Chapter 35
CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE
Sleep would not come back to her. Ruaridh found it at last, though not easily.
Isobel felt the slow easing of his body beside hers, the gradual deepening of his breath, and his hand still resting over her waist as if even in sleep he meant to keep her from harm.
She lay still beneath it for as long as she could.
The chamber was dark but for the last red breath of the fire.
Every shadow seemed too deep. Every quiet sound beyond the door made her heart lift and strike hard against her ribs.
Again and again, she saw the bird: the impossible whiteness of its feathers, the broken angle of its neck, the message folded beside it like a promise.
What was claimed from me will be returned.
At last, when the weight of wakefulness became unbearable, Isobel eased herself from beneath Ruaridh’s arm.
He shifted once. She froze, but he did not wake. For a moment, she stood beside the bed, looking down at him. Even asleep, there was a line of strain between his brows. She wanted to touch it away. She wanted to crawl back into his arms and borrow his certainty.
Instead, because she would not wake him to comfort the same fear twice, she took a shawl from the chair and slipped from the room. The castle was colder beyond their chamber.
Duart at night felt almost like another place.
The passages were narrow and dark, the torches burned low, and the stone seemed to hold the sea’s chill in its bones.
Her bare feet made little sound inside her slippers.
Somewhere far below, a watchman coughed.
Somewhere else, timber settled with a soft groan.
Nothing moved. That should have comforted her, yet it did not.
By the time she reached the kitchens, her hands were cold despite the shawl.
The hearth there had been banked but not dead, and she coaxed a little flame from the embers with more patience than skill.
The ordinary work steadied her by degrees.
She was calmed by the water being poured into the small pot, by the herbs being taken down from their hook, and a cup set ready upon the table.
Mint. Heather. A little honey.
They were simple things, but also safe things.
Steam rose pale in the dimness, carrying a clean, sweet scent that eased the tightness in her throat. Isobel wrapped both hands around the cup once it was filled and let the warmth press into her palms.
Only a dream, she told herself.
She lifted the cup and turned toward the passage. Then, she stopped. The kitchen was not empty. She knew it even before she heard a sound. It was in the change of the air and the sudden certainty of another breath held too close in the dark.
Isobel turned sharply, and a hand clamped over her mouth. The cup fell, shattering against the stone. Hot tea burst across the floor, and steam rose in a ghostly rush.
She fought at once, although she wasn’t certain what or who she was fighting. Her elbow drove backward and struck flesh. The man behind her grunted but did not loosen his hold. His other arm locked around her body, pinning her arms hard against her sides.
Panic tore through her, bright and violent, but she did not let it freeze her. She kicked, twisted, and bit against the hand over her mouth until the taste of leather and salt filled her senses.
Another figure appeared from the servants’ passage. There was nothing hurried or startled in their movement. That was someone who was waiting, which meant that all of this was planned.
The realization chilled her more than the grip upon her body. They knew the kitchens. They knew the passage. They knew which door would be unbarred, which corner lay darkest, which hour had the castle closest to sleep.
She tried to drop her weight, tried to hook one foot around the table leg, but the second man seized her ankles before she could find purchase. The first dragged her backward. Her shoulder struck the doorframe. Pain flashed down her arm. She made a sound beneath his hand, muffled and useless.
Nay.
She thrashed harder. The shawl tore loose and fell behind her. She clawed at the arm across her chest, nails catching skin this time. The man hissed a curse against her ear.
“Hold her,” the other whispered. “Quickly.”
Quickly.
They spoke as if she had no name, no voice, no husband sleeping above.
Isobel drove her heel down. It struck someone’s foot hard enough to make him stumble. For one breath, she nearly pulled free. She sucked in air, gathering the cry in her chest, but the hand slammed over her mouth again.
They dragged her into the servants’ passage.
The darkness there swallowed the kitchen light almost at once.
Stone scraped her shoulder. Her hip struck the wall.
She fought for every inch, twisting, kicking, wrenching her head aside, trying to leave marks, sound, anything.
A loose basket toppled somewhere behind them.
Something wooden clattered against the floor.
The sound was too soft. No alarm came.
The men moved with awful certainty, turning where she herself would not have known to turn, ducking beneath the low arch near the stores, forcing her toward the narrow outer way used for refuse and deliveries.
One of them had a key. She heard it scrape in the lock. Her blood went cold as the door opened to night. Wind struck her face, sharp with sea and rain. Beyond it lay the black yard, the darker wall, the route out before the inner castle could fully wake.
Isobel threw herself sideways with all the strength she had left. For an instant, she tore one arm free. Her fingers caught the edge of the door.
“Ruar—” The cry never became his name.
