Chapter 14

T he sound of the door slamming echoed like a gunshot. Izzy stomped across the yard behind the boarding house, ignoring the stable hands who looked at her in surprise as she kicked open the door of the stable and stepped inside.

The second she did, she was greeted by an excited ‘woof’ and Snaffles was there, jumping all over her in his excitement and showering her with slobbery kisses. She sank down into the straw, her back against the wall of a stall, and threw her arms around the dog’s huge shoulders. Delighted at the attention, Snaffles flopped down across her thighs, nearly knocking the wind out of her.

“Well, at least you’re pleased to see me,” she muttered.

Anger coursed through her veins like molten metal. She’d only come downstairs to see if Mistress Kearnan could lend her a hairbrush and she’d walked into that! Into overhearing Magnus and Emeric discussing her as though she was a child! Who did Magnus think he was, deciding her fate without even discussing it with her first? Without even asking if she wanted to be handed over to Emeric like some piece of baggage Magnus couldn’t wait to be rid of?

Tomorrow, she would be going to Dun Saith. From Dun Saith she would—hopefully—find a way home. Wasn’t that what she’d wanted all along? So why then was she seething like a kicked ants’ nest?

She laid her head back against the wooden wall of the stall and stared up at the rafters. A spider was busy constructing its web in the corner, making its steady way round and round, content with where it was and what it was doing.

But unlike the spider, unlike the horses in the stalls behind her, unlike the stable hands in the yard outside, she didn’t have a place here. This wasn’t where she belonged. So why was she so unsettled by the thought of traveling to Dun Saith and the possibility of going home?

It was, she realized, nothing to do with going to Dun Saith and everything to do with Magnus. She had made a fool of herself by kissing him, and now he was sending her away. Bloody hell. This was not how she wanted things to go. She’d thought...she’d thought... Damn it. She didn’t know what she’d thought. She only knew that the idea of being sent away from Magnus made her stomach churn with dread.

Snaffles suddenly lifted his head and gave a soft grunt of greeting. Izzy looked around and saw a silhouette outlined in the doorway. There was no mistaking who it was. Nobody else was that tall or that broad.

“Isabelle,” he said softly, his voice a deep bass that seemed to rumble right through her body.

Pushing Snaffles off her lap, Izzy climbed to her feet, lifted her chin, and faced Magnus squarely. His figure was dark against the weak moonlight leaking in from the door, his face obscured by shadows.

“What do you want, Magnus?” she asked, unable to keep the anger from her voice.

There was a pause in which only the soft whispering sounds of the wind outside and the restless shuffling of the horses in their stalls could be heard. Then he stepped forward into the light spilling from a lantern hung on a post .

“I wanted to explain,” he said quietly, reaching a hand towards her. It hovered mid-air between them for a moment before he let it drop to his side again. “And to apologize.”

Izzy crossed her arms over her chest, tucking her hands under her armpits. She felt her jaw tighten, anger and hurt bubbling inside. “For what? For making decisions for me? For deciding I’m not strong enough for this?”

For not feeling the same way about me as I do you?

Magnus winced and took another step towards her. “I’m sorry that ye heard my conversation with Emeric,” he said. “And I’m sorry that I didnae discuss it with ye first—”

“Was it true what Emeric said?” she demanded, cutting him off.

He blinked. “What?”

“He said you were absent without leave from the Order of the Osprey but you told me you were here on a mission for the Order. Which is it, Magnus?”

He chewed the inside of his cheek, a troubled expression crossing his features. At last, he sighed. “The truth is that my captain, Kai Stewart, forbade me from coming on this mission.”

“Yet you came anyway.”

“Aye, I came anyway.”

“Why?”

He didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he took a step closer, the space between them growing smaller. Izzy had to crane her neck to meet his eyes.

“Because I had to. Because I fear that everything that’s happening here, everything Lord McRae is doing to these people, is because of me. ”

She shook her head. “That makes no sense. How can any of this be your fault?”

“That doesnae matter,” he said, his voice rough. “What matters is that ye are safe. Isabelle, I dinna want to send ye away because I think ye’re weak or incapable... I need to send ye away because the thought of anything happening to ye terrifies me. Ye deserve better than the dangers I can offer.”

