Page 116 of Claimed By a Ruthless Scot
Elaina smiled and Duncan thought he had never seen a sight more capable of undoing him.
“I begin tae suspect,” she said, “that the two of ye have entertained yerselves at our expense.”
“Me dear,” said Catriona, still beaming, “it has been our greatest diversion.”
Everyone burst into laughter at her words, and then, the room settled again. Dishes were passed and wine was poured. Candle flames moved gently in the evening draught, and the golden light softened every face, every line of stone and timber about the hall.
Duncan, seated beside Elaina, was acutely conscious of her nearness. Once, as a servant reached across the table, her sleeve brushed his hand, and the smallest contact was enough to recall the observatory, the ribbon, the look in her eyes when she had accepted it at last.
He allowed himself, perhaps for the first time in many years, to imagine what peace might feel like if it were allowed to remain.
At that exact moment, the great doors of the hall flew open with a violence that shattered the warmth of the room at once. Every head turned as a guard stumbled in, looking pale and breathless. The urgency in his face was enough to silence all remaining laughter before he spoke. His chest rose and fell sharply, and his gaze found Duncan first, then Iain.
“Me laird,” he said, with scarcely enough breath to force the words out, “the castle is under attack.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
For one suspended instant after the guard’s cry, the hall seemed to forget how to breathe, then all was motion.
Duncan was on his feet at once, with Iain rising with him. The easy warmth of the evening vanished as though it had never existed. Chairs scraped sharply against the floor, servants drew back in alarm, and the candlelight, which only moments before had seemed soft and festive, now threw restless shadows against the walls.
“Elaina, Catriona,” Duncan’s voice cut through the confusion with an authority that admitted no delay. He turned to them both, and though his countenance was composed, she saw the steel beneath it at once. “I need ye tae go tae yer rooms. Lock yer doors. Dinnae open them for anyone unless it is me or Iain.”
“Duncan,” Elaina began.
“Go,” he said again, and she knew that they had no time to spare.
Her heart was beating so violently that she could scarcely feel the ground beneath her feet, yet it was not fear for herself that struck first. It was the sight of Duncan reaching for his sword, followed by the knowledge that he was about to walk directly into danger while she was commanded away from it.
He looked at her only once before turning. It was a single glance, swift and full of meaning. There was reassurance in it, and apology, and a tenderness so brief that she might have doubted it if she had not known him as she did.
Then he was gone. Iain followed without hesitation, already issuing orders to the guards nearest the doors, and the sound of boots and shouted commands rose around them with dreadful speed. Catriona seized Elaina’s hand.
“Come,” she urged, and the brightness so natural to her was now wholly displaced by alarm.
They ran. The corridors of the castle, so familiar by day, seemed altered now by urgency and shadow. Torches burned low along the walls, their flames guttering in the draught stirred by distant movement, while the echo of raised voices drifted through the stone passages in fragments. She could hear commands, warnings and the sharp ring of weapons being drawn.
They reached the corridor leading to their chambers, and for one foolish, desperate instant Elaina thought perhaps they might yet reach safety. Catriona’s door came first.
They appeared so suddenly and so silently, that she stopped at once, her whole body going still.
Neither wore Grant colors. The torchlight caught upon hard faces she did not know, upon rough wool and leather darkened by the night. She saw that their blades were already drawn. One of them smiled, and it was pure malice.
Elaina stepped back. The first man moved at once, swift as a striking hound, and caught her by the arm before she could turn. She gasped, twisting against his hold, but the second was already behind her, cutting off retreat.
Catriona opened her mouth, but was immediately held back by the other man, who swiftly covered her mouth before she could scream for help.
“Let us go,” Elaina commanded, though the demand was wasted on them.
The man gripping her arm only tightened his hand until pain shot through her.
“Yer laird is occupied,” he mocked her. “So ye may spare yerself the trouble of crying fer him.”
Elaina’s pulse thundered in her ears.
“He is too far away tae hear ye. Too busy defending his fine castle tae come running after ye now,” said the other, with a cruelsatisfaction that made her blood run cold, as he shoved Catriona into a room, warning her to stay quiet with the tip of his sword.
Elaina fought them then without any illusion of success, because she could not bear not to. She twisted, struck out, tried to wrench free, but one of them caught both her wrists in a brutal grip, while the other pressed a hand over her mouth.
