“Get th’ horses,” Halvard barked. “Now!”
Eoin bolted. Sten gave Halvard a sidelong look as they strode through the corridor toward the courtyard.
“Ye think Harcourt’s hidin’?” Sten asked.
“I think he’s an arrogant bastard,” Halvard responded, pushing through the outer doors as the sea wind slapped him full in theface. “And arrogance has its own stench. I want tae ken why it’s still hangin’ in me air.”
In minutes they were mounted, hooves echoing off the stone as they thundered out of the keep and into the wild landscape. Winter was fast approaching and the wind cut sharp across the moor, tugging at plaids and biting ears, but Halvard barely felt a thing. He was of a singular focus.
They rode hard, faster than reason advised, as though he could chase the knot in his gut across his island.
When they reached the board ridge, the guard post came into sight. Two men sat by a dying fire, scanning the horizon as if they expected Harcourt and his men to emerge from the mist at any moment.
Halvard did not waste time with pleasantries.
“Where is he?” He asked, knowing he need not bother with specifics, as there was only one man he would be asking after.
The older clansman shook his head, face set in a grim line. “Gone, me laird. If he was ever here, he isnae now. Nae tracks fresh enough tae follow.”
Sten dismounted, crouching to examine the frozen ground. “Wind’s wiped most signs clean away.”
“Aye,” the second guard replied. “Could be they slipped off th’ path. But we didnae find a trace o’ that either.”
Halvard scanned the barren stretch of land, the cliff edges, the rocky outcroppings, the winding path Harcourt should have taken days ago. Empty. All of it empty. Too empty.
Bowen Harcourt was not the sort of man to disappear quietly.
Something wasn’t right.
Halvard exhaled the breath he’d been holding. “Spread word,” he ordered. “Every guard stays sharp. If Harcourt’s still on me land, he will be found.”
Sten rose, brushing dirt from his plaid. “And Lady Elsie?”
Halvard’s grip tightened on the reins. “I’ll nay have her worry until she must.”
Only when he turned his horse to head back to Brochel did Halvard realize how heavy the air felt. It was as if the island itself held its breath. If Harcourt had left Raasay, Halvard could feel it in his bones that the man had not gone far.
The ride back to the castle felt longer than the ride out. Halvard was unsettled, keeping his horse going at a punishing pace, the kind meant to burn frustration out of a man’s blood. It didn’t work.
The wind clawed at him. The saddle thudded beneath him, but the whereabouts and purpose of Bowen Harcourt still lingered in his skull like peat smoke in a closed room.
“Ye’ve that look again,” Sten called over the hoofbeats. “As if yer grindin’ yer teeth.”
Halvard ignored him. He wasn’t in the mood for conversation or the man’s jostling. Especially not about the Englishman who had slithered off his land without leaving a single track.
By the time the castle walls came into view, his temper had hardened into something he could no longer ignore. He dismounted before the horse had come to a full stop, tossing the reins to a stable lad.
“Training grounds?” Sten asked, raising a brow.
Halvard gave him a sour grunt and strode in the direction of the baily.
Steel. Sweat. Silence.
The training yard was an old friend, one who didn’t pose questions and didn’t need answers. Halvard stripped off his shirt, ignoring the cold air that bit at his skin and seized the nearest practice blade. Then he began to swing. He continued to swing the blade until his muscles burned with exertion. The world narrowed until all that remained was the satisfying crack of metal against the wooden target.
There were other men around, as there usually were, but they paid their laird no mind as he swung.
Again and again.
