Nothing mattered to the man anymore. He was not after the clan; he was after revenge.
Kieran glanced back down at the army. He did not charge down the hill like a fool, thinking that it was very likely he would be stopped by Elijah’s men, even if he was all alone. Instead, he guided his horse along a narrow, half-hidden path, circling wide until he could approach the army’s temporary resting camp from the rear.
They had halted near a stand of old pines, their tents hastily erected, the men clustered around low fires sheltered from the rain by canvas and rock. The air smelled of wet wool, steel, and readiness, and the more Kieran looked at them, the more he feared they were Elijah’s full forces.
But he wouldnae leave the castle undefended. Nay laird would ever do such a thing.
Kieran dismounted again, tethered his horse on one of the pines, and moved on foot—silently.
Despite his size, he knew how to disappear when necessary. Years of warfare and border skirmishes had taught him that brute strength meant nothing without restraint. And though now he was looking to avoid a skirmish rather than instigate one, the skill was just as useful. He slipped between the trees, his boots soundless on pine needles, his eyes sharp as he searched for the man who could be Elijah.
He had a vague description of him, as much from Lydia as from the reports his men gave him throughout the years. Though he and Elijah weren’t acquainted, every laird in the Highlands knew enough about the others to be able to recognize them upon meeting them—and carry a pleasant conversation.
He was halfway to the nearest fire when a sword suddenly pressed against his throat. Kieran felt the chill of the blade pass through him like a shiver, his eyes darting to the side in an attempt to see who it was who held that sword on his throat.
“Daenae move,” a voice snapped, the sound of it young and tense. “Or I’ll open ye from ear to ear.”
Kieran froze, his hands slowly lifting away from his sides in a show of surrender.
“Well,” he said calmly, rain dripping from his lashes, “that’s a warm welcome.”
Another blade appeared at his ribs. Then another voice barked, “Who are ye? Speak fast.”
Kieran turned his head just enough to glimpse them—three soldiers, their cloaks soaked through, their eyes wide with the thrill of a possible enemy slipping into camp. One looked barely old enough to shave, but that didn’t stop him from threatening to use his blade on him.
“If I were here to kill ye,” Kieran said dryly, “ye’d already be dead. And cold.”
The youngest soldier bristled. “Arrogant bastard.”
“Observant bastard,” Kieran corrected.
But then, just as Kieran was about to try and reason with them, a heavier presence approached, boots crunching deliberately through wet earth. The men stiffened, their swords lowering just a fraction as if uncertain they should be using them at all.
“Explain,” came a deep, controlled voice as calm as it was dangerous.
A man stepped into the firelight. He was broad-shouldered with hair darkened by rain and tied back at his nape, a sword hanging easy at his side as if it were an extension of his arm rather than a weapon. His gaze swept over Kieran with a commander’s precision, taking in the fine steel of his boots, the cut of his cloak,the way he stood unbowed despite three blades threatening his life.
“Either ye’re a very brave scout,” the man said, “or a very stupid one.”
Kieran met his eyes evenly. “I’ve been called both.”
There was little doubt in Kieran’s mind that this man was Elijah. He matched the description Kieran had of him, but it was more than that: the man carried himself with the air of someone who was in charge, as if he owned every place he entered.
Elijah’s mouth twitched despite himself. “Name.”
“Kieran Gillies,” he said. “Laird McDawson.”
The reaction was immediate. Around him, steel wavered. One of the men swore, while another took an unconscious step back, putting some space between himself and Kieran, as if he feared the mere mention of his name would strike him.
Elijah’s brows drew together, not entirely convinced. He gave Kieran a scrutinizing look, as if he was trying to decide whether or not what he knew of him matched the man standing before him, and in the end, Kieran didn’t seem to satisfy his criteria—at least not entirely.
“That’s a bold claim.”
“As bold as sneakin’ into another laird’s camp alone in a storm,” Kieran replied. “Yet here I am.”
Elijah studied him in silence for a long moment, the rain hissing as it struck the fires around them. Then he gestured sharply to his men.
“Lower yer swords.”
