Chapter 19
Chapter Nineteen
Tavish grimaced as he made his way towards Ailsa’s chambers, willing himself closer to her, doing everything in his power to convince himself that he was not going to let his pride get the better of him.
His wife needed him, perhaps now more than ever, and it was his duty to make amends after the harsh words he had thrown at her earlier that day.
Especially given that his men were due to ride out at dawn, and he did not want to leave anything unspoken between them when that time came.
As he mounted the stairs, he thought back to what she had said to him when she had come to his study. The way her face had been shining with excitement when she had presented him with that letter.
It was clear that she truly thought she had done the right thing, getting in touch with Malric the way she had; behind his back, without his knowledge, likely because she already knew how he would react when she told him.
But there was a reason for that; a reason he had hoped against hope that he would be able to keep her from finding out that Malric was dangerous beyond all contention.
She would land herself in the middle of trouble if she tried to connect with him.
She was a strong-willed woman, there was no doubt about that.
And it was one of the many things he liked about her, or, at least, had liked from a distance for so long.
Now that they were married, living with the reality of them was a little different—a little more demanding.
However, he’d be damned if he let himself waste his wife’s warmth and passion and care just because he was too angry to deal with it when she came to him searching for acceptance.
His mind drifted, unbidden, back to what his brother had told him when they had both been young.
It’s better to marry for duty than for love, he had warned him. Find a friendly face, someone you can stand to be around, and you’ll be fine.
Callum had been talking about Ailsa, of course, as the two of them had been betrothed when they were both teenagers. And, though Callum clearly cared for her as a friend or a sister, there was no desire between them, nothing that came close to what he felt for her.
He had watched her from afar for so long, the way Callum could make her laugh as they wandered the hills together, Tavish always holding back, worried that overstepping his mark would make him look a fool.
But he had known he wanted her, even then.
Not just some woman who would make a good bride on paper, but a woman who would fill him with the same fiery want that she did; a woman who would ignite parts of him that he could not set alight with anything else.
When he reached the top of the stairs, he came to a halt, his brow furrowing.
The torches that stood over the door had nearly burned down to nothing, and the two men who were meant to be guarding her were asleep, slumped against each other, snoring slightly. His heart dropped, and he threw the door open, looking around desperately…
Only to find that the room was empty, his wife had vanished.
He muttered a curse under his breath, his head rushing as he tried to make sense of what to do next.
He should have known that she would find some way out of this.
She had never been the type to sit around and wait for someone else to take care of her problems. No, she had always been the woman who would take matters into her own hands.
Where was she?
Had she fled the Keep, sick of his attempts to control her?
He pulled back the covers, tipping over the chair by the fireplace, as though she might have been hiding somewhere within. There was hide nor hair of her, her riding cloak missing from the wardrobe.
Had she ridden out of here? How long ago? And how far could she have made it in that time? What were his chances of catching up with her, if any? What chance did he stand?
He stormed out of the door and into the stairway, glancing down at the guards for a moment before he wrote off any possibility of their help. Had someone seen her outside, perhaps down by the stables?
Just as he was about to take off in that direction, he caught a glimpse of someone peering at him from a doorway just across from Ailsa’s chambers. When he whipped around to see who it was, he found Martha, the maid, watching him.
“What is it?” he demanded as he strode towards her.
He had seen the two of them talking a few times, and if anyone knew where Ailsa had fled to, it would be her. Martha withdrew from him fearfully but seemed to sense that she was not going to get away without giving him an answer.
“I-I dinnae ken what you mean, m’Laird,” she pleaded with him, but he shook his head, slamming his hand into the stone beside her.
“Ailsa, where is she?” he demanded. “Where did she go?”
“I…”
“If she’s in danger,” he warned her, moving in a little closer. “And ye ken something and dinnae tell me, I’ll hold ye responsible if something happens to her.”
She swallowed hard, her voice dropping as she lowered her gaze.
“She has been in correspondence with the MacCairn Laird,” she admits.
