Maeve said, "What we always do. We plan."
They separated, then Maeve slipped her hand into his. As they began to walk back toward the camp, Cailean's brain was already whirling with his next step.
"Ye said there was a passage," Maeve said slowly. "We had already planned tae send in small groups, but that willnae be enough anymore, nae with the False King's elite waitin' on us."
"But we've overcome such odds before," Cailean reminded her, hope rising cautiously once more. "When we reclaimed Bruce Castle. Our wee group infiltrated, while the rest of the forces distracted with a full-on attack."
Maeve's eyes lit up. "Exactly! Now ye're thinkin'," she said with a grin.
They walked back into the group where Breana was talking in a low, urgent voice with the council, Darren, and Fergus. All of the others stopped talking and looked up as Maeve and Cailean walked back into the camp.
Darren gave Cailean a swift, understanding look—the kind of silent exchange that Cailean had counted on from him since childhood. This man was truly his brother in all but blood. Perhaps, more than almost anyone, Darren could understand Cailean's need to reach Neala.
"What's the plan?" Darren asked without a hint of hesitation.
Cailean took a breath. With Maeve's reassuring hand in his, he centered himself, and nodded.
"Remember how we took back yer family's home, Darren?" he asked. "Well. Consider that a practice round. Ye, Senan, and Ewan are gonnae lead the bulk of our forces in an attack tae draw the worst of the battle away. Another group of us are gonnae use the passages tae infiltrate."
Maeve nodded. "Half of the second team will then double back inside the castle an' help secure the army's path. And then a small group of the rest of us will take on the most important goals."
"Which are?" Ferda asked. Cailean could see from the fire in her eyes that the scout would insist on accompanying him, broken arm or no. He knew he would have to keep her close.
"Find me sister," he said. "An' kill Ansel Ashkirk."
Neala could not stop crying, and though she had trained with Laura on how to react and keep a cover even under the strongest of emotional stress, she found herself paralyzed under the stare of Ansel's strange green eyes. They seemed to draw her in, examining her heart and soul, laying everything bare. She clutched tightly to the notebook, feeling the little doll inside her cloak, trying to wipe away the tears that would not stop trickling down her face.
As he watched her, Ansel's expression changed. The concern that she'd seen there faded, hardening into something else, and soon his eyes narrowed in clear suspicion. He looked from her face to the notebook and back, then moved his hand and tried to take the book from her. Neala could not help herself; she jerked her hand back, keeping her mother's words close to her, not able to give it up back into enemy hands.
"Abby," he said slowly, his words now punctuated and precise. "Why are ye cryin' yer heart out over remnants of the McNairs?"
She raised a shaking hand to her lips, trying to steady herself, but it was impossible. No words came to her. No response would formulate. She'd spent more than twenty years training for this moment, but her mother's words had undone her entirely.
Ansel moved closer, so close that there was hardly a space between them at all. He put a hand around her wrist and pulled her hand down from her face, not violently but not gently either. He put his hand on the side of her face and made her look fully into his eyes.
"Who are ye?" he asked, his voice now flat and emotionless. It was so empty that Neala's soul riled up in fear; this was much worse than his anger. "I kent ye were nae maid, nae with yer skills and yer wit, but I chose tae ignore it. But now… Who are ye really?"
Just hours ago, Neala had been resolved to kill this man, but now her heart urged her to tell him the truth. She knew that was madness, a sheer insanity she could not listen to. He was the enemy. Her mother's words had caused this moment, and her mother was dead now, because Ansel's own father had willed it. Now, Ansel himself was gleefully planning to murder her brother. She could not give into him.
She still had her knife, tucked away in a hidden sheath under a cloth cover on her belt. She could get to it with a little effort.She was sure that here, with him caught off guard, she could kill him. He was stronger and fiercer, but she could feel that he was as drawn to her as she was to him. All it would take was to get his guard down, then one well-placed slice to the throat, and it would be over.
He leaned closer, his lips a breath away from hers. "Ye enchanted me. That's why I brought ye here. Did ye ken that? Was that yer plan, spy?" Suddenly, the flatness in his voice broke, and a jumble of feelings seemed to tumble out with his next words. "Did ye intend tae seduce me, then kill me in me bed?"
His hand was suddenly gripping her waist, and Neala gasped. His fingers pressed into her flesh through the material of her clothing, and then his mouth moved to her ear, his lips almost grazing the lobe. Her heart almost burst from her chest, her breaths coming in sharp gasps.
"Are ye goin' tae kill me, wee spy?" he demanded, a deep, wild ache in his words. Then he suddenly moved back, and held it up between them—the knife he had expertly removed from her hiding place without her even noticing. "Is that why ye brought this with ye?"
"I–I…" Neala started, wrong-footed and confused. This wasn't how this was supposed to go. She didn't know what was right anymore.
Ansel growled, almost a guttural, animalistic sound, so different from the poised tone she had gotten to know. "Abby. That was her name, was it nae? Abigail McNair, one of the lassies that died that night." His wild eyes seemed to flash as he took her in. "Yer dyed hair, yer skills. Ye've even got the King’s eyes. Am I that much of a fool?"
Neala stammered.
Ansel shook his head. "But that cannae be. Ye're too clever tae use yer real name. A lookalike, then? One of those WhiteSparrows, sent here under the guise of a dead princess tae meet with the lost prince?" To her shock, he threw his hands up, suddenly letting out a laugh that sounded half-crazed and deeply bitter. "I'm a fool! Congratulations, lass. Ye've broken me father's greatest prize. I kent somethin' wasnae right, an' yet I let meself trust ye. I let meself bring ye here. I told ye me plans. I even hoped?—"
He cursed, cutting himself off. Then, abruptly, he thrust the knife toward her.
Neala winced, preparing for the blow.
