Page 73 of Claimed By a Ruthless Scot
Elaina.
His head snapped toward the direction he had left her. Time seemed to fracture.
“Raise the alarm,” he ordered immediately, his voice cutting through the noise with authority that allowed no hesitation. “Get men tae the fire. Contain it before it spreads.”
“Me laird?—”
“I will join ye shortly,” Duncan continued, already moving. “Go.”
The scout did not question him. He ran. Duncan did not wait. He turned and pushed through the crowd. His stride was fast and purposeful, then faster still as the noise around him grew louder and more chaotic. People were beginning to run. Shouts overlapped, with panic spreading like wildfire through the square. The smoke thickened.
But Duncan saw none of it. He heard none of it. Only one thing mattered.
He reached for his sword as he moved, his grip tightening around the hilt as that same instinct roared louder within him.
“Duncan!” Her voice cut through everything, his name, in panic.
Duncan stopped just long enough to find the direction of the sound, then he moved. He forced his way through the crowd, ignoring the resistance and ignoring the confusion around him, his entire focus fixed on reaching her.
He reached the stalls and saw them. The guard was there, and two unfamiliar men, who had their hands on her. They were dragging her.
Something inside him snapped.
He saw her struggling. He saw the way they had hold of her, dragging her through the chaos as if she were nothing more than something to be claimed. Her voice carried through the noise, sharp with desperation as she called for him again, and the sound drove something deep and violent through his chest.
The men only laughed.
“There’s nay use in that,” one of them jeered, tightening his grip on her arm. “He willnae hear ye over the chaos.”
Duncan closed the distance before the words had fully left the man’s mouth. The first strike was swift and merciless. Steel cut cleanly, and the man released her with a choked sound, then recovered and struck back, injuring Duncan’s arm. Duncan struck back immediately, in rage, pushing his blade between the man’s ribs. He collapsed before he even understood what had happened. The second barely had time to turn, his expression shifting from amusement to shock before Duncan struck again,in a movement that was controlled and lethal. He went down just as quickly.
Duncan did not slow. He moved straight for the guard.
The man stumbled back, because he knew that it was too late to run and he could not defend himself. Duncan’s hand caught his weapon, wrenching it free before forcing him down to his knees with brutal efficiency.
“Me laird…” the guard began, and there was panic breaking through his voice.
Duncan’s grip tightened. There was no hesitation in him now, no restraint beyond what was necessary.
“Ye will answer fer this,” he snarled. He did not wait for a reply. “Take him,” Duncan ordered, not even looking as his men closed in. “Dungeon. He daesnae leave it.”
The guard’s protests were cut short as he was dragged away. Only then did Duncan turn. Elaina stood where they had left her, with her breath unsteady and the remnants of the struggle still evident in the tension of her body. Her hair had come loose, strands falling around her face, and her hands were clenched as if she were still prepared to fight.
Duncan stepped toward her, his focus narrowing entirely to her.
“Elaina.” Her name left him quieter now, but it carried something heavier beneath it.
He stopped just in front of her, his gaze moving over her quickly, searching for injury, for any sign that they had managed to harm her before he reached her.
“Are ye hurt?” he asked.
Elaina nodded, though the movement was small and her breath still uneven. “Nay… I am well.”
Duncan did not answer. It was not enough.
Her words did not settle the sharp edge still cutting through him, did not quiet the image of her being dragged away, of her calling for him. He needed certainty. He needed proof.
Before he could stop himself, his hand lifted.
