Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
The horse’s hooves pounded against the earth beneath Rowan, and still he pushed harder, faster, demanding more from the animal than any man had a right to demand.
The wind whipped at his face, but he did not feel it. The branches of the trees reached for him as he passed, but he did not see them.
He saw only Sorcha’s face, pale against the pillow, while the healer fought to draw the poison from her blood.
Sorcha’s face, flushed and wanting in the study, while he had stood there like a coward and then walked away.
Sorcha’s face the last time he had seen her, framed by golden hair and blue wool and dying sunlight.
Please be safe.
The gates of the castle rose before him, but he did not slow. He rode through them at full speed, scattering servants, and the sound of his horse’s hooves echoed off the stone walls like thunder.
He dismounted before the animal had fully stopped, his boots hitting the ground hard, and he was running before his knees had finished absorbing the impact.
The courtyard was in chaos.
Flora stood near the well with her hands pressed against her mouth and her face white as snow. Her red hair was escaping its pins, and her grey eyes were wide and wild with terror.
When she saw him, she let out a sound that was half sob and half scream, and she ran toward him with her skirts bunched in her fists.
“Me Laird! Oh, God help us. Me Laird, she is gone!”
Rowan caught her by the shoulders and held her still. “Who is gone? Where is me wife?”
“I daenae ken! I cannae find her!” Flora’s voice rose with every word, and tears streamed down her freckled cheeks.
“I went to her chambers to see if she was ready to go down to the cèilidh, and she wasnae there. I thought perhaps she had gone to find Lady Elspeth, so I went to the nursery, but she wasnae there either. I have searched everywhere. Everywhere, me Laird. She is gone.”
Morag appeared from the direction of the Great Hall, her silver hair escaping its braid and her sharp eyes red-rimmed and swollen. She walked toward him with her hands clasped in front of her, and when she reached him, her composure cracked.
“I went to fetch little Elspeth for the cèilidh,” she said, her voice thick with tears she was trying very hard not to shed. “But she wasnae in the nursery, me Laird. And worse... the bed hadnae been slept in. The room was cold.”
Rowan’s blood turned to ice in his veins. “Elspeth is missing as well?”
“Aye.” Morag pressed her hand to her mouth, and a sob escaped despite her efforts to contain it.
“I thought perhaps they had gone for a walk together, or perhaps Lady Sorcha had taken her to the kitchens for a sweet treat, but I have checked everywhere. The kitchens, the Great Hall, the solar, the gardens, the stables. They arenae in the keep, me Laird. They arenae anywhere.”
The words hit him like a blow to the chest. He stood there with Flora crying beside him and Morag trembling before him, and he felt the world tilt beneath his feet.
Both of them. Sorcha and Elspeth. Gone.
“Search the castle again.” His voice came out cold, though inside he was screaming. “Every chamber, every corridor, every closet and cupboard and corner. I want them found.”
The guards scattered, their boots pounding against the stone floors as they ran to obey.
Ewan appeared at Rowan’s side, his sandy hair disheveled and his expression grim.
“I will track them,” he said. “If they left the castle, there would be signs. Footprints in the mud, broken branches, something. I will find them.”
“I am coming with ye.” Callan pushed through the crowd of servants, his face pale and his black curls wild around his shoulders. “She is me sister. I willnae stand here and wait while someone else searches for her.”
Rowan nodded, but he did not speak. He could not speak. His throat had closed around something hot and thick, and he was afraid of what might come out if he opened his mouth.
I’m sorry for being such an idiot. I left her here, defenseless, while I rode off to play the hero.
Ewan and Callan disappeared through the gates, the thundering of their horses’ hooves fading into the distance. The guards spread through the castle, searching every room they could find, calling Sorcha’s name and Elspeth’s name until the walls echoed with the sound.
Rowan stood in the courtyard and did nothing.
He could not move. Could not think. Could only stand there with his hands hanging at his sides and his heart pounding against his ribs and his mind replaying every moment he had wasted, every moment he had pushed Sorcha away, every moment he had chosen fear over her.
I willnae bury her. I cannae. I willnae bury either of them.
He turned and walked toward the castle. Not because he had a plan, not because he knew where to look, but because he could not stand still any longer.
Because moving was better than standing, and doing something was better than doing nothing.
His boots carried him through the corridors without conscious direction.
Past the Great Hall, where the tables still waited for the feast that would never come.
Past the kitchens, where the maids huddled together and wept.
Past the stairs that led to the upper chambers, where the candles had burned low in their holders and the shadows gathered in the corners.
He found himself in his study.
The fire had burned down to embers, and the room was cold and dark. The maps still lay scattered across the table where he had left them, and the ledgers still sat in their piles, and the world still spun on as though nothing had changed.
But something had changed. Everything had changed.
Rowan had never believed in luck. Luck was for gamblers and fools, for men who trusted in chance rather than steel. He had survived the plague and war and loss because he was strong and because he was careful and because he never allowed himself to hope for more than he could hold in his hands.
But he believed in her.
And he knew, with a certainty that had no reason and no logic and no place in the mind of a man who had seen as much death as he had seen, that the small wooden horse would guide him to her.
He left the study and walked back to the courtyard. His hand rested on the hilt of his sword, his jaw was set, and his eyes were dry, though something inside him was weeping.
I am comin’, Sorcha. I am comin’ for ye both. Hold on.
The courtyard was still in chaos when he emerged, but it was a different kind of chaos. Men shouted orders, and women wept. Somewhere, a child was crying, though whether from fear or confusion, he could not tell.
