“So the whore dared to enter my castle,” her uncle snarled. His eyes were hard and cruel.
Her heart exploded with panic now. She could not move—she could barely draw a breath.
Joan stood up. “He is dead, John. Alexander is dead.”
The earl barely glanced at his brother. “I was told he would not live.” His burning gaze held Alana’s. “But some good will come of this night. I punish treason with death, Alana,” he said.
“No,” Joan said instantly. Alana started. “She brought us here, risking her life to do so, and she is your niece. Alexander is—was—her father!”
Alana was shocked that Joan would defend her now.
“I do not care!” Buchan strode forward, hand raised. Alana ducked, but too late. His blow was severe, and it knocked her off of her feet, onto her father’s lifeless body.
Alana cried out in pain as Joan gasped. Alice stared, horrified, while Margaret screamed, “Stop!”
Alana pushed herself up to stand, but then Buchan seized her hair and jerked her hard toward him. She gasped as she crashed face-first into his legs. He then kicked her hard in the ribs. Alana careened onto the floor, buckling over. Tears of pain blinded her.
“Ye will die for touching her,” Iain roared.
Alana looked up as he moved past her, sword raised. On the floor, on her hands and knees, Alana realized that he was going to kill her uncle. She was shocked, as this was not the vision she had had!
But Buchan seized Alice, pulled her in front of him, and laid a dagger at her throat. “I have heard you bed one sister, but will wed the other,” he said.
Iain froze, his sword in midair.
Buchan smiled. “Drop your sword, Iain. Or watch your bride die.”
Joan cried out.
Iain dropped his sword, and did not reach for the other sword on his left hip.
“John! My God! Alice is your niece!” Joan begged.
Buchan moved toward the door, dragging Alice with him, using her as a shield. No one spoke, everyone watching him. Alana still crouched on the floor while Iain remained in the room’s midst, as still as a statue, as watchful as a hawk.
Buchan went through the doorway with Alice, who was white with fright, her expression one of desperation. They turned right and disappeared from sight.
Iain knelt down beside Alana. “I will kill him,” he said, reaching gently for her.
“I am fine,” she told him. “What will he do to Alice?”
“When he loses this war, she will be a useful hostage to him,” Iain said, helping Alana to stand. “And yer not fine.” He tilted up her chin, his gaze on her jaw, which was surely turning black-and-blue, for it throbbed so badly. “Ye disobeyed me, Alana, damn it. I ordered ye to stay at Brodie. I forbade ye coming here!”
“I could not obey, Iain! Oh, God, he has Alice!” Alana cried, genuinely frightened for her sister. “We must help her!”
His glance flickered toward Sir Alexander, then Joan and Margaret, who held one another. “I am sorry, Lady Joan.” He retrieved his sword.
“He has lost his mind!” Joan was crying again. “His brother is dead and he has abducted Alice! Why? To use her against Bruce one day?”
Iain’s grim expression was answer enough. “Wait here.” Iain turned and strode from the chamber.
Alana started. Images from her vision flashed in her mind—of Buchan, about to murder Iain. She hesitated. Then she took up her father’s short sword and raced after Iain, who was at the end of the corridor. “I am coming with you!”
He whirled, incredulous. “Go back to the bedchamber, Alana,” he ordered.
She ran up to him. “I can’t let you hunt Buchan alone!”
“Ye defied me by coming to Elgin—and ye openly defy me now? To my own face?”
