Page 83 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

Tormund pulled a nearby crofter to him. “Get ye inside, man. Spread the word.”

He drew his sword and the crofter nodded frantically, as folk snatched up children and shutters banged shut.

He flicked his finger at his men to get into the best position they could, and dropped Nykr’s reins. Situated himself behind a cart and watched as his men did the same on either side of the path.

He trained his sights on where the high road came out of the woods across the meadow. There were many horses approaching. How many did Ghost have? Had he rallied support from another clan or enlisted MacNicol to help with his dirty work?

Except moments later, a leathery black destrier trotted out of the trees, manned by a laird bedecked in red tartan.

James? Furious, Tormund bolted out onto the path and swung up onto Nykr’s back.

“Ye were to go north!” he boomed, galloping out to meet him. “And instead ye ride right into a trap?”

“I nay ride into a trap, ye bastard. I ride to help ye.”

“Help me?” Tormund frowned. “Why the hell would ye want to help me?”

Nykr cavorted, dancing in an agitated circle brimming with desire to run.

“Good question, because ye nay deserve it. But I realized after figuring out ye came to capture Ghost, nay join him, that…” James’s eyes searched his. “Ye love her. Ye just have a shite way of showing it.”

Tormund scoffed—

“Ye do. Ye see, I ken a thing or two about giving up a lass because ye love her. Ye’d nay spare me an ambush if ye didna care for Brighde. Ye’d nay have stopped yer men at the corn cutting had she no’ begged ye to. Ye’d no’ have defied me and told me to my face I was suffocating her with my fear, if ye didna ken the same type of fear yerself. Ye’d no’ have taken her sailing and riding, or given her gifts, or hell, protected our nephew as ye did, if ye were nay a good man.

“We have a common enemy.” James’s jaw so tight, his words came out clipped. “One who forced us to commit unimaginable wrongs… Yer brother…”

James didn’t finish the sentiment, but his throat had gone rough, and the guilt plaguing his face mirrored Tormund’s own. A man who knew the consequences of living life by a sword and hated it. That he finally knew he’d been wrong about Owen. That he was finally acknowledging it sent grief lancing freshly through Tormund’s heart—the one he’d thought atrophied long ago.

“Brighde told me ye were a man I’d break bread with if I’d only invite ye to the table. The thing is, she’s right. She always is. I’m her laird, but she’s my big sister, man. She’s always put me in line when I needed it. I did nay want to believe her. Because I nay want to lose her, either.”

“Where is she? Pray ye didna play the eejit and bring her with ye.”

Tormund searched James’s retinue, as Reaper and Niall rode up to flank him, wary glares and anxious mounts stamping. There was no sign of her or Aileana, or their caravan of possessions in James’s ranks.

“Oddly enough, she refused to go home.” James didn’t sound surprised in the least. “In fact, she left camp. It took me all bloody night to track her, for after learning how Brodie MacLeod threatened her, I couldna rest with her missing.”

That familiar alarm pealed within Tormund, the same that had afflicted him when Reaper had summoned him, mentioning her distress when she’d come to his camp, to make sure she was all right.

“Ye found her, aye?” God, had she been thrust into more danger because of his rejection? Had he pushed her toward a mistake she’d never be able to take back? “Aye?”

“Aye. She returned to St. Bartholomew’s, where my wife now waits with her. She’s safe there, the monks assure me, with our nephew.”

James held out his wrist to shake, as their men both postured behind them. Tormund inspected his hand but didn’t take it.

“Can I finally trust ye?” Tormund asked. “Because we have a murderer to bring to justice who thinks he’s pitted us against each other again. And I’ll nay waste my time on ye if no’.”

James nodded resolutely, and Tormund clasped it. A truce. Never would Tormund have thought this possible.

“He has kept us divided for too long,” James said. “Ye have my sword. And the sword of all my allies.” An army’s worth. “Now tell me where that bastard is.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

But there was no sign of Brodie. The farther they rode, his trail had run cold, and the more tension brewed in Tormund’s gut. He examined every deer path, questioned every hamlet leader, as he reviewed everything Brighde had said for the hundredth time in his mind. No more broken twigs from the passing by of several men. No signs of blood from a man who’d run with a stab wound to his gut.

As they stopped to rest the horses, Tormund paced to the water’s edge of a loch to ponder, paced between fishing traps laid out from the nearby village.

One MacDonald woman has already been sacrificed.