Chapter 31
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
The abandoned fort rose from the mist like a corpse rising from its grave. Rowan had not seen it in years, not since he was a boy with dirt on his knees and a wooden sword in his hand, pretending to be a warrior while Gordon followed close behind.
The stone walls were cracked and crumbling now, covered in moss and ivy, and the gates hung crooked on rusted hinges. The place smelled of damp and decay and something else, something darker, something that made the hair on the back of his neck stand on end.
He dismounted before the horse had fully stopped, the heavy thud of his boots followed instantly by Ewan and the guards dropping from their own mounts.
Rowan drew his sword, the steel gleaming in the grey light.
He cast a single, silent look over his shoulder, a silent command for his men to spread out and secure the perimeter, before holding his blade low at his side and walking toward the entrance.
His boots crunched on dead leaves and broken stone, and the sound echoed off the walls like footsteps following close behind.
She is in there. They are both in there. And I am coming for them.
The corridor stretched before him, the walls slick with moisture, the floor littered with debris from a century of neglect.
Torches burned in brackets along the walls, casting flickering shadows that danced like living things.
Rowan followed them deeper into the fortress, his sword ready and his eyes scanning every shadow for movement.
He heard them before he saw them. Sorcha’s voice first.
“Ye willnae get away with this.” Her words were confident. “Rowan is comin’ for us. He is comin’, and when he finds ye, he willnae show ye mercy. He will tear ye apart with his bare hands. I have seen what he does to men who threaten his family.”
A harsh laugh echoed through the chamber. “The great Wolf of the North.” Alistair’s voice dripped with contempt. “I have heard the stories. Every man in the Highlands has. But I am nae afraid of yer husband, Lady Sorcha. I have been waitin’ for this moment for longer than he has been alive.”
“He will kill ye.” Sorcha’s voice did not waver. “He will kill ye, and he willnae lose a moment’s sleep over it. Ye are nothin’ to him. Less than nothin’.”
Elspeth’s sobs cut through the darkness, high and terrified. The sound pierced through Rowan’s chest. “Da! Da, please! I want me da! I want to go home!”
“Hush, child.” Alistair’s voice was cold. “Yer faither isnae comin’. He is too busy playin’ Laird, too busy impressin’ his guests, too busy pretendin’ that he is somethin’ more than a boy who stumbled into power he didnae deserve.”
“Da is coming!” Elspeth’s voice rose.
Rowan forced himself to keep walking, to keep moving, to not run toward them like a madman and get them both killed. His hand tightened on his sword, and his jaw clenched so hard that he felt the ache in his teeth.
Steady. Be steady. Ye cannae save them if ye are dead.
The corridor opened into a large chamber, and Rowan stopped at the edge of the shadows. His uncle stood in the center of the room with a knife pressed to Sorcha’s throat.
Alistair MacLaren was sixty years old, but he looked older now, his black and grey hair long and tangled, his face lined with years of bitterness and envy. He was tall and still strong despite the limp that slowed him, and his eyes burned with a feverish light that spoke of madness and desperation.
Sorcha stood before him, her hands bound in front of her, her blue gown torn at the shoulder and stained with dirt. Her hair had come loose from its pins and fell in tangled waves around her face, and her cheeks were wet with tears, but her eyes were clear and steady.
When she saw Rowan standing in the shadows, her eyes widened.
“Rowan!” she cried out, and the sound of his name on her lips was like a prayer answered.
But Alistair moved fast. He pressed the knife harder against her throat, and a thin line of blood appeared on her pale skin.
“Nae another sound,” he snarled. “Nae one more word, or I will slit yer throat open right here, in front of yer husband.”
Sorcha’s mouth closed, but her eyes did not leave Rowan’s.
Elspeth saw him too, and her small body lurched forward, reaching for him, but the young man beside her grabbed her shoulder and held her still. “Da!” she screamed. “Da, help us! Please, Da, please—”
“Hush!” The young man’s voice was shaking, his hands trembling as he pressed the blade to her throat. “Be quiet, child. Be still. Daenae make me…” He stopped, and his eyes met Rowan’s.
Rowan looked at the young man, at the way his hands shook and his gaze kept darting to Alistair and then back to the child in his grip.
This was not a hardened killer. This was a young man who had been forced into something he did not want to do. The hesitation in his eyes told Rowan everything he needed to know.
The boy will be me first target. If I can take him down quickly, Elspeth will be free. Then I can deal with Alistair.