“Then come with me!” she said. “Give up this mission of yours and come to Dun Saith. We can all ride there tomorrow.”

He took another step closer, taking up the space that separated them until they were only a breath apart. She could feel the warmth coming from him, could hear his shallow breaths and see the pulse ticking in his throat.

Something shone in his eyes, a longing, a hope. But then the shutters came down and he stepped back. “I canna do that. I have to see this through to the end.”

Isabelle felt a hot sting of tears but she blinked them back rapidly. She was not going to cry. Not here and certainly not in front of Magnus.

If she’d wanted confirmation of his true feelings, this was it. He’d promised to take her to Dun Saith, but he was willing to break that promise for the sake of his mission. It was clear where his priorities lay. She was an idiot to think otherwise.

“Fine,” she said, lifting her chin. “I don’t think there’s any more to say, is there? Good night, Magnus.”

Without waiting for his response, she patted Snaffles goodnight then turned on her heel and walked out of the dimly lit stable. She didn’t look back. Once back in her room, she leaned against the door and let herself slide down until she was sitting on the cold stone floor, her arms wrapped around her knees.

A choice is coming, my dear and it will lead ye to a path ye’d never thought to tread. Will ye be the woman who let fear hold her back, or will ye be the woman who saw through the fog and dared to journey to her destiny?

Destiny? There was no such thing. Despite what Irene MacAskill might think, she’d chosen her path long ago. She was Isabelle Ross. Play-it-safe-Isabelle Ross who liked routine and predictability. It was time to remember who she was. Time to stop thinking she was somebody else, somebody who took it in her stride when she was tossed back in time, somebody who might be able to make a life for herself so far away from everything she knew.

Somebody Magnus Kerr might feel something for.

No. It was time to go home.

MAGNUS WATCHED ISABELLE walk away, the lantern light emphasizing the tense set of her shoulders. “Good night, Isabelle,” he said softly, even though she was already out of earshot.

He sighed deeply, feeling a tumultuous mix of regret and resolve, of longing and duty. He looked down at Snaffles who’d resumed his spot, surveying him with wise eyes. He reached out absently, patting the dog’s head.

The silent barn was slowly becoming unbearable, the ghosts of their conversation echoing off the wooden walls that seemed to close in around him. He’d come here to make things right between them but he’d only made them worse. He’d never been good with words. And now, when he’d needed them the most, they’d deserted him.

He’d hurt Isabelle, and that was the last thing he’d wanted to do. So why don’t you stay? a voice whispered in his head. Why don’t you do what she asked and go to Dun Saith with her? Why don’t you give up this obsession? Isn’t she worth it?

The thoughts were dangerously close to the words Emeric had spoken earlier. What was more important to him? Isabelle? Or his mission?

With a cry of frustration, he heaved the stable door open, sending it crashing against the wall with a bang loud enough to shake the stable and make the horses snort and stamp nervously in their stalls.

The two stable lads who were grooming a horse out in the yard, paled when they saw him. Magnus paid them no attention. That look of fear was something he was used to. Only his sword-brothers saw him as something other than hired muscle.

And Isabelle. From the first, she’d not been afraid of him. From the first she’d seen something in him, something that made her trust him, put herself in his hands. And then she’d kissed him...

Magnus stuttered to a halt in the yard, staring at the back door to the boarding house. She was in there. It would be so easy to walk through that door, go up to her room, and let all the things he’d been aching to say come spilling from his lips. Oh, how he wanted that. He wanted it so much that he felt it tugging at him like a hook lodged deep in his heart.

But he didn’t move.

Something else was pulling at him too, something buried even more deeply, something that had been festering inside him for so long that it had fused into his very bones.

He growled under his breath, turned away from the boarding house, and exited through the stable yard and into the street beyond. It was dark now, and the settlement was lit only by a few candles burning through the windows of the modest houses. It didn’t matter. Magnus knew exactly where he was going.

He moved quickly and silently through the streets of Torloch. He made no attempt at stealth and the few people that were out and about took one look at his expression and quickly scurried out of his way. A hot, smoldering anger had lit deep in his belly and he did nothing to try to stifle it.

