Page 40 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

CHAPTER TEN

"Colin... Colin, wake up. Something's happened. Morag is gone."

The voice seemed to come from somewhere far away, muffled by the thick fog that always followed his nightly draught. Someone was shaking him—roughly, urgently—but Colin's limbs felt leaden, his mind struggling to surface from the depths of drugged sleep.

Morag is gone.

The words finally penetrated, and Colin's eyes flew open. He swung blindly at whoever dared take Morag from him, his fist connecting with solid flesh.

"Christ!" Niven stumbled backward, rubbing his jaw.

Colin’s eyes flew open. "Where is me wife?" Colin roared, lurching upright and stumbling toward the bed covers. He yanked them aside with desperate hands. "WHERE IS ME WIFE?"

The bed was empty, the covers thrown back, but no sign of Morag anywhere.

"I heard noises," Niven said grimly, his voice tight with urgency. "Came running with some of the men. We even followed outside, but there was no one. She's gone, me laird."

Horror filled Niven's eyes as he continued, "I ken that every night ye take a sleeping draught, and it's unlikely ye would have woken easily. When I got here, the guards outside where dead, the door was open and yer wife was naewhere tae be found"

Colin staggered, the room spinning around him as the remnants of the potion made it hard for him to think with clarity. The damned potion. That's why he hadn't heard anything, why he hadn't protected her when she needed him most.

Colin threw on clothes with violent efficiency, his hands shaking slightly from the lingering effects of the draught. Every second that passed was another second Morag was in danger, another moment she might be suffering because of his failure to protect her.

Should have posted guards inside the chamber. Should have anticipated this. Should have kent Fraser would try something this bold.

Despite the fog clouding his thoughts, Colin grabbed his sword.

"Stay here and secure the castle. Comb everyone that came in yesterday. Fraser may have infiltrated our castle, there might be some of his men among the villagers."

He was already moving as he spoke, his mind racing through possibilities and probabilities. The sleeping draught still clouded his thoughts, making everything feel sluggish and dreamlike, but rage burned through the fog like fire through dry kindling.

He strode through the corridors with deadly purpose, his bare feet silent on the cold stone. Servants pressed themselves against the walls as he passed, recognizing the dangerous set of his shoulders, the way his hands already reached for his weapons.

"Wake Macleod. Tell him tae ready twenty men. Now," he barked at the first guard he encountered.

The castle courtyard erupted in controlled chaos as Colin's orders spread like wildfire. Grooms appeared with saddled horses, their faces grim in the torchlight. Duncan MacLeod emerged from the barracks, still fastening his sword belt, his weathered face tight with concern.

"Which direction?" Duncan Macleod asked without preamble.

"Unknown. We spread out, cover all the main routes." Colin swung onto his destrier, the great horse dancing beneath him, sensing his urgency. "Likely headed fer Fraser territory. Look fer signs, tracks, anything."

"Aye, me laird." Duncan turned to the assembled men. "Teams of four! Ye, take the north road, Ye, take yer men and follow the eastern path. The rest with me and the laird!"

They thundered out of the castle gates like the wrath of God, hoofbeats echoing off the stone walls. The moon was high but partially obscured by clouds, casting shifting shadows across the moors that could hide an army.

Colin pushed his horse harder than was wise in the uncertain light, but caution was a luxury he couldn't afford. Every instinct he possessed screamed that time was running out.

Hold on, lass. Just hold on.

They reached the first fork in the road within minutes. Colin pulled up, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of passage. The earth was soft from recent rain, and there he saw the deep gouges of horses moving at speed, heading toward the old stone bridge that marked the boundary between Armstrong and Fraser lands.

"There!" he shouted, pointing toward the tracks. "They're making toward the Fraser borders!"

The chase became a desperate race across treacherous ground. Colin's destrier was bred for war, not speed, but the horse seemed to understand the urgency, stretching into a gallop that ate up the distance between them and their quarry.

Behind him, Duncan Macleod and the others followed, their mounts' hooves, striking sparks from the rocky ground. The sound was like thunder in the night, a promise of retribution that echoed across the empty moors.

As they crested a hill, Colin caught sight of movement ahead—riders silhouetted against the sky, moving fast but not fast enough. His heart lurched when he saw the unmistakable figure of a woman slung across one of the horses, her long hair streaming like a banner in the wind.