Page 69 of The Ruthless Laird's Virgin
Nae just a person, but Eleanor.
Callum gritted his teeth and turned toward the line of trees, setting out at a run. There was no choice in the matter when it came to her.
Eleanor was no longer in view, but he could not leave her to face whatever was behind the trees alone. Why had she run off at the strange sound? Callum had heard someone yelling, but he could not make out who it was or what they were saying.
He reached the line of trees in under a minute, frantically searching for Eleanor, yet all he could see and hear was the quiet forest and the raging battle at his back. His eyes quickly fell on a path that had been beaten through the heather and underbrush. Branches and leaves had been snapped off the bushes where someone had been running in that direction.
Foolish lass.
Callum swore under his breath again as he headed in that direction. She was so hellbent on following whatever she had heard that she had left a trail obvious enough for any enemy to follow her tracks. Even worse, she was headed directly to the open glen, where she would be easier to spot than a sitting duck.
Tearing through the underbrush, Callum could feel the sting of nettles on his legs, yet the urge to find her drove him forward as the blood and adrenaline rushed through his veins. There was nothing in the world that could keep him from finding her as he reached the end of the small forest and came to the edge of the glen.
Mist filled his view, covering the land before him with a thick, foggy blanket.
Where is she?
Callum’s eyes scoured the landscape as he squinted, hoping to get a better view. Yet there was nothing and no one for as far as the eye could see. It was almost as if she had disappeared into thin air as the silence began to ring in his ears. Not even the battle cries from the castle could be heard anymore as his chest rose and fell with every labored breath.
The hairs on the back of his neck began to stand on end as he gripped the hilt of his sword and steadied his footing on the soft earth.
It was quiet, far too quiet for an empty glen. It was the kind of quiet that came right before a storm started raging. His eyes still searched the glen.
His heart leaped into his chest when a figure suddenly appeared in the mist. “Eleanor?” he said out loud, but quickly tightened his grip again when he realized that the gait was all wrong.
“Isnae a lass,” Callum whispered to himself and took up a more defensive stance, his eyes darting through the mist. Wherever she was, Callum hoped and prayed that she was safe and keeping out of sight. It would be far too dangerous for her to come into view when he did not know who lurked behind the mist.
The figure came striding toward him with a confident gait, and soon enough, four more figures appeared, two on each side. Something did not seem right at all as a sixth figure, bound with ropes, ambled along behind them.
Eleanor?
Callum wanted to rush to the figures, but stood his ground when the sound of steel being drawn from sheaths sliced through the air.
The figures came into view: five men and a prisoner behind them. But something still seemed off as the person stumbled forward, almost slipping on the damp earth.
A lad?
Callum’s frown deepened as he wondered who the men were and where Eleanor had gotten to. If she had not been taken as a prisoner, then what had happened to her? His eyes quickly moved across the glen again, but he still could not see beyond the strangers, nor could he hear anything beyond the distant battle behind him.
Coming into view, the men stepped from the mist, their blue coats and dark kilts damp and heavy. They seemed quite unkempt, as if they had been living off the land for far too long with disheveled hair and dirty clothes.
“Who are ye?” Callum called out, keeping his grip tight on his sword as he lifted it in a defensive stance.
None of the men seemed familiar to him, but the leader stirred something deep in his memory that he could not quite place his finger on.
“Calm yerself, Laird Fraser,” the man spoke in a deep voice that seemed just as vaguely familiar to Callum as the crop of red curls on his head. Coming to a stop a few feet away from Callum, the large red-headed man nodded to his right.
The strange men stepped aside as their leader reached back and yanked on the rope, pulling the prisoner forward as the man stumbled to his knees in front of them all.
“Andrew Whitacker?” Callum almost gasped as he looked at the bloody man kneeling in front of his captors.
Looking up with one swollen eye and a bloodied lip, Andrew Whitacker nodded, his body bruised and beaten, but very much alive. His clothes were covered in blood, dirt, and various other bits of debris, but as far as Callum could see, he was able to move without assistance. He was beaten and bruised, but at least he was still alive.
The past few days came crashing back to Callum as he realized that he had been wrong. The men, whoever they were, had never intended to kill Andrew; he was bait. All of the time that he had thought that Andrew was dead, they had been keeping him until the time was right.
Anger surged in his chest as Callum clenched his jaw, dragging his gaze away from the bloodied man. “I willnae ask ye again, who are ye?” He searched the leader’s face after trying to place the rest of the men. None of them belonged to his council, nor had he recognized any of them from his clan. Had he been wrong?
The men on the night of the ambush had been part of his clan, but how far had the conspiracy to overthrow him gone? Had other clans gotten involved? And if so, just whom could he trust?