A hard hand seized her wrist and wrenched it back. Pain shot bright and blinding through her arm. The man behind her lifted her bodily from the threshold while the other shoved the door wider.
Then they were outside.
Ruaridh woke because the bed was wrong. His hand moved across the linen before his eyes opened, searching for the warmth that should have been there. Nothing met his palm but rumpled sheet and fading heat. He was on his feet in the next breath.
“Isobel?”
No answer followed. The chamber was dim, the fire sunk low and now, the shadows were thick along the walls. Her gown lay over the chair. Her shawl was gone.
The stillness inside him broke. Then he heard it.
A muffled scrape below, followed by a hard, stifled sound, the kind of sound a struggle made when someone was trying to keep it silent.
Ruaridh moved. He was through the door and into the passage with no thought for boots or cloak, only the knife he seized from the table as he passed. The castle seemed asleep around him, but the darkness had changed. It had teeth now.
Another sound came from below, a cry cut short. His blood went cold and then burned.
“Isobel!”
He took the stairs at a run. A servant appeared at the turn, pale and startled, but Ruaridh was past him before the man could speak.
“Alarm!” Ruaridh roared. “Tae arms!”
The shout tore through Duart. Doors opened. Men cursed awake. Somewhere a horn sounded badly at first, then stronger. Ruaridh reached the lower passage just as the outer servants’ door swung in the wind.
Beyond it, there was nothing but night and movement.
For one heartbeat, he saw her. His Isobel was a pale shape against the dark, struggling between two men as they dragged her toward the yard’s shadowed edge.
Her hair had come loose. She had one arm was pinned, while the other fought, clawing for anything that might hold.
“Ruaridh!”
The sound of his name from her mouth nearly split him open. He ran. One of the abductors looked back and saw him coming. Even at that distance, Ruaridh saw the fear enter the man’s body.
The door slammed against stone behind him as he burst into the yard. The men hauling Isobel vanished beyond the low passage toward the outer way, where the darkness thickened near the wall. He was half a breath too late.
Half a breath.
It was enough to make the world narrow into fury. Torin appeared beside him with a sword in hand, his hair unbound, and his face white with understanding. Brodie came a moment later, half-armored and already shouting orders to the men pouring into the yard.
“Where?” Torin demanded.
“There.” Ruaridh didn’t slow. “They took her through the servants’ way.”
Brodie swore viciously. “They kent the route.”
“Aye.”
The word came from Ruaridh like a blade drawn free. They plunged after them, through the narrow outer passage, past the storage court, into the rough track beyond the inner wall. Behind them, Duart erupted into chaos and orders flew through the night, sharp and overlapping.
Ruaridh heard all of it as if from very far away. Ahead, the dark swallowed the track.
“Torches!” Brodie bellowed behind them. “Cliffs covered! Shore covered! Nay boat leaves unseen!”
Torin kept pace at Ruaridh’s side. “If they planned the passage, they planned the road after.”
“Then we break their plan.”
His voice was too calm. He felt Torin glance at him and knew what the man saw.
It was something a million times worse than mere panic or anger.
Ruaridh had passed through panic in the chamber when his hand found empty linen.
He had passed through fear when he heard her cry.
What remained now was colder, cleaner, and far more dangerous.
A man stumbled from a side path ahead. It was one of the night guards, with blood at his temple, barely standing.
Brodie caught him. “How many?”
“Three,” the guard gasped. “Maybe four. Took the lower track. Horses waiting.”
Ruaridh was already moving again.
Torin called after him. “Ruaridh?—”
“Nay.”
There was no Council and no waiting for a full muster while Isobel was carried deeper into the night.
He ran harder. Stones cut beneath his bare feet.
The wind came sharp from the sea, carrying rain and salt and the faintest sound of hooves ahead.
Behind him, Torin and Brodie followed without another word, because they knew him, and because they cared about Isobel enough now and knew he loved her.
The track bent downward beyond the wall. Torches bloomed behind them one by one, fire waking along Duart’s spine. Men shouted his name, waiting for command. He gave it without turning.
“Search every road. Send riders north and south. Wake the boats. Close the shore. Find who opened that door. And bring me a horse!”
Then, he turned to Torin and Brodie alone. “If they harm her, there will be nae peace left tae keep.”
Neither man answered. There was no need. Ruaridh reached the edge of the lower yard and saw the marks in the mud: dragged feet, a broken line where someone had fought, hoofprints cutting away toward the black road.
Isobel had fought them. He knelt only long enough to touch the torn strip of fabric caught on a splintered post. It was her shawl. He closed it in his fist. The last of his restraint went with it. When he stood, the men nearest him drew back.
“After them,” he ordered.
And Duart, shaken from sleep into violence, followed its laird into the dark.