Page 8 of Laird of Wrath

“Aye.” Lara walked over to the window. “We all are.”

“I take it the servants daenae like Laird Barclay?”

“Och nay, nae at all,” Lara scoffed. “I ken it isnae proper to say this, but he… he’s quite the brute, even if it doesnae seem like it. The lasses already have issues with him, me Lady.”

Of course they do.

Suddenly, Lara gasped, and Rhea shot up off the mattress, staring at her with concern. “What is it?”

“A swallow!”

“What?”

“A swallow, me Lady,” Lara repeated. “Look!”

Indeed, when Rhea looked, she saw a swallow perched on the windowsill. She only recognized it from the tan belly and blue wings that were just visible in the candlelight, though she didn’t know what was so special about it. Swallows were far from rare, after all.

“It’s a good sign,” Lara said. “Swallows daenae come out at this hour, ye ken.”

“Ach, ye and yer signs,” Rhea chided, though she was quite fond of Lara’s superstitions by then. If nothing else, they rendered her days more interesting.

“I’m tellin’ ye, me Lady, ye’ll receive good news soon,” Lara insisted. “There is nay other reason for a swallow to be here in the middle of the night.”

“If ye say so,” Rhea said, though her heart fluttered in her chest.

As much as she feared to believe it, she wanted the good news to be about Callum. She wanted him to return, to take back his title and ensure that Laird Barclay couldn’t do anything anymore to harm the clan and Sienna.

But it was all wishful thinking. How could a swallow herald such a sudden change?

If only I could send Sienna somewhere else for a while. Somewhere where she would be safe.

But there was nowhere for her to go. Under other circumstances, she could have sent her to her family. Her father and her sister would have taken good care of her. But she couldn’t send her there now, when her clan was in the middle of a war.

That was precisely how they had lost Callum. She couldn’t save Sienna from Laird Barclay just to give her up to Clan Sutherland.

“What is that?” Lara asked, pulling Rhea out of her thoughts.

She heard a buzz of activity.

Horses.

Rhea sprang out of bed and rushed to the window, her mind racing. It was either a siege, just as Laird Barclay had threatened, or it was?—

Callum!

Without another word, she rushed out of the room and down the corridor. She didn’t even bother wearing her slippers, her bare feet thudding against the stone floors as she ran. Her blonde hair flew behind her, her breath catching in her throat. She didn’t stop until she was out in the courtyard.

There he was, standing right in front of her, illuminated by the torchlight.

What… what happened to him?

War, she thought. War had happened to him.

Every inch of skin she could see was scarred. His arms, his hands, his face—all of it covered in silvery scars and others that were still red and angry, still fresh. His beard, which had once been neatly trimmed, was now long and scraggly, just like his dark hair. And when she looked him in the eyes, it was as if he had aged years instead of months.

Something strange happened to his expression when he saw her. His eyes narrowed, and his mouth twisted. Before she knew it, he was marching over to her, his fists clenched by his sides.

“Keep movin’!” he growled at his men, throwing his arm forward to urge them on. “Keep yer damn eyes off her!”