Ansel did not wait for an answer, but returned to slamming against the door with more force, trying hard to batter against the sealed wood, until finally a loud splinter cracked through theair. The wooden planks buckled under the pressure, and wood pierced Ansel's shoulder, drawing blood that he didn't even seem to notice. He drew back, raising his foot to kick at the weakened point and create an opening to escape.
Neala dived forward, tackling him with her whole body, dragging them both to the floor. He screamed in frustration, turning under her, but she pinned him in place. He growled, their bodies pressed together, then twisted on the ground, forcing them into a roll until her back was on the floor, and he was now holding her in place.
His knees on either side of her hips, his hands so tight around her wrists that it hurt, the waves in his hair sweat-slicked so they hung over his face, he stared down at her from above. Neala blinked back up at him, her heart pumping so wildly she thought it might burst out of her chest.
Then they heard the footsteps.
In a blink, Ansel had scrambled to his feet, and Neala did the same behind him. They both faced the door, eyes wide, but it was too late to do anything about it. Someone was hurrying through the library directly toward the hidden spot.
And then the door flew open and a small group of people burst through. At their lead were two people who seemed to command the attention of the very air as they stepped in to the room. The first was a woman with tied-back chestnut hair and green eyes that shone with a righteous determination, stunningly beautiful even with dirt on her clothes and blood smeared on her cheek. Normally, the sight of her would have captivated Neala, who had spent her whole life admiring the strength of the older women amongst the Sparrows.
But the second person drew all of her attention and sucked the very air from her lungs in a verbal gasp.
He was a tall muscular man, his light blond wavy hair dusted with blood and sweat, his firm jaw taut as he stared around theroom. The shape of his nose and facial features were stunningly familiar, reminding Neala forcefully of a faded portrait of a woman and her family that she'd stared at so many times. The eyes were what got her, though; the shape and color of those eyes had long been burned into Neala's memory.
Her own eyes were dark, inherited from her father, but she'd obsessively studied every inch of her mother's face in the portrait that had been her most prized possession. Each of the McNair children except for Neala herself had inherited those eyes from their mother, almond shaped and thick eyelashes, and an iris of deep silvery gray that seemed to hold the light of the moon itself within it.
Neala's body felt limp as she stared into those eyes, for the first time in real life, and saw them widening as they stared back at her.
Her mother's eyes.
Cailean'seyes.
Everything went still, and, as one, the two McNairs took a step toward each other. But before any of them could speak or react, a sharp yank at her arm pulled Neala back. She was pulled hard, her back pressed against Ansel's chest, his arm possessively snaking around her waist. And with his other arm, he raised her own knife, its point resting threateningly against her throat.
"Greetin's, Cailean McNair," Ansel hissed. "I've been waitin' for ye."
22
Cailean's feet were rooted to the floor as the scene unfolded before him, a strange detachment making him feel like he was watching himself from the outside. He had remembered the hidden room and led his men here, though he hadn't really expected it to still be standing—and he had much less expected to find anyone inside of it.
But here he was, and hereshewas. Even with her hair, clearly darkened with dye, it was impossible to not know her immediately. She had the strong jaw, dark eyes, and proud nose of his father; she was Robert McNair returned to the world as a lovely young woman, and Cailean's memories attacked him so violently he felt like he might fall over from their impact. And there were hints of their mother about her too—the long limbs, the way she held herself, the sound she made when she gasped holding a hint of Fiona's voice.
She really was alive. Neala was alive, and she was here, so close.
"Stop!" Maeve's shout cut through the moment as she called back to the group behind them. "Naebody move! Naebody doanythin'until Cailean or I tell ye tae!"
The sound cut through the surreal moment, snapping him back into himself as he focused on the reality of the scene.
There was no mistaking the man who was holding Neala as anyone other than Ansel Ashkirk. Apart from a few minor differences, the enemy prince was the double of his bedeviled father—the very man who had slain Cailean's family here in this castle and ruined the life he'd been born to live.
Heat flashed through him and his blood boiled under his skin as he fully took in what he was seeing. Ansel's knife glinted threateningly against Neala's throat, a breath away from ending her life. Something screamed in Cailean's ear, urging him forward, propelling him to put an end to this right now and slaughter this demon where he stood. He even moved forward, ever so slightly, before his mind could catch up with his instincts.
Ansel's hand tightened on the blade, and Neala gasped in pain as the point dug into her throat, drawing a drop of blood. Cailean froze stock still as Maeve sucked in a sharp breath at his side.
"Good," Ansel said in a horribly calm voice once it was clear Cailean was not going to move. Though he spoke as if he were entirely poised, Cailean could see something feral just behind the false prince's eyes. "Now we can have a conversation."
"Cailean, dinnae!" Neala gasped, then cried out as Ansel's arm jerked around her.
Cailean heard his name from his sister's lips for the first time in more than two decades and felt like he'd been punched directly in the heart. His eyes fixated on the thin stream of blood running down her throat, and he spoke as calmly as he could. "I'm listenin', Ashkirk. Speak."
Strange green eyes, so different from Maeve's, flicked over Cailean, and he had the uncomfortable feeling of being studied. Ansel smiled humorlessly after a moment.
"Well," Ansel said in a coldly conversational tone. "I suspected it, but there's nae doubtin' it now. Ye reallyareCailean McNair. Ye have the look—and the righteous pride. I can see it on ye even now." He nodded his head down at Neala. "She claims tae be yer long-lost sister. I find meself believin' her. Isnae that strange?"
Cailean gritted his teeth.
Ansel's eyes narrowed. "Ye believe her as well. Good. That makes things easier." In a clipped, precise tone he said, "That sword. Lower it now. Yer woman as well, and the rest of them. Ye ken what will happen if ye dinnae."
