She glanced up at him, surprised. “We all carry a share.”
He looked at the dancers again so he would not say more and lose what was left of his guard.
The dancers swung their blades to the beat and coaxed a cheer. The torches spat sparks that drifted and died. Music rose on the pulse of the drum and pressed against his ribs like a second heart. He let it in.
Kristen turned toward him with a small, soft thing on her tongue. He could see the shape of it coming and felt his own answer form.
The air between them drew tight like the string on a bow. He was about to say something he had not planned to say, something small and true that would gentle the night.
“Kristen—”
“There ye are.” The voice rose loudly above the music and cracked it.
The square went still. The fiddlers faltered, then stopped. The crowd turned and pulled back as a group of rough-looking men pushed through the light.
“We’ve been looking for ye, Wolf of the North,” the largest called.
Mothers pulled children behind their dresses. Men reached for sticks and knives that were not meant for a festival. The air grew thin and tight as if the whole village held its breath.
Kristen’s head snapped toward Neil, who did not take his eyes off the men. He stepped forward without a word, every line of hisbody coiled, his hands loose and sure, his mind already finding the ground between torches and stone.
21
The torches crackled and hissed as the music died down. The crowd drew back in a wide ring, boots scraping, breath held.
The leader of the bandits stepped forward, his lip curled, his eyes full of hatred.
“Ye killed our braithers,” he spat, jabbing a filthy finger at Neil. “Their blood shouldnae have been spilled without payback.”
Neil did not move. He felt Kristen step closer, close enough that the hem of her sleeve brushed his hand.
“Who are they?” Her voice was soft, but not too soft to betray the fear he knew she felt.
Neil cleared his throat. “Me captors.”
“Time for a reckoning,Wolf,” the leader of the bandits barked.
Neil kept his eyes on the man. “Yekidnapped me braither,” he said, his voice level and cold. “If anyone should be seeking vengeance here, it is me.”
Murmurs rippled through the villagers.
The bandit let out a mirthless laugh. “Then ye willnae like what comes next.”
Neil’s fingers tightened on the hilt of his sword. The square smelled of smoke and fried sugar and the tang of fear. He widened his stance, his weight balanced, ready to pounce.
He knew what was coming.He has dreaded it since he escaped from the cabin.
A second bandit spat on the dirt. “Yer braither was dead long before ye escaped,” he sneered, loud enough for the crowd to hear.
Neil’s heart sank.If he was being honest with himself, a part of him had always known that. Yet hearing it out loud made his blood boil.
“Cried like a bairn, too, the coward,” the second man continued. “Aye, he did. Begged to go back to ye. Said he’d never touch our sister again if we let him live.”
The words struck like a hammer.
For a moment, Neil could not breathe. He saw Alex as a boy at the lake, laughing, water in his hair. He could not reconcile that image with the bandit’s account.
“When?” he asked, stepping forward.
