s hands shook as he closed the ledger.
He had never liked Laird MacFarlane, but he’d followed the man for a decade. He had served him loyally.
He’d fought and bled and killed for him, and he had considered it his duty.
And the whole time, the laird had been lying.
He had sacrificed his own territory, and for what? For power? As if he didn’t already have enough.
And for that, he’d let his own people die.
He had let Blake’s family die.
Betrayal was a sharp knife to the gut.
This was not a sin that Blake intended to let stand.