He was about to mount his horse when a woman stepped into his path. She was older, perhaps sixty, with grey streaking her brown hair and lines etched deep into her face. Her clothes were fine but plain.
He did not recognize her at first. The chaos of the courtyard and the fear pounding in his blood had blurred his vision, and she was just another body in a sea of bodies, just another face in a crowd of strangers.
But then she spoke.
“Rowan.” Her voice was shaking, and tears streaked her face. She clutched her hands together as though she were praying. “Rowan, please. Ye must listen to me.”
He stopped and looked at her, and recognition struck him.
“Marion.” His father’s sister-in-law. The woman who had married his uncle Alistair and then disappeared from his life, first by distance and then by choice.
“I came with Alistair.” Her voice was barely a whisper, and her eyes darted toward the gates as though she expected someone to appear and drag her away.
“He made me come. He said it was time. He said that we couldnae stay away any longer, that the clan would talk, that we needed to mend the rift between us before it was too late.”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. “Where is me wife?”
Marion flinched at the hardness in his voice, but she did not step back. She reached for his arm, her fingers curling around his sleeve, and he felt her trembling through the fabric.
“They havenae left the territory.” The words came out in a rush, as though she had been holding them inside for too long and could no longer contain them.
“They are still here. In the old dungeons. The abandoned fort is beyond the eastern woods. Do ye remember it, Rowan? Ye used to play there when ye were small. Ye and Gordon, before—”
“Marion.” Rowan caught her by the shoulders and held her still. “How do ye ken this? How do ye ken where they are?”
Her face crumpled, and her tears fell faster.
“Because Alistair took them. He took the woman and the child, and he hid them in the abandoned fort beyond the eastern woods. He told me that if I spoke a word to anyone, he would kill me. He said he would make it look like an accident, and nay one would ever ken.”
Alistair.
His uncle. His father’s brother. The man who had written to him years ago with the news that Gordon was dead, who had stayed away from MacLaren lands while Rowan buried his parents, his sister, and his first wife.
“Why?” Rowan’s voice was cold, colder than he had intended, but he could not feel anything except the rage building in his chest. “Why would he do this? What does he want?”
Marion shook her head, gripping his arms tightly as though she needed him to hold her upright.
“He wants the castle. He has always wanted the castle. When the plague swept through it and everyone was dyin’, he thought he would inherit it.
He was the braither of the Laird, and ye were just a boy.
He thought ye would die too, but ye didnae.
Ye came back from battle and assumed the lairdship, and he couldnae bear it. ”
Rowan’s jaw tightened. He wanted to ask more, wanted to demand answers, wanted to understand how his own uncle could have turned against him so completely. But there was no time. Every moment he spent asking questions was a moment Sorcha and Elspeth spent in danger.
Ewan appeared at his side, his sandy hair plastered to his forehead and his expression grim. “Rowan, we need to move. If Alistair has them, every moment we wait—”
“I ken.” Rowan straightened and turned to look at his friend. “Ewan, take me aunt to her chambers. Post guards at her door. She isnae to leave, and nay one is to speak to her without me permission.”
Marion’s face crumpled. “Rowan, please—”
“I will deal with ye when I return.” His voice was steely, leaving no room for argument. “If me wife and me daughter are alive, we will speak. If they arenae…”
He did not finish the sentence. He did not need to.
Ewan took Marion’s arm and led her away, and Rowan watched them go for only a moment before he turned to mount his horse.
But before he could swing himself up into the saddle, Ewan was back at his side. He had thrust Marion into the arms of a nearby guard to hurry back across the yard, clapping a heavy hand on Rowan’s arm.
“Rowan, wait.” Ewan’s voice was low, meant only for his ears. “I need to ask ye somethin’.”
“There is nay time.”
“There is always time to think before ye ride into danger.” Ewan’s grip tightened. “Why would Alistair take them? What is his endgame? He must ken that we will come for them. He must ken that ye willnae rest until they are found. So why would he risk everythin’ to take them in the first place?”
Rowan went still.
Why would Alistair take them? What does he hope to gain?
He thought about his uncle, about the bitterness that had festered in him for years, about the envy that had turned into something darker.
Alistair had always wanted the castle. Had always wanted the power that came with being Laird.
But taking Sorcha and Elspeth would not give him any of that.
It would only bring Rowan’s wrath down upon him.
Unless…
“Unless he doesnae plan to survive,” Rowan said slowly, the words coming to him as though from a great distance. “Unless he plans to take them with him.”
Ewan’s face went pale. “Ye think he means to kill them?”
“I think he means to hurt me.” Rowan’s expression was grim. “I think he has been waitin’ for this moment for years, and he doesnae care what it costs him. He wants to watch me suffer. He wants to watch me lose everythin’, the way he thinks he lost everythin’.”
“Then we need to move faster.”
“Aye.” Rowan swung himself up into the saddle and gathered the reins in his hands. “But we also need to be careful. If he kens we are comin’, he will kill them before we can stop him.”
Ewan mounted his own horse and fell in beside him. “Then we ride fast and quiet, and we daenae give him time to think.”
Rowan nodded and turned his horse toward the gates.
The abandoned fort. He knew the place. He had played there as a boy, had hidden in its shadows and pretended to be a warrior, had run through its corridors with a wooden sword in his hand.
He would find it again.
He would find them.
And when he did, Alistair would learn what it meant to threaten the family of the Wolf of the North.
“Alistair is a dead man,” Rowan said. “He just doesnae ken it yet.”
He kicked his horse into a gallop and rode through the gates with his sword at his hip and the small wooden horse against his heart, and he did not look back.