Chapter 27 #2
Bram stepped in at once. “Aye, me laird.”
He took Lord Algernon with surprising care, settling the unconscious man across his shoulder. Rose watched every motion, her face pale, her hands hovering uselessly as though she needed to touch her father and feared causing him more pain.
Logan caught her hand. “Look at me.”
She did, but only after a heartbeat, her gaze dragging itself from her father to Logan.
“We’re leaving,” he said. “Now. Ye stay between me and Alasdair. If I tell ye tae move, ye move. If I tell ye tae duck, ye dae it.”
She nodded once, too quickly.
His hand tightened around hers. “Say it.”
Her throat worked. “I will.”
He wanted to hold her again. Wanted to press his mouth to the bruise on her cheek and promise that no man in this place would be breathing by the time he was done. Instead, he lifted her hand briefly to his mouth and kissed her raw knuckles.
Then he turned, sword in hand.
They left the cell.
The corridor beyond seemed narrower now, the torchlight brighter, every shadow waiting to become a body with steel. Fergus moved first, blade drawn. Bram followed with Lord Algernon. Rose stayed close enough that Logan could feel her presence at his back like a pulse outside his own body.
Halfway up the dungeon passage, shouting broke above them.
“They ken,” Alasdair muttered.
“Move,” Logan said.
They quickened their pace.
At the top of the stairs, a guard appeared with a lantern lifted high. His eyes went wide. “You?—”
Fergus threw a knife and the man dropped without another word.
They stepped over him and into the upper passage.
Noise spread through the stronghold now. Shouts. Boots. A bell clanging somewhere outside, frantic and uneven. Logan’s path narrowed in his mind. The service corridor. The stairs. The wall. Trees beyond. Conn waiting. Reinforcements coming if God had any mercy left to spend.
They turned the corner.
And stopped.
Barnaby Henshaw stood at the far end of the corridor, dressed in dark velvet, his hair neatly tied, as though he had been waiting for them at a feast rather than in the bowels of a nightmare. Two armed soldiers flanked him, both with swords drawn.
Logan felt Rose go still behind him.
Barnaby smiled.
“Well,” he said, his gaze moving from Logan to Rose and lingering there with a look that made Logan’s grip tighten around his sword. “The Scot does come when called.”
Logan stepped in front of Rose fully, blocking as much of her from view as his body allowed.
Barnaby’s smile widened. “How loyal. How tiresome.”
“Move,” Logan said.
His voice was quiet enough to make even Fergus shift beside him.
Barnaby looked amused. “You break into my house, kill my men, steal my bride, and now you give orders?”
“She isnae yer bride.”
“Not yet,” Barnaby said, eyes flicking past Logan. “But she will learn obedience. They always do.”
Rose’s breath caught behind him, and the sound snapped the last thread of Logan’s restraint.
He moved before Barnaby could speak again.
The two soldiers rushed forward at once.
Logan met the first blade high, steel screaming against steel, and drove his shoulder into the man’s chest hard enough to send him staggering.
Alasdair engaged the second, forcing him back toward the wall.
Fergus shoved Rose behind him, keeping her shielded while Bram, burdened by Lord Algernon, retreated a step to protect the unconscious man.
The corridor erupted.
Logan’s opponent swung low. Logan caught the strike, twisted, and drove his knee into the man’s ribs. The soldier grunted, stumbling. Logan followed with a cut across the arm, then another across the throat. Blood sprayed hot across his hand.
The man fell.
Logan turned.
Alasdair had forced the second soldier back, and in that narrow shift, Barnaby slipped along the wall, using the bodies and Bram’s burdened retreat to reach Rose.
“Rose!” Logan shouted.
She turned too late.
Barnaby caught her from behind, one arm clamping across her chest, the other hand flashing silver as he pressed a knife beneath her throat. Rose went rigid, her breath breaking on a sound she tried and failed to swallow.
The corridor froze, and Logan’s body stopped with it.
The tip of Barnaby’s blade rested against the white skin just below Rose’s jaw, blood beading there.
One wrong motion. One tremor. One breath too sharp.
The world narrowed to it.
“Drop it,” Barnaby said.
Logan did not move.
Barnaby’s arm tightened around Rose. Her eyes met Logan’s, wide and terrified, though she held herself as still as she could.
Brave.
Her hands curled against Barnaby’s sleeve, not pulling, not fighting yet.
“Drop the sword,” Barnaby repeated, his voice soft with pleasure. “Or I open her throat and let you watch her drown in it.”
Logan’s fingers locked around the hilt. Every instinct in him roared.
Kill him. Save her. Move.
But the blade kissed deeper into Rose’s skin, and she flinched despite herself.
Logan’s heart stopped.
Barnaby saw it and a slow smile spread across his face. “There it is.”
Rainwater dripped somewhere from Logan’s cloak onto the stone floor.
Barnaby leaned his cheek closer to Rose’s hair, his eyes fixed on Logan. “Love has made you weak, Laird MacKenzie. Look at you. A sword in your hand, blood on your boots, men at your back, and still all I need is one soft English throat to make you obedient.”
Rose’s eyes filled, but she shook her head once, barely.
Do not.
Logan understood, and hated that he could not obey her.
Barnaby’s smile sharpened. “Drop it.”
Rose’s lips parted, trembling around a breath. Her gaze held his with desperate apology, as if she thought this was her fault. As if any part of this darkness belonged to her.
Logan lowered his sword.
Conn would have cursed him for it. His father might have called it foolish. Every lesson he had learned as laird warned against surrendering steel in a corridor full of enemies.
None of it mattered when Barnaby’s knife was at Rose’s throat.
The sword struck the stone with a hard, final clang.
Barnaby’s eyes gleamed. Rose closed hers. Logan stood empty-handed, blood on his sleeve, and waited.