She fidgeted.
“She is fine,” Marcus said tightly and took her hand, his fingers lacing through hers. “We are both fine. You need not be concerned.”
“Allow me tae disagree. She sounded verra unhappy and as laird of these lands I’m honor bound to assist any lass in need.” He snapped his fingers then and a man dismounted, moving forward to fetch Marcus’s gelding. Alyse pressed a hand against Marcus’s chest and felt his growl rumble against the flat of her palm through their garments. “I’m a great admirer of fine horseflesh. We’ll leave ye with the nag.”
“You cannot do that,” she protested, looking uneasily between Marcus and the men surrounding them. Tension crackled in the air. Her nerves pulled tight, waiting. Something was coming. She knew it as much as she feared it. Something that made her stomach knot and clench.
The black-eyed Highlander assessed her a moment longer before snapping his fingers yet again. “Ye ken I’m going tae do my good deed for the day and relieve ye of the lass, too.”
“What? No!” she cried as men descended on her.
Marcus shouted but she couldn’t make sense of the words. She only saw the men . . . the hands coming at her, seizing her and pulling her away.
“That’s right,” the leader continued. “Ye won’t have tae suffer this lofty bastard anymore, lass.”
Marcus surged for her, fighting like a wild animal, but men descended on him as well, pulling him back.
He turned on them, fighting, swinging his fists. It was hopeless. Three-to-one odds. They pummeled him. Awful bone-smacking blows. His body jerked beneath the impact. It was a terrible sight. She felt each blow as though it were inflicted upon herself.
“Please! Stop! You’re hurting him. Marcus, stop fighting!” Stop fighting.
Let me go. Let them have me.
He went down and suddenly the group of men stepped back.
She pushed forward. “You killed him!” She lunged to where Marcus had fallen. His eyes were still open, his gaze wild and unfocused. “Marcus!” She reached out to touch him, but was pulled away.
One of the Highlanders moved to crouch beside him. “‘E’s no’ dead. Just grazed ’is ’ead on a rock when ’e fell. ’Ead wounds always bleed like the devil. ’E’ll be fine.”
Not dead. Not dead.
The words rushed through her and she grabbed at them like marbles rolling past, curling them in her palm and holding them tightly, letting them fill her with hope. She expelled a sobbing breath.
“Fetch her bag,” the leader gestured to her floral valise on the back of the mule. The man crouching beside Marcus stood and claimed her bag.
His devil-dark eyes landed on her then.
She shook her head. “No, no . . .”
She attempted to back away, but she didn’t get very far before her arm was seized in a vise. She was tossed up on the horse in front of the leader.
She had one last glimpse of Marcus and he didn’t look well despite their assurances. He was flat on his back on the ground. Only this time, his eyes were closed. He didn’t move a muscle. Not a flicker.
Not even when she called his name.
Chapter 20
Finally. The wolf unleashed the predator within him.
Their tracks were easy to follow.
He scarcely felt his injuries. He was aware of them distantly, as one might be aware of the weather outside. Remotely and indifferently. He pushed Little Bit hard. The beast had likely never moved with such haste in all his life.
Fortunately it did not snow during the time he was unconscious and he was able to follow the deep ruts left by their horses in the snow.
Even more fortunate, he did not have far to travel. The great stone castle he’d arrived at looked like something out of a medieval fairy tale.
No one had to tell him this was the local laird’s castle.
Certainly the gray stone itself looked medieval. It was crumbling in several places and one of the towers actually looked hazardous, as though it might topple over at any moment.
The main gates were open and he rode right through them, earning more than a few stares. He was a big man riding a mule after all, with the soles of his boots skimming the ground. He read the mirth in their eyes. He hardly posed a threat to them.
He dismounted and let the mule idle in the crowded courtyard.
He didn’t bother to think about how he was going to get out of here once he had reclaimed Alyse. He couldn’t worry about that now. He could only worry about locating her and making certain she was safe. Making certain they hadn’t harmed or molested her in any fashion. He continued to ignore the throbbing in his skull and the crusted blood matted in his hair where he’d struck his head.
His mind worked feverishly with one goal as he walked inside the castle. Find Alyse.
The hall was full. They were in the midst of dinner. A long dining table was positioned at the far side of the room resembling something from the feudal age. It felt like a forgotten era. There were men and women all about garbed in the tartan colors he’d seen on the men from earlier. The men who’d taken Alyse.
At the head table sat the man who took her. The young leader. Marcus walked down the open space between the tables, stopping once he was a few feet from the table’s edge.
“I’ve come for the girl,” he addressed the lad.
He was cold and wet and furious.
And worst of all, he was terrified. Terrified for her . . . wherever she was in this castle. His mind conjured all manner of horrific things. Alyse chained in a dungeon somewhere . . .
His stomach knotted as he thought of all the things that could happen to her. That could have already have happened to her.
This was worse than the day he’d seen her standing on that auction block in the middle of the square, men haggling over her like she was some bit of horseflesh. It was worse because he knew her now. She was no longer a stranger. She was more than some hapless nameless female.
As annoying as she could be with her prying and chatter, she meant something to him. She had come to be . . . something to him. She mattered. He couldn’t imagine a day without her in it. Alarming as the thought was, he couldn’t take the time to examine it right now. He had more pressing concerns. Like getting her back. Getting her back and keeping her.
His gaze skimmed the hall, searching for a glimpse of her among the revelers. There was no sight of her, but his presence before the head table was finally noticed. His declaration had seen to that.
The smug bastard at the head table stood up, still holding a goblet. “And who might ye be looking for, ye fine sir? A girl, ye say?” He took a long, leisurely sip, behaving as though he didn’t remember Marcus.
The hall fell silent, everyone looking back and forth between the young laird and Marcus.
“You know damn well who I’m here for.”
Marcus’s hand went inside his coat to pull out his pistol. Earlier the weapon had been out of reach, but not this time.
A growl rippled through the great hall. Several men moved toward him, but Marcus kept the barrel trained on the man responsible for taking Alyse. The laird in command and, apparently, his neighbor. The man he would kill if he didn’t set her free.
It didn’t matter to him that he might die. True, he was standing in the veritable lion’s den, but he didn’t care. There were things a man had to do. He understood that now.
His father had never understood that. He lacked the instinct to do right by others. His rank and wealth had bred in him a callous indifference to others—especially others who were of lesser rank. Considering his father had been a duke, that was essentially everyone.
Even though he had raised Marcus to be just like him, somehow Marcus wasn’t. He would not let them take Alyse and forget all about her.
The laird motioned his men back, an amused lift to his lips as he addressed Marcus. “You’re either verra stupid or verra brave tae stroll in here and point that at me. In my own home, no less.” He nodded at Marcus’s weapon.