Page 18 of A Laird and a Fugitive

Chapter 7

Earlier that night…

Ryan had been brooding in his chambers. He reached for the wine, only to find the bottle empty. He lifted it to his eyes, inspecting it carefully. The glass made his vision shimmer. He had probably been drinking too much anyway, but what else was there to do? His thoughts were consumed with the new arrivals. He had yet to ascertain why three Gilmour women were trespassing on his lands. It was rare for him to make an exception for swift justice, but these were three most uncommon prisoners.

The Gilmour name made him burn with envy. Seeing the emblem in his Keep no less was a sacrilegious affront. The necklace he had torn from Caroline’s neck was sitting before him. After he had dismissed the women, he had picked it up and carried it with him. It was a symbol of all he hated in the world, of everything that was evil.

This tufted vetch was such a simple plant, and yet the sight of it caused a swell of emotion. He had even ordered his guards to destroy any sign of it at the edges of forests so that he would never have to lay his eyes on it.

It took him back to when he was still a lad, still waiting for youth to slip away from his features and be replaced by the hard, stony manliness. It had happened more swiftly than nature had intended. Both his father and elder brother had been taken from this world, killed by the vicious Gilmour barbarians.

The responsibility of the clan had been thrust upon his young shoulders, and over the past twelve years he had done his best for them. He had defended his borders well, showed unerring ruthlessness to anyone who broke the law, and ensured that the clan prospered in honor of his father and brother, both of whom Ryan believed would have made better and more natural heirs. There were some moments when it felt as though he was still learning on the job, despite having performed the role for over a decade.

And now an opportunity had presented itself to him. He paid valuable sums for information about the Gilmour Clan. He knew the heir had three daughters, daughters who matched the description of those who had come into his castle. The way they dressed hinted at their station in life. These were no common peasants. And only someone in a prestigious position would have worn such a fine emblem. Yes, these were the daughters of the Laird.

If he took one as his wife, then he would have a claim to the clan. He could take it within his grasp and choke the strength out of it, reducing the Gilmour name to a memory while strengthening his own clan. The land would become Knox territory and the Gilmour name would be something whispered among old people, until it died out altogether and nothing was left.

He smirked as he thought about this, and then clutched the emblem in his hand so tightly that the hard edges pressed into his palm. He didn’t mind the pain. He had felt enough of it over the years that he had largely become numb to it. He imagined striding into the Gilmour Keep with Caroline as his bride, seeing the look on her father’s face. Then he could finally avenge his family’s death and watch life slip away from Laird Gilmour’s eyes, knowing that his daughter was Ryan’s bride and would become a Knox forever more.

In truth, she seemed more Knox than Gilmour already. The Gilmour Clan was a cowardly lot, yet she had impressed him with her bravery and resolute attitude. She met his gaze without flinching. She rebuked him and acted defiantly, all qualities that would make for an interesting life. He did not want some meek, mewling girl that was always seeking to please him. He wanted a challenge. He wanted marriage to be a battle of wits and wills; otherwise, what was the point?

There was no denying her beauty either. Wildness lived in her steely eyes, while her jaw was strong. Her hair was thick and tawny, and her skin was soft to the touch. In fact, he was quite certain he hadn’t ever felt anything so soft. It was flawless and milky, and as he reflected on the sensation that had started at his fingers and swiftly cracked up his arm and to his heart.

He shook his head. He had been drinking too much, he thought. Why should he feel this way about a Gilmour? No, she was a prize and nothing more. She might prove to be amusing for a while, but in the end he could never love her. There was no room for love in his heart after all. That had been taken away when his father and brother died, replaced by an implacable hatred for all threats to the clan. This marriage was just a means to an end, and the sacrifice of his solitude was necessary in order to get what he wanted.

But the question remained. What did she want?

She and her sisters had been running from something. She must have known about the simmering hostilities between the clan to come up with that foolish lie about being a merchant’s daughters. But why flee the clan? Was there trouble in the Gilmour Keep? It would behoove him to speak to her again and try to learn more.

If there was any discord, then he could use it to his advantage. A smile crept upon his face. He had waited a long time for the tides to turn in his favor, but it was finally happening. Soon enough, he could put the ghosts of the past to rest.

Eventually, there was a hammering on his door.

“Come,” he ordered. A guard entered and stood to attention, although there was a troubled look on his face.

“I’m sorry tae hae tae report this, M’Laird, but yer guests have escaped,” his voice became strangled at this.

“Escaped?” Ryan leaned forward. His voice was a mixture of curiosity and frustration.

“Aye, M’Laird. They climbed out of the window.”

Ryan pushed his chair back and marched out of the room, needing to see this for himself. He entered the chamber and saw the blankets and clothes and sheets tied together, tethered to the end of the bed. He couldn’t help but marvel at the ingenuity and courage this took. He peered out of the window and looked at the dangling cord. He chuckled to himself.

“We think they climbed down tae a lower floor and entered a room there. We found a door open. Some shawls were missing. I’m sorry. We dinnae expect them tae dae something like this.”

“How could ye? Naebody in their right mind would hae done anything like this,” Ryan’s smile broadened and his laughed deepened.

He smacked the guard’s shoulder, who seemed relieved that he wasn’t in trouble. This was a whole new level of defiance, and Ryan was amazed that anyone with a Gilmour name would have endured such a risk to escape. He clapped his hands together.

“Get the men ready. We are gaeing on a hunt,” he said with relish.

He quickly strode to the armory and buckled his sword around his waist. He ran his hands through his hair and stepped outside into the cold night. The wind whipped around his body and he peered towards the forest, thinking about these women and all the trouble they were causing him.

It was daring of Caroline to test him like this, but it only served to make admiration rise within him. How could he not respect this? Even if it was the work of a Gilmour.

With a band of men at the ready, he scoured the outer area of the Keep until he found tracks that led away. He followed them towards the forest. They had evidently been in too much of a rush to hide their tracks, or perhaps they believed that the night would have shrouded them. They might have been safe if any ordinary person had been hunting them, but Ryan knew every inch of his territory and could tell when anything was amiss.

Then he heard voices. He told the men to stay back for a moment. He peered through the trees and saw two of the girls embroiled in a scuffle with bandits. The other sister was missing. When he saw Caroline forced to the ground with a man on top of her, a fire was lit within him. She might have been a Gilmour, but she was his to toy with and torment, nobody else’s. Bandits tended to rouse his ire anyway.