Hold on, lass. Just hold on. I’m coming.
The sun had climbed higher when one of his scouts came racing back, his horse lathered with sweat.
“Me Laird! We found tracks, fresh ones, leadin’ toward the old quarry.”
“How many?”
“Two horses, maybe three. Hard to tell with the rocky ground.”
“Show me.”
They followed the scout to where disturbed earth and broken branches told a story. Someone had passed this way recently, moving quickly but not carefully enough to hide their trail completely.
“Amateurs,” Duncan muttered, studying the tracks. “Or they wanted us to follow.”
“Either way, we follow.” Declan dismounted, examining the ground more closely. “Fraser, take half the men and circle around. If this is a trap, I want them caught in their own snare.”
“And if it’s nae? If we’re chasin’ shadows while they move Eloise somewhere else?”
“Then we adapt.” Declan’s jaw tightened. “But me instincts say they’re still close. They want that ransom. They willnae risk movin’ too far before the exchange.”
They pressed on, following the trail deeper into the hills. The quarry loomed ahead, an old, abandoned site where MacGhee men had once cut stone for the castle. Now, it was nothing but crumbling walls and hidden hollows, perfect for hiding.
Perfect for an ambush.
“Spread out,” Declan commanded in a low voice. “Silent approach. If anyone’s there, I want them surrounded before they ken we’re comin’.”
His men moved like ghosts, years of clan warfare teaching them how to use terrain to their advantage. Declan approached the main entrance, every sense alert for danger.
That’s when he heard it, a muffled curse, quickly silenced. English accent. Male.
Got you.
He signaled Fraser, who’d positioned himself on the opposite side. On his count, they moved as one, bursting into the quarry with weapons drawn.
A man scrambled up from where he’d been crouched, his face going pale at the sight of armed Highlanders materializing from seemingly nowhere.
“Daenae move,” Declan commanded, his voice deadly quiet. “One wrong step, and it’ll be yer last.”
The man’s hand twitched toward his belt, but Fraser was faster, his dirk pressed against the stranger’s throat before he could reach whatever weapon he’d been reaching for.
“I wouldnae,” Fraser advised pleasantly. “Our laird is in a very poor mood today. Somethin’ about missin’ children makin’ him irritable.”
“I don’t know anything about any missing child.”
“Lie to me again, and I’ll cut out yer tongue.” Declan moved closer, his size and fury making the man shrink back. “Where is she?”
“I don’t know.”
“Wrong answer.” Declan’s fist connected with the man’s jaw, snapping his head back. “Try again. Where. Is. She.”
“I was just hired to deliver messages!” The words tumbled out in a rush, blood dripping from his split lip. “I swear, I don’t know where the girl is!”
“Who hired ye?”
“I don’t know her name! Just some English woman, offered good coin to leave notes at the castle?—”
“English woman.” Declan’s eyes narrowed. “Describe her.”
