Page 86 of The Wolf Laird's Obsession
“Aye.” Rowan swung himself up into the saddle and gathered the reins in his hands. “But we also need to be careful. If he kens we are comin’, he will kill them before we can stop him.”
Ewan mounted his own horse and fell in beside him. “Then we ride fast and quiet, and we daenae give him time to think.”
Rowan nodded and turned his horse toward the gates.
The abandoned fort. He knew the place. He had played there as a boy, had hidden in its shadows and pretended to be a warrior, had run through its corridors with a wooden sword in his hand.
He would find it again.
He would find them.
And when he did, Alistair would learn what it meant to threaten the family of the Wolf of the North.
“Alistair is a dead man,” Rowan said. “He just doesnae ken it yet.”
He kicked his horse into a gallop and rode through the gates with his sword at his hip and the small wooden horse against his heart, and he did not look back.
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 hairhad 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.
