Page 89 of The Scot

Blood dripped onto the white snow beneath him.

Chaos erupted everywhere. “Inside. Get inside,” the guard shouted.

She barely heard the words. Another wounded man was being carried inside.

Before she could properly object, the guard was ushering her and Cait through the entrance of the Middle Tower.

Terrified, they begged him for answers.

He said nothing before leaving, shouting for them to remain in the tower.

Roysa’s heart thudded in her chest as he shut the door. She didn’t know what was happening, but no one needed to tell her it was dangerous.

And she didn’t know where her sister was.

Roysa didn’t think. She fled back outside, hurtling down the wall-walk and toward the keep. This was the quickest path to it. Ignoring the shouts that rose up around her, Roysa continued to run until she passed the North Gatehouse. She ignored every plea to stop, to get inside.

She needed to see Idalia with her own eyes, to know she was safe.

Finally arriving at the Northeast Tower, she did go inside and nearly tripped down the narrow stairwell. Emerging from the tower entrance into the kitchens, Roysa ignored the servants’ stares and begged to be shown to the hall.

“Idalia,” she cried as if that would help her get to her faster.

Someone pointed her toward a door, and she thanked the girl before realizing it was the maid who liked Terric, the one who’d likely spread rumors about her.

It didn’t matter, really.

“Bless you,” she said, running toward the door.

“Roysa,” Cait called from behind her. She hadn’t even realized her friend had followed her—nor could she make herself slow down.

She nearly fell in her haste to get to and through the door, then down the corridor beyond it.

Once inside, she was met with more shouts, the screech of tables being moved, and more people than should be inside during a siege. Knights. Men-at-arms. Servants.

But no Idalia.

Calling her name, Roysa pushed past half a dozen people—and then her knees buckled and she collapsed.

“Idalia!” She also appeared to be frantically searching the hall.

Her younger sister ran to her and pulled her to her feet.

“Thank Saint Rosalina,” Idalia cried, throwing her arms around Roysa’s shoulders. “I was so worried. I knew you and Cait . . . where’s Cait?”

She pulled away.

“Here,” Cait answered.

Though it took her a moment, Roysa finally realized what was happening around her. The hall was being transformed, injured men being brought inside. But injured from what? Ulster’s men could not possibly have breached the walls so soon . . .

“Idalia? What do you know?”

Her sister shook her head, but one of the injured men turned toward them. An arrow stuck up from his stomach. He was bleeding. Badly. Roysa tried not to look at the arrow, but it insisted on being seen, noticed.

She kneeled down beside him, holding out her hand instinctively around the arrow. She had no cloth, and he seemed to have been abandoned.

“Lord Stanton,” he said. “From the rear.”

Roysa’s heart felt as if it had stopped beating.

Her father had come. Had attacked from the rear. And she did not have to be told what happened next.

The siege was over.

The battle had begun.