The blacksmith’s forge was located on the edge of the settlement, where the risk of fire spreading to the houses was less pronounced and Mistress Kearnan had given him directions when he’d asked her earlier. As he approached, Magnus could see plumes of smoke billowing out from the wide chimney and hear the rhythmic clang of iron against iron.

He reached the door and kicked it open, stepping through into a wall of heat. The interior was filled with an angry glow of crimson and orange firelight flickering on walls darkened by years of soot and grime and revealing the blacksmith himself slowly straightening from where he’d been bent over an anvil.

He was short and squat, barrel-chested and with arms like the trunks of trees. He reminded Magnus of nothing so much as a battering ram. His square jaw tightened and his eyes narrowed as they flicked over Magnus who filled the small space, his head almost brushing the ceiling.

“What do you want?” he asked, a faint trace of a French accent in his voice.

“Are ye Armand?”

“Who’s asking?”

“I am,” Magnus growled. “My name is Magnus Kerr.”

He watched the man’s face intently, looking for any sign of recognition. There was a faint tightening around the eyes that most would have missed if they weren’t looking for it but it was enough to tell Magnus that he’d recognized the name.

“Good for you. It’s late, and I have work to do—”

“Recognize this?” Magnus took out the broken sword and tossed it onto the anvil with a clink.

The blacksmith glanced at it but his expression betrayed no reaction. “Should I?”

Magnus stepped forward. “Look more closely. That’s yer mark on the blade is it not? An expensive blade, this. Not the kind of blade made for just anyone. The kind of blade for the nobility perhaps?”

The man’s eye twitched. “I am a master blacksmith. I make lots of blades. So what?”

“So what?” Magnus echoed, that smoldering ember of anger beginning to burn as hot as the forge that glowed behind the blacksmith. “So what? This blade was used by an outlaw who attacked a defenseless village. It bears yer mark. Ye are going to tell me who ordered it from you.” He took out the bag of coins he’d made from the sale of the horse in Hodwell and bounced it on his hands, the coins inside clinking. “I will pay ye handsomely for yer trouble.”

The blacksmith crossed his arms over his chest. His eyes were two cold shards of metal in the flickering firelight. “My, my, you must want that information pretty badly. But you’re mistaken. I sell blades to whoever can pay the price and don’t keep records of who ordered them. Nor do I ask what they do with them.”

Magnus’s patience snapped like a frayed rope. He’d tried the civilized way, now it was time to try the more direct approach. He lunged, snatching the blacksmith by the shoulder strap of his charred leather apron. “Dinna play coy with me! Ye know exactly who ordered this blade and ye will tell me!”

There was no fear in the blacksmith’s eyes, only defiance. “I’ll tell you nothing!” he growled back.

With a swift, practiced motion, the blacksmith swung his hammer. The metal tool whistled through the air, its path illuminated by the glowing embers of the forge. Magnus had barely a moment to react, releasing his grip and throwing himself backwards. His back hit an old wooden table laden with iron scraps and half-finished swords, scattering them in a loud clatter.

“You have no right to be making demands here,” the blacksmith bellowed, pointing the hammer at Magnus’s heaving chest. “Now get out!”

He swung the hammer, a blow that would likely have caved in Magnus’s already bruised ribs had it struck. But although the blacksmith was strong, he was slow and clumsy, and Magnus swiftly stepped away from the hammer blow, hooked his leg around the man’s calf, and tripped him.

The blacksmith thudded onto his back with a thump, the hammer flying out of his grasp. Magnus followed him down, kneeling on his chest to pin him. The blacksmith roared and struggled, but was unable to shift Magnus’s bulk.

“I’ll ask ye politely one final time,” Magnus hissed, grabbing the blacksmith’s tunic in his fists. “Who ordered this blade? Was it Lord McRae?”

“I’ll tell you nothing!”

Magnus punched him. He did not hold back and the blow was hard enough to send blood and a tooth spurting from Armand’s mouth. “Was it Lord McRae?”

The blacksmith spat, bloody spittle flecking Magnus’s face. “I said I’ll tell you nothing,” he hissed through his broken teeth. “Do what you will. Whatever you do to me will be nothing compared to what he’ll do should I betray him.”

