Please,Ewan. Please.
The tracks were faint,barely visible in the fading light, but Ewan's eyes were trained for this kind of work. Years of hunting, of tracking game through these very forests, of learning to read every bent blade of grass and disturbed leaf.
Two sets of footprints,one slightly larger than the other, heading deeper into the forest along what looked like an old game trail that wound between the massive pines.
Maia and Mollie.Has to be.
His destrier pickedits way carefully through the underbrush, Ewan's eyes never leaving the ground even as his mind raced with possibilities. Where were they going? Did they have a destination in mind, or were they just running blind?
Twenty minutes.Maybe twenty-five now since Aisla said they'd left. They couldn't have gotten far on foot, especially not in terrain like this, especially not in the growing darkness that made every step treacherous.
He would find them.He had to find them.
He neededto explain about Laura, about his feelings, about everything he'd been too afraid and too stupid to say before. He would have to make Maia understand that what she'd seen wasn't what she thought, that he'd never wanted Laura, that the only woman he wanted—the only woman he would ever want—was her.
A sound cutthrough the forest. Distant but unmistakable.
Shouting.Men's voices, rough and angry.
And then—
"EWAN!"
Maia's scream.
The sound of it,the sheer terror in her voice, made Ewan's blood turn to ice in his veins.
He spurred the horse forward,abandoning all caution for speed. Branches whipped at his face, caught at his clothes, tore at his skin. He didn't care. Didn't slow. Just urged the destrier faster, following the sound of the commotion ahead, and the scream that still echoed in his ears.
Please.Please let her be all right. Please let me nae be too late.
He burstinto a small clearing and saw them immediately—two men in MacMahon colors, clearly separated from a larger group. Guards who'd probably been told to watch the rear, to make sure no one followed.
They lookedup in alarm as Ewan appeared, their hands going to their weapons.
But they were too slow.Far, far too slow.
Ewan wasoff his horse and on the first man before the guard's sword had even cleared its sheath.
His fist connectedwith the man's jaw, and he felt bone crack and give beneath his knuckles. The sensation was satisfying in a primal way that should probably concern him, but didn't.
The guard went down hard,groaning and spitting blood.
The second manmanaged to draw his blade, swinging wildly at Ewan with more panic than skill. The sword caught him along the ribs, a shallow cut that sliced through leather and shirt to score the skin beneath. It stung like fire, and Ewan felt blood begin to seep from the wound.
But pain only fedthe rage burning in his chest.
These were MacMahon's men.The men who'd taken Maia. The men who'd made her scream his name in terror.
The menwho were going to pay for that in blood.
Ewan grabbedthe guard's sword arm and twisted, hard and fast and with all the strength born of years of training and combat. He heard something pop, the shoulder dislocating with a wet sound that would have made him sick under other circumstances.
The man screamedand dropped his weapon, and Ewan's fist drove into his stomach, doubling him over. Then his other fist came up, connecting with the guard's face, and the man crumpled like a puppet with cut strings.
Ewan stood over him,breathing hard, blood seeping from the cut on his ribs and dripping down to stain his shirt. The first guard was struggling to sit up, his jaw hanging at an odd angle, his eyes glazed with pain.
Neither of themwould be following. Neither of them would be raising any alarms.
