The man was good—trained, clearly—but Magnus was beyond caring about defense. He pressed forward relentlessly, each blow harder than the last, forcing his opponent to give ground.
Behind him, the first man had regained his feet. Blood soaked his shoulder, but he was moving, circling around to flank Magnus.
Torvald appeared from nowhere, his own sword drawn. "I've got this one!"
Steel clashed as Torvald engaged the wounded man. Magnus kept his focus on the hooded attacker, on the bastard who'd dared to touch Ada. Who'd torn her gown and terrified her and tried to drag her away into the night.
"Who sent ye?" Magnus snarled, his blade catching his opponent's in a bind. "Was it MacTavish? Was it?—"
The hooded man twisted, broke the bind, and kicked out hard. His boot caught Magnus in the ribs, driving the air from his lungs. Magnus staggered back, and the man took his chance.
He ran.
Not toward the gate—that way was blocked now by guards responding to the alarm. Instead, he darted toward the wall, toward the shadows where the torchlight didn't reach.
"Stop him!" Magnus shouted, starting to give chase.
But the man was fast, and he knew the keep's layout. By the time Magnus reached the wall, the hooded figure had vanished into the darkness like smoke.
Gone.
Magnus spun back toward the courtyard. Torvald had disarmed the wounded man, had him on his knees with a blade at his throat. Guards surrounded them, weapons drawn.
And Ada?—
Ada stood exactly where he'd left her, her back pressed against the stone wall. Her torn nightgown hung off one shoulder. Her face was pale as death, her eyes too wide, too bright.
But she was alive. She was there. She was?—
Magnus crossed the distance between them in three strides. His hands found her face, tilted it up so he could see her properly in the torchlight. Searching for injuries, for blood, for any sign they'd hurt her.
"Are ye all right?" His voice came out rough, shaking with the remnants of that terrible fury. "Ada, answer me. Did they hurt ye?"
She stared up at him, and for a long moment she didn't speak. Just looked at him like she couldn't quite believe he was real. That he was here.
Then she threw her arms around his neck and buried her face against his chest.
Magnus held her. Wrapped his arms around her trembling body and held her like she was the only solid thing left in a world gone mad. His heart still thundered. His hands still shook with rage and fear and the awful knowledge of how close he'd come to losing her.
"I've got ye," he murmured into her hair. "Ye're safe now. I've got ye."
Ada's fingers clutched his shirt, holding on like she was afraid he'd disappear if she let go. "Magnus—they were—I dinnae ken what they wanted but they?—"
"I ken. I saw." Magnus pulled back just enough to look at her face again. A bruise was already forming along her jaw. Dark and ugly against her pale skin. "Who hit ye?"
"I—" Ada's hand went to her face, touching the bruise gingerly. "One of them. When I tried tae fight. I didnae—I didnae see his face clearly. It was dark, and they had hoods—but one of them looked like one of me faither’s guards…"
The guards had arrived now, surrounding the wounded man Torvald still held at sword point. The man's shoulder bled freely, soaking through his cloak. His face was twisted with pain, but his eyes held defiance.
"Take him," Magnus said, his voice cold as winter iron. "Throw him in the dungeon. I'll deal with him when I'm ready."
"Aye, me laird." Two guards hauled the man to his feet, dragged him away despite his curses and protests.
Magnus watched them go, his jaw clenched so tight it ached. Every instinct screamed at him to follow, to drag answers from that bastard with his own hands. To find out who sent them, what they wanted, how they got inside his walls?—
But Ada was trembling in his arms.
He turned back to her, his expression softening from ice to something gentler. His hands were shaking when he placed them on her shoulders—carefully, so carefully, as though she might shatter if he held too tight.