“Rowan.” Alistair’s voice was smooth and mocking, and his smile did not reach his eyes. “I wondered how long it would take ye to find us. I must admit, I expected ye sooner. Perhaps ye arenae the Wolf they say ye are.”
“Let her go.” Rowan’s voice was low and dangerous. He took a step into the chamber, his sword raised. “Let them both go, and I will let ye live.”
Alistair laughed, a harsh, barking sound that echoed off the walls.
“Ye will let me live? How generous. How noble. The great Laird MacLaren, offerin’ mercy to his uncle.
” He pressed the knife harder against Sorcha’s throat, and the blood trickled faster.
“But I daenae want yer mercy, nephew. I want what should have been mine from the beginning.”
Sorcha tried to speak, tried to say something, but Alistair’s hand clamped over her mouth, muffling her voice.
Her eyes burned with fury and fear. Rowan watched her struggle against his grip, watched the tears spill down her cheeks, watched the blood continue to trickle from the wound on her throat.
“The castle,” Alistair continued, his voice rising with each word. “The lands. The clan. Everythin’ yer faither took for himself. He left me nothin’, nothing but a barren wife and an empty title and a life spent in his shadow.”
“Ye chose to marry a Stewart,” Rowan pointed out. He took another step forward, closing the distance between them. “Ye chose to leave MacLaren lands and make yer own way. Me faither didnae force ye. Nay one did.”
“Yer faither poisoned them against me!” Alistair’s face twisted with rage, and his knife trembled against Sorcha’s throat. “He whispered in their ears and turned them against me, and when I asked for help, when me lands failed and me debts mounted, he turned his back and left me to rot.”
“Me faither is dead.” Rowan’s voice was cold. “He has been dead for years. Whatever grievances ye have against him, he is beyond yer reach. But I am nae. And I am tellin’ ye, for the last time, to let me wife go.”
Alistair’s eyes flicked to the young man holding Elspeth. “If he takes another step, cut the girl’s throat.”
The young man’s hands trembled as he pressed the blade closer to Elspeth’s neck. Her sobs grew louder, and her small body shook with fear. She only closed her eyes and clutched the wooden turtle around her neck, waiting.
Rowan’s fury rose, and he gripped his sword so tightly that his knuckles went white. He took another step forward, his eyes fixed on the young man, calculating the distance, measuring the angle of attack.
One strike. That is all I need. One strike, and Elspeth is free.
Alistair eyes darted between Rowan and the young man.
“Would ye kill yer own kin?” Alistair blurted out, his voice almost frantic.
“Would ye kill yer own braither, Rowan? Oh aye. Yer braither lives. I kept him hidden all these years. I feared bringing him back after the plague, for everyone kens ye are a beast. A monster. A man who would destroy anyone who stood in his way.”
Rowan’s fury rose higher, but he did not believe the words. They were lies, just like everything else Alistair had ever said. Just like the letter that had told him Gordon was dead.
“I daenae believe ye,” he said, his voice cold and hard. “Ye have lied about everything else. Why should I believe ye about this?”
“Because it is true.” Alistair’s smile was thin and cruel. “The boy holding the blade to yer daughter’s throat is yer braither. Yer blood. Yer kin.”
Rowan looked at the young man again, at the autumn-colored hair and the familiar shape of his face. For a moment, an image flashed through his mind. A boy with the same hair, running through the corridors of MacLaren Castle, laughing and calling his name.
Gordon…
But Gordon is dead. He died years ago, far from home. Did he nae?
“I will kill ye both,” Rowan growled. “I will kill ye both and burn this place to the ground with yer bodies inside it.”
Alistair’s eyes widened, and for a moment, Rowan saw fear there, real fear, the kind that came from staring into the face of death and knowing there was no escape.
But then the old man’s expression shifted, and his smile returned, wider now, more desperate.
“Fine,” he said, and the word hung in the air like a death sentence. “Kill him. Spare me, and I will set her free.”
The young man’s face went white. His hands stopped trembling. His eyes, wide and confused, flicked from Alistair to Rowan and back again, searching for something, an explanation, a reason, a sign that he had misheard.
“Uncle?” His voice was small, barely a whisper. “What are ye sayin’?”
“I am sayin’ that ye are expendable, boy.
” Alistair did not look at him. His eyes were fixed on Rowan, watching and waiting.
“I have kept ye alive all these years because ye were useful, because yer existence gave me leverage over yer braither. But if I have to choose between yer life and mine, I will choose mine. Every time.”