Page 85 of Laird of Wrath

Callum turned to see him waving, trying to catch his attention. Next to him were Sienna, Mabel, and Lara, Rhea nowhere to be seen. He pushed his way through the crowd, and when he reached them, his eyes were wild with concern.

“Where is she?” he demanded. “Where is Rhea?”

“I… I daenae ken,” Sienna stammered, shaking her head. “Mabel said she went to get more wine, but we havenae seen her since.”

Callum cursed once more, though this time, he didn’t bother trying to hide it. He pushed his hair back with a trembling hand and wiped the sweat that had gathered on his forehead, his breath coming hard and fast.

“Get them inside,” he barked.

He didn’t wait for Hudson to respond before he was off once more, searching for Rhea.

He didn’t have to look for long. By then, the crowd in the courtyard had thinned, most people fleeing into the keep and any other building they could enter, barricading themselves inside. He saw Rhea among those who were left, and next to her was Laird Barclay himself.

Laird Barclay was holding her by the arm, his other hand holding a dagger to her neck. Rhea winced as the man dug his fingers into her arm, but she didn’t make a sound, not even when he pressed so deep that the skin around the pads paled and then reddened. The blade glinted against the pale, delicate skin of her throat, burning gold in the firelight.

“Damn him.” Callum spat on the ground. His grip tightened on his sword, the callouses on his palms brushing the rough leather around the hilt. “Barclay!”

“There ye are!” Laird Barclay called as he moved closer, dragging Rhea along with him. She struggled in his grip, though she seemed well aware of the blade against her throat, from the way it restricted her movement.

When he stopped, he pressed the blade even harder against her throat, enough to draw blood. Callum froze at the sight of it.

Laird Barclay could take her life at any moment. She was completely at his mercy, her life hanging from a thread for as long as she was in his clutches.

But how could Callum save her? One wrong move, and he would be the cause of her demise.

Her eyes were pleading and filled with tears. He wanted nothing more than to reassure her, to tell her that he wouldn’t let anything happen to her, but how could he promise her such a thing when he could hardly move a muscle? It was as if his limbs had turned to lead, as if his body had turned against him and had rooted itself to the spot, refusing to budge.

“What’s the matter?” Laird Barclay taunted. “Are ye too frightened that I’ll kill yer precious wife?” He let out a laugh that chilled Callum to the bone.

The man was not only ambitious, but he was also a lunatic. He seemed to revel in Callum’s panic and Rhea’s pain. Everything he was doing, he was doing it because it gave him pleasure, and the thought of it sickened Callum, bile rising in the back of his throat.

“Let her go,” Callum demanded.

Laird Barclay let out another laugh, bright and amused. “Why would I do that, McMahon? I could ruin ye with one move.”

Callum gritted his teeth, rage threatening to blind him. But when he looked at Rhea once more, the panic was gone from her eyes, replaced by cold determination. He didn’t have time to react before she decided to take matters into her own hands.

As Laird Barclay began to speak again, she used his distraction to slam her heelharddown on his foot. Pain seemed to register a few moments later as he cried out, the surprise of the attack allowing her to slip out of his loosened grip.

Within moments, she was running away from him—away from them both.

Clever lass.

The farther away she was from them, the less Callum had to worry about her, and the more he could focus on finally getting rid of Laird Barclay for good. But as she ran away, Laird Barclay watched her, his face painted red with rage.

He let out a cry that reminded Callum of a furious animal, wild and unbridled. It seemed to shake his entire body with its intensity, reverberating through him and the air around him like thunder. Then, he fixed his gaze on Callum, his feet skidding across the ground as he broke into a sprint.

Callum gritted his teeth, every point of contact between his palm and the hilt of his sword burning with anticipation. His blade thirsted for blood, and he would be damned if he let the bastard escape him or defeat him.

Their swords met with a deafening clang, the sound echoing in the courtyard around them. It seemed to drown out everything else—all the screaming, all the pained moans, all the footsteps as the two sides collided. All around him, there was nothing butstrife and death. All around him, swords clashed over and over again, and men laid their lives for the safety of the clan.

But not for long. He would put an end to it himself.

Laird Barclay’s attacks were brutal. He swung his sword with rage and abandon, but Callum didn’t balk at the relentless onslaught. With a grunt, he parried a blow, swinging his blade back before driving it upwards, only for Laird Barclay to dodge it again. The point of the blade ripped his sleeve right over the bicep but drew no blood.

Jumping back, Laird Barclay threw him a mocking grin. “Ye think ye can best me?”

Callum didn’t even dignify that question with an answer. Of course, he could best him.