Page 87 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
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 bodyshook 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.”
