Page 67 of The Highlander’s Dangerous Desire

I am waiting.

There was no signature. Ewan stumbled, then collapsed into a chair, rereading the note again and again as he did so.

Someone had kidnapped Grace. He had no idea why, or for what purpose, but someone had managed to get past the gates, the guards, and the servants - past the whole of MacTavish Keep - to abduct Grace.

Whoever it was, they were cunning. They’d had the wit not to try and take her out of the Keep, but they’d still found an out-of-the-way place to hold her. The north tower was mainly used for storing goods, with the lowest room serving as a secondary armory. Servants rarely went there unless they were looking for extra blankets, tools or cloth, and tonight, almost all the servants were occupied with the feast.

He dared not assume the abductors were bluffing about any of the things they had said, and he dared not make any assumptions as to their motives or their plans. With so little information, he had to believe that they would do exactly as they claimed they would.

Ewan slammed to his feet, heart pounding as he realized that he’d no idea when the note had been left, or how long the abductors would wait before deciding they had waited long enough. Time might already be running out.

He crumpled the note in his fist, then stuffed it into his belt pouch and hurried from the room.

Devlin met him at the end of the hall, three-quarters of the way to his study. “M’laird, the Council…” Ewan’s second-in-command paused. “M’laird, is something wrong?”

Ewan took a deep breath. He could not afford to lose his composure, or he would lose whatever game Grace’s kidnappers wished to play with him. He forced himself to calm. “’Tis naething o’ any importance.”

Devlin studied his face for a moment longer. “M’laird, if I may speak plainly… bollocks.”

Ewan scowled. “Ye would dare…”

“I would, fer ‘tis me job tae ken when there’s trouble. An’ the last time ye looked like that, the keep was afire.” Devlin’s response was swift and sure, and it hit home like an arrow. “Somethin’s ill with ye, and ‘tis either word from yer braither, or an attack, or…” Devlin paused, and his next words were cautious. “... something tae dae with Lady Grace.”

The note said he could not speak to anyone or alert the guards, but he still had the note. Ewan pulled it from his pocket and handed it to Devlin. The second-in-command took it and read through it swiftly. “Ye were on yer way tae the meeting?”

“Aye. I cannae dae anything else.”

“I’ll follow ye, a few steps behind. Gather some quiet help.” Devlin spoke softly, but with conviction. “Be cautious, m’laird.”

“Aye.” Ewan nodded, then stepped past Devlin and continued on his journey. Despite the danger, he felt relieved to know Devlin would be following. He trusted the man’s discretion, and knew Devlin would bring assistance, without alerting the guards in a manner that could get Grace killed.

The corridor and stairs to the north tower were deserted, and Ewan climbed them carefully, unwilling to draw too much attention by moving too fast or too slowly. He reached the correct door and knocked firmly, then pushed it open and walked inside.

The first thing he saw was Grace, bound to a chair. She looked afraid and one cheek looked slightly bruised, but she was conscious, and her eyes widened when she saw him.

The second thing he saw was Gael MacTavish. “Ye.”

Gael sneered. “Aye.” His lip curled further. “I didnae think ye’d be fool enough tae come alone, but I should have guessed that ye were that soft.”

Ewan snorted. “I thought ye intended tae tak’ the lairdship from me by the will o’ the Council. I didnae think ye stupid enough tae dae somethin’ like this under their nose.”

Gael’s jaw clenched, his eyes filled with bitter anger. “The Council and the Highland clans let ye tak’ over the lands o’ me clan without so much as raisin’ a sword. Why would I wish tae ally myself with such weaklings? I only made me claim tae them so I could get close.”

Ewan scoffed. “Tae get close, ye could have challenged me tae open combat.”

“And trust ye tae fight properly? Or the Council tae uphold the claim?” Gael snarled the words. “Nae a chance. I wouldnae have even come tae the keep, if ye’d just died when ye were meant tae.”

Ewan felt a knife edge of anger and apprehension slide down his spine. “What is that supposed tae mean?”

Gael laughed mirthlessly. “I tried tae attack ye, three times. Bandits on the road ye took. I paid them tae ambush ye, didnae expect ye tae fight yer way free. The fires tae discredit ye, and then the attack on the keep, when that didnae turn the clan people from ye.” His jaw clenched. “Ye should have perished, in the fire or at the hands o’ me men, but ye must be blessed, or cursed, by the Fair Folk or the gods above.”

Ewan felt the anger begin to overtake the apprehension. “Ye… ye attacked the clan… I cannae tell if ye’re more daft fer doin’ so, or more daft fer admittin’ it.”

“Daesnae matter what I tell ye, because one way or another, ye’ll nae be the laird o’ MacTavish clan.” Gael moved then, and stepped behind Grace and put a knife to her throat. “Ye have a choice, Overseer MacDuff. Choose. Yer betrothed, or the lairdship.”

“What? No…” Grace startled in protest, but Gael moved the knife closer to her throat, drawing a bead of blood, and she went silent again.

Ewan felt like there was both ice and heat moving through his veins, the beginnings of battle rage and something deeper, more primal. “What dae ye mean?”