“Malric. She was determined to stop the battle between the two of ye before it started. Malric asked her to meet him, and she rode out a few hours ago to convene with him there. I’m sorry, m’Laird, she told me it was for the best, and—”
“Find Ewan and tell him to follow me with a dozen men as fast as he can.”
His stomach roiled in protest as he turned to make his way towards the stairs. Of course he had read the letter before Ailsa snatched it back. Fortunately the location Malric had proposed for the meet-up was also marked in his mind.
He did not have time to tell the girl off now, he could deal with that later.
He needed to get to Ailsa, to find her before Malric laid hands on her.
Surely he had lured her there with the intent of hurting her, of causing her harm that she would not recover from.
Of taking his revenge against Tavish and his clan for what he believed they had done to his late father’s reputation, as ridiculous as that was.
As he tacked his horse and grabbed his sword, he ordered his men to stand watch at the Keep’s gates.
Malric might be using this distraction to sneak in behind his back, but he could not risk it either way.
His mind was teeming with thoughts as he tried to make sense of it, the enormity of everything that was happening.
He hadn’t said a word of it to Ailsa, hoping to God that they could leave it all behind them and doubting that she’d believe him anyway. He was the one with the reputation for violence, not Malric, and the two of them had been fast friends as children. But now…
Now, he had her in his grasp. And if he did not act fast, she would be taken from him.
He mounted and thundered across the hills towards the ruined chapel, with no idea what to expect, what he would find when he got there. He didn’t even realize how far from the Keep he had ridden, almost lost to his thoughts.
Would she already be gone? He couldn’t even make sense of such a thought, as painful as it seemed to him.
The cold air tore at his skin, the crashing of hooves on the dirt filled the air, and he sent out a prayer to whoever might have been listening to him—though he was not much of a praying man—that she would be alright and that she would forgive him for the way he had tried to lock her up.
If she survived this, he swore to himself, he would never keep anything from her again, he would tell her the truth, as fully as he could. He would—
And that was when he saw it.
The ruins of the chapel, lit by a few torches no doubt carried by Malric’s men. He drove his heels into his horse, pushing them on a little faster, until he burst through the trees and onto the horrific scene before him.
Malric stood just opposite the chapel, and he had backed Ailsa into a tree, a sword in his hand that was pressed against her belly. His heart twisted in painful knots within him.
Without drawing his horse to a halt, he leapt from its back, reaching Malric at a running pace. He crashed into him to knock him off his feet.
Malric let out a grunt as he was destabilized. A few of his men made the move to come closer, but he lifted a hand, keeping them at arm’s length.
“I can deal with this!” Malric called to his men, clearly too arrogant to allow them to help. “His life is mine to claim. Stay where ye are!”
Tavish looked back over his shoulder, locking eyes with Ailsa. Her lip was split, and her upper arm was dark with a bruise; the pain and fear were written on every inch of her, but she was alive, and he would take what he could get in that moment.
He wrenched himself away from Tavish and straightened up, a dark glint in his eye, the same one that had been there on the day that Callum’s body had been returned to the Keep.
There was something about it that made the hair on the back of Malric’s neck stand on end, something dark and fearful about it that didn’t sit right with him.
“Let her go,” he growled, and Malric let out a laugh—a cruel, harsh sound, one that held not an ounce of kindness in it.
“Or what?” he replied. He peered over Tavish’ shoulder, shaking his head. “She came to me, Tavish. Is that so hard to believe?”
“Ye lured her in,” he snarled, reaching for his sword, but Malric raised his in return, catching the blade before he could swing it down against him.
“I told her that we would come to an agreement,” he replied, the clash of the metal in the air almost blocking out his words. “Just as I did Callum. Or did ye forget that yer brother came to me of his own will too?”
Rage coursed through Tavish as Malric taunted him. He knew exactly what he was doing, making a mockery of him like this. Callum had trusted Malric, trusted that his old friend would give him a chance to try to put things right, but Tavish had long understood that Malric was not to be trusted.