Another long moment passed. Finally, Kieran turned away from the horses. He dragged a hand over his face, rain and frustration streaking together.
“If anythin’ happens to her?—”
“It willnae,” Elijah said firmly. “And if Sebastian so much as breathes near me castle, he’ll answer to both of us.”
Kieran exhaled, sharp and shuddering. “I hate this.”
Elijah clapped a hand on his shoulder, solid and grounding. “Good. Hold onto that. We ride at first light.”
Kieran looked back toward the storm, his fists clenched, his heart pounding painfully in his chest.
“First light,” he echoed.
And prayed the night did not take too much from him before then.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
The storm had torn itself apart sometime before first light, leaving the world raw and steaming in its wake. Mist clung low to the ground, curling through the trees and over the churned mud of the camp, softening the scars the night had carved into the land. The sky was a washed-out gray, heavy but no longer violent, and the air smelled of wet earth and broken leaves.
Kieran stood at the edge of the camp, staring east.
His cloak hung heavy with damp, his boots were caked in mud, and he was exhausted, but he felt none of it. All he could think of was how many hours the storm had stolen from him, how many heartbeats Lydia had spent not knowing where he was—or whether he was coming at all.
Behind him, the camp stirred to life. Men rolled their blankets, stamped warmth back into their stiff limbs, checked tack andweapons with practiced efficiency. Horses snorted and tossed their heads, eager and restless after a night of standing still.
Elijah emerged from his tent, fastening his sword belt as he walked. “We’ll be ready in minutes,” he said. “The ground’s still treacherous, but it’s passable.”
Kieran nodded, his jaw tight with a tension he had carried through the night. He had not slept. He had not rested, not even for a moment, not even when it had been the only thing left to do.
“We should have been movin’ an hour ago.”
Elijah gave him a look. “Ye ken that wasnae possible.”
“I ken,” Kieran snapped then dragged in a breath. “I ken.”
But knowing didn’t ease the anger clawing at his chest.
Elijah turned, stalking toward his men, barking orders sharp enough to cut. “Tighten the lines. Nay stragglers. If yer horse stumbles, ye help it up and keep movin’. We daenae slow.”
Steel rang as blades were checked and sheathed. Cloaks were thrown back and helms secured. This time, there was no waiting.
Kieran swung into the saddle, his muscles coiled, the reins tight in his fists. His horse stamped and snorted, sensing his rider’s agitation.
“Me Laird.”
The word cut through the noise like a blade and Kieran turned to see a rider approaching at speed, mud splattered up his legs and chest, his horse lathered and wide-eyed. He barely waited for permission before sliding from the saddle, breath coming hard.
“Scouts returned,” the man told Elijah. “They’ve sighted Sebastian Fraser and his forces.”
Kieran’s heart slammed into his ribs, panic threatening to well up inside him. He quickly suppressed it, swallowing around the knot in his throat, his hand instinctively reaching for the hilt of his sword where it rested near his hip.
“Where?” Elijah demanded.
“Already movin’,” the messenger replied grimly. “South-east ridge. Headed straight for the castle.”
The world seemed to tilt around Kieran, and he held tightly onto the saddle. The urge to put his horse in motion, to ride like death itself was after him and reach the castle before Sebastian, was too strong to ignore, but he was rooted in the spot. He couldn’t leave yet, not before hearing more details.
Where, precisely, was Sebastian? How long would it take him to reach the castle?
