Even if it was only Finley.
He wove his way through the maze of houses on the outer edge of the quiet town, heading relentlessly toward the blazing green. The blazing, quiet green. One more alley to traverse, and then there was a man blocking the end of the passage, facing the green, where obviously the town had been gathered for the festival, but it was quiet…so quiet.
The man ahead had a sword, Lachlan saw, almost too late.
But his brow lowered, his pace increased. No one was going to stop him from taking what was his tonight: Finley and Town Blair. No one would stop him.
Lachlan blasted into the man blocking the way, taking the stranger so off guard that he lost his feet and skidded away into the dirt as Lachlan burst into the green. His pace slowed to a trot, then a walk, and then he stopped as the hundreds of eyes beheld him with shock and horror. There was sound now, he realized: weeping, and metal on metal. He turned in a full circle slowly, saw the two long, wrapped shapes lying on the green, saw the ring of armed men who now aimed their weapons at him.
English armor…
“I told ye!” came the ragged crowing voice, drawing Lachlan’s attention back to the center of the green, where Harrell Blair was pointing in Lachlan’s direction but staring up at the lone figure of a man standing atop one of the tables. “I told ye my Searrach would bring him back!”
The stranger was tall, large, but without an abundance of spare flesh to allude to the suggestion that he was unfit. On the contrary, his fine velvet clothing fit him like a second skin, from his barreled torso to his thick arms. His graying hair and the aristocratic swoop of his jowls betrayed his age, but when he hopped down from the tabletop, it was clear that although this was a man of some years, he was in vigorous health and used to physical efforts.
He was smiling, though there was no kindness there, no welcome from this outsider in the midst of Lachlan’s own town. It was a predatory grin, sly and delighted at once.
“Lachlan Blair?” the stranger queried. “Can it be?”
Lachlan caught sight of Dand behind the stranger, and next to him, Marcas. Lachlan’s foster father had lost all color in his face, his long gray hair pulled from its usual tidy queue into matted strands. And unlike the Englishman, who continued to advance on Lachlan, Marcas looked old—so much older than he had when last Lachlan had seen him. Dand shook his head frantically, his eyes wide.
Lachlan looked back at the stranger, and despite Dand’s silent warning, began advancing to meet him on the green. “Who are you?”
“You resemble him, you know,” the man said. “Your hair is darker, but the face—yes.” He came to a stop some ten feet from Lachlan and turned his head this way and that, then held up his hands for a brief, affected moment, as if to frame Lachlan’s countenance. “You could be his twin. I speak of Thomas Annesley, of course. Where is he?”
Lachlan, too, stopped on the green. “I’ve never laid eyes on Thomas Annesley the whole of my life,” he said. “I’ve thought he was dead all these many years. I do wish he’d had the courtesy to have stayed that way.”
To Lachlan’s surprise, the gray-haired man threw back his head in laughter. “Oh! Yes! I feel much the same, young man—much the same!” Like a dish falling to shatter on the hearth, the smile fell from the man’s face. “But we both know that he is not, in fact, dead. And so you will tell me now where he is. Or I will have everyone in this town killed, one by one, ending with you.” He paused, and his smile returned with a diabolical brilliance. “But I will start”—he turned and pointed to Marcas—“with the chief.”
“Exceptin’ me, Lord Hargrave,” Harrell interjected, taking several hesitant steps forward. “Exceptin’ me and Searrach, aye? I told ye she’d find him.”
Hargrave waved a hand with an annoyed frown, but he didn’t turn around to regard Harrell Blair.
“Hargrave,” Lachlan said. “You’re Vaughn Hargrave.”
The man’s smile widened, and he pressed a palm to his chest. “You’ve heard of me? Well, I shouldn’t be surprised, I suppose, although I am flattered.”
Lachlan looked to Dand. “Where’s Finley and Kirsten?”
Harrell stepped closer. “What are you goin’ on about, ye bastard? Where’s me own gel? Where’s Searrach?”
Lachlan glared at the traitor. “Searrach didn’t come for me.”
“Yer a liar,” Harrell stammered. “She had ta. You wouldna’ve come, otherwise.”
“It matters not,” Hargrave interjected in a magnanimous tone, holding up his palms and looking around at everyone with his broad, false smile. “Thomas Annesley’s son is here now. And as soon as he tells me where I can find his father, we will leave you good people to enjoy the remainder of your feast.” He looked back at Lachlan again. “If he does not share the whereabouts of his murdering, lying, cowardly sire, I fear my original intentions must remain in place, with all of you dying. So—” He clapped his hands together and bent slightly forward at the waist.
“Which shall it be, Lachlan Blair? Either way, you will die this night.”
* * * *
Finley’s throat and lungs burned by the time she and Kirsten ran up the sloping path to the old house, although the air felt icy cold on her cheeks and in her ears. Finley dashed past the dead bonfire and into the cavernous room.
“Lachlan!” Her voice echoed in the chamber. “Lachlan!” She caught herself on the doorway of the storeroom: empty, though the fire in the small ring smoldered. She looked behind her to make sure Kirsten hadn’t followed her in before moving to the opening of the shaft and calling out in a hoarse whisper.
“Geordie! Geordie Blair, it’s Finley. Are you here?” But there was no answer.
Finley turned and ran back to the yard, past Kirsten, who was doubled over with one hand on a knee, the other pressed to her ribs.
