Hunting?
The word struck like a blow.
Hunting lasses? His sister Maureen? Or… Selene?
Kenneth did not hesitate. He beckoned urgently to Callum, and together they broke from the fighting, cutting across the courtyard at a sprint. Steel clanged behind them, shouts chasing their heels as they hit the steps and took them two at a time, bursting into the keep.
Inside, the sounds of battle dulled, replaced by the echo of boots on stone and the thud of their own heartbeats. They raced up thestairs, their breath burning, and headed along the first passage toward the private chambers.
Kenneth veered toward Maureen’s door and pounded on it with his fist, keeping his other hand gripping the pommel of his sword.
“’Tis yer braither,” he called. “I am here with Callum. Are ye safe?”
There was a pause – too long, for comfort – then as his heart was leaping against his ribcage came her voice, steady but strained. “Aye. I’ve heard naught. Nay men have come this way.”
Relief flickered, brief and sharp. If they had ignored Maureen, that left Selene.
Kenneth did not linger. He turned on his heel and bolted back toward the stairs, Callum close behind.
“If they didnae come this way, they may be after Selene,” Kenneth said, already moving. “Ye go down and check the solar and the hall tae see if they’re hunting there. I’ll go tae the lady’s bedchamber.”
They split without argument, Callum descending while Kenneth took the stairs upward to the next story where Selene was lodged. His long legs devoured the steps as dread mixing with rear spurred him faster.
He reached the top landing and plunged down the long passageway toward Selene’s chamber, sword raised, every instinct screaming that he was already too late.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Once the door had closed behind Kenneth, Selene paced the narrow length of the room, her footsteps soft against the stone floor, dread and a terrible foreboding coiling in the pit of her stomach.
She had accepted Kenneth’s orders to remain there for her own safety. She’d opened her mouth to argue that staying passively behind a locked door did not suit her, especially when he might be in danger. But his fierce gaze had silenced her opposition and she had bowed to his greater knowledge and experience of the ways of battle.
She had believed that walls and locks might truly keep danger at bay.
Now she was questioning that supposed truth.
The sounds drifting through the castle told a far different story. Steel rang somewhere below, sharp and unmistakable, followedby the echoing shouts of men. A hoarse cry rose – abruptly cut short – and her stomach clenched painfully. She pressed her palms to the cool stone of the wall, straining to listen, trying to make sense of the chaos by sound alone.
Kenneth was somewhere among the shouting and the clash of steel. And the screams of dying men.
The image rose unbidden in her mind – Kenneth striding into the courtyard, broadsword in hand, his jaw set with that grim resolve she had come to know so well. He would not hesitate. He never did. And that frightened her more than anything. She had seen the weight he carried, the way responsibility lived in his bones, and she knew he would put himself between danger and every soul within those walls without a second thought.
Please, Dear Lord, keep him safe.
The roar of voices seemed to grow louder, closer. Boots thundered against stone. Somewhere, a door slammed. Selene’s breath came faster now, shallow and tight, her fingers curling uselessly at her sides. Her thoughts flew suddenly to the horror on the birlinn that first time she had seen Kenneth. It had been like that, listening to the noise of slaughter. That was the worst – the passive waiting, unable to act, not knowing just what was going on. Being caged like a frightened bird while men decided her fate with steel.
Her gaze flicked to the heavy oak trunk at the foot of the bed – the one that held the few belongings she’d been able to bring from England. Dresses she had once fretted over. Gloves.Ribbons. Trivial things from a life that now felt impossibly distant. She crossed the room on unsteady legs and dropped to her knees, fingers fumbling with the latch.
The lid creaked open.
She caught sight of the dagger almost at once.
It lay wrapped in linen, modest and unassuming, its hilt plain but well-balanced. She’d carried it with her as a mere keepsake from her late father’s armory, never meant to be used. She remembered the day the bailiff who was taking account of what had to be sold from the estate, had pressed it into her hands. He’d spoken gently, assuring her to have no fear, that the weapon was only for reassurance, for peace of mind. A lady’s comfort. Nothing more.
She swallowed hard.
Never in all her imaginings had she believed a day would dawn when she would truly consider drawing blood with it. But her life had taken many turns since she’d left her former world. She remembered the blood on the deck of Halvard’s birlinn and hardened her resolve.
If she had to use the dagger, she would do so. Without hesitation.
