She nodded, feeling an unfamiliar shyness when she spoke Jacob’s name aloud. Then she corrected herself. “Nae. Nae ward, though he did foster at Wolvesly.”
Thomas glanced again at the solitary rider, observing him with what Elena supposed was the careful calculation of a man not eager to measure himself against another. “He is not much for company?” Thomas wondered.
“He is nae,” Elena replied, surprising herself with the warmth that crept into her voice, unable to stop the recollections that swam up, vivid and unbidden. Jacob had simply always preferred the cliffs and the woods to crowded halls. When her brothers and their friends jostled at the table or played at swordfighting in the yard, Jacob would slip away to the ridges, sometimes gone for days, returning with a hawk’s feather tucked into his belt or a quiet account of a wolf seen at dawn. He had known every hidden path in Wolvesly, every place where theground narrowed and the wind carried differently, explored in solitary fashion.
For a brief moment, she allowed herself to follow Jacob’s progress once again. He made no attempt to approach the orchard, nor to signal them, but continued along the field’s edge, skirting the boundary of the cultivated land as if respecting an invisible line.
“Are you well?” Thomas asked suddenly. “Your cheeks are flushed.”
“Oh, aye. I’m fine,” she said quickly. “Only thinking we should head back soon. My mother will want me to dress for supper.”
“Of course,” Thomas replied, offering his arm now with that courteous smile.
She took it, reminding herself that she wanted this—this ease, this gentleness, this promising beginning.
It was several minutes later—Jacob now nearer the castle than Elena and Thomas—when the stillness of the orchard shattered.
The crash of underbrush behind them was sudden and violent, wholly out of place on so mild a spring day. Elena turned at once, heart leaping, and caught only a rush of movement at the orchard’s edge—horses bursting through the trees, driven hard and fast. Leaves and branches flew aside as the riders broke into the open, their approach wild with speed and intent.
There was no mistaking what they were.
The men were armed, mail glinting beneath rough cloaks, faces shadowed by helms or wrapped in cloth. No colors marked them, no badge or device she recognized—nothing to place them as friend or clan. They rode low and forward, bent to their purpose, and the ferocity of their charge crushed what little calm remained in her.
For a stunned moment, Elena searched Thomas’s face, expecting—hoping—for explanation, some sign that this violence belonged to him, that it could yet be named or commanded. Instead she found his color draining, disbelief giving way to fear as he stared at the riders bearing down on them.
“They are nae yours?” she asked, her voice tight, recalling his words from moments before.
Thomas shook his head. He reached for her hand, his grip unsteady—an instinctive gesture that struck her, absurdly, as seeking reassurance rather than offering it.
“We must get inside the gate,” she said at once, pushing him toward the path that led back toward the castle. “An alarm must be sounded.”
For an instant—before she remembered that her father was likely still out with the hunting party—she thought only of reaching him. Of being near him. She trusted no one in this world as she trusted Liam MacTavish—not the Lowland lord whose hospitality she enjoyed, not the guards who patrolled the grounds, not even her brothers so fully as she trusted her father.
And she trusted least of all the young man running beside her now, whose expression showed more panic than resolve, more fright than she herself felt.
Her father was safety. Near him, nothing truly terrible could happen.
Fear coiled hard in her belly as the thunder of hooves grew louder, closer behind them, but she could almost hear her father’s voice in her mind—stern, steady—telling her to keep her wits, to watch and listen, to run when she could and hide when running was no longer an option.
The pounding suddenly veered, cutting across their path. A rider broke from the chase and swung down ahead of them, blocking their flight even as the others thundered past. Thomasstumbled backward as the man dismounted and advanced. Elena retreated with him, but the slope betrayed her—roots twisted beneath her shoes, the ground uneven—and before she could regain her balance, the man’s shadow fell across her. She saw Thomas take a single step, as if to intervene, but the moment stretched and snapped: hesitation seized him, an instinctive recoil. In that brief pause, the raider’s hand closed around her wrist.
She heard her name called, but couldn’t make sense of it as Thomas still stood gaping, frozen with fright.
The world lurched as she was yanked off her feet. Her breath was driven from her lungs, and for a heartbeat she grasped at nothing but air, trying uselessly to steady herself as she was dragged away from Thomas. The man swung her up and across his shoulder with practiced ease, the movement brisk and efficient, as though he had done this before. She struck at him, fists useless against his bulk, and he only adjusted his grip, shifting her weight as one might a sack.
Her hair spilled across her face as she twisted, desperate to see Thomas—to see him running, shouting, doing anything that might summon help.
But he was not running.
He stood frozen, mouth parted, shock written plainly across his features. Elena saw the indecision flicker through him—whether to chase, to raise an alarm, or to flee—and something small and vital gave way inside her. She had hoped he would at least turn and sprint for the castle, that he would do that much, because that alone might bring her father.
She screamed—once, sharp and piercing—but the sound was cut short as the man struck her brutally. The next instant she was flung across a saddle, the impact knocking what little breath remained from her lungs. Leather pressed against her cheek;she tasted sweat and iron. Around her, men spoke in clipped English, their voices low and urgent.
The horse surged forward.
The orchard tore past in a blur—branches scraping at her legs, sunlight flashing in broken patterns through the trees. She forced her head up enough to see the ground racing beneath her, then the long sweep of the slope ahead, falling away into unfamiliar woods. Every instinct rebelled against the widening distance between herself and the castle.
She counted heartbeats. Breaths. The harsh rhythm of hooves. The arm locked across her body, holding her fast.