“He? Who? Lord McRae? Tell me, damn ye!” Frustration surged in him. Again he saw the smoking ruins of Morwenna and Able’s village. Again he heard the sharp accusations of the angry villager.

Ye should have protected us.

Aye, he should have. He should have stopped this from ever happening. If he could go back and do things differently...

But he could not. All he could do was try to put it right in the present and this mulish blacksmith was getting in the way of him doing that. He felt the rage building inside, felt his control begin to slip .

Magnus drew his fist back once more, muscles coiled and ready to strike. The blacksmith looked up at him, spat again, and waited for the blow to come. But just before his fist could connect with the man’s battered face, something caught Magnus’s eye.

His own reflection stared back at him from a polished sheet of metal hanging on the wall not far off. His face was twisted into a grimacing snarl, eyes alight with anger. Magnus’s breath hitched. The man staring back at him was not the man he wanted to be. Blood splattered across his fists, his eyes burnt with a fury he did not recognize. It was as though he was looking into a mirror that reflected the very worst parts of him, parts he had hoped were buried deep within and would never surface. Revulsion flooded through him. Who was this stranger glaring back at him?

The red glow of the forge cast an eerie light on the place, casting deep shadows that danced and swirled in the corners of the room. Sparks from the forge scattered like frightened fireflies before winking out against the cold stone floor. In that light he looked like some kind of crazed monster, rather than the man who had pledged his life to the Order of the Osprey, to protecting the weak and upholding the Order’s values.

The sight momentarily shocked him into stillness, his clenched fist hovering in mid-air. What was happening to him? What was he allowing himself to become?

“Who am I?” he found himself whispering, almost too quiet to be heard over the low hiss of the forge.

He was supposed to be a protector, a guardian of justice and peace. But he was far from that right now. A grim thought slithered into his mind: were he and Lord McRae any different? They both sowed fear and pain. They both used violence to get what they wanted.

Everything is a choice, Irene MacAskill had told him. It was his choice to be here right now. It was his choice whether he let his fist fall or whether he pulled it back.

Which path will ye take? The path of a man at odds with himself, or the path of one who forgives himself. The first path is easy, the second one long, and hard and dark. But one leads to darkness and one leads to light.

For the first time since he’d met her, Irene’s words made sense. There was a choice ahead of him. There was a path beneath his feet. The one he walked currently led to darkness, to becoming the very thing he’d always fought against. But there was another choice. He could turn away.

Give it up, Emeric had urged him. Let it go.

Come with me , Isabelle had asked him. Come with me to Dun Saith.

And if he did? If he turned his back on the goal that had driven him for so long? What then?

The answer came to him in a flash of insight. Then he would begin to walk a different path, one that led him to a different place entirely.

One that led him to Isabelle.

He released his grip on the blacksmith’s tunic, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Magnus pushed back on his heels and rose to his full height, towering over the blacksmith. He felt the heat from the forge, the smell of burning coal filling his nostrils. But none of that mattered anymore .

The blacksmith blinked up at him, confusion etched onto his weathered face. Magnus simply nodded at him, a silent apology for the violence he had unleashed. His fists were still tingling, still stained with the blacksmith’s blood, but he did not wipe it away. It was a reminder, a symbol of the path he had almost taken.

He staggered to the exit of the forge, his mind consumed by a single thought. Isabelle. She had become his compass, guiding him back to the man he wanted to be.

He made his way through the muddy streets of Torloch, away from the seedy taverns and dark alleyways of its underbelly, towards the welcoming glow of the boarding house where Isabelle awaited. The raw anger that had colored his world crimson receded with each step, replaced with a different kind of warmth, one that filled him with excitement and trepidation in equal measure.

When he got there, he avoided the vibrant common room, the laughter and clinking of ale mugs too jovial, too far removed from his current state of mind. And besides, he didn’t want to risk running into Emeric. He took the back stairs instead, the worn treads creaking under his weight as he climbed.

His heart pounded against his ribcage as he ascended, every creak of the wooden stairs beneath his boots echoing the apprehension building within. What if he was too late? What if he’d already broken the fragile, unnamed thing that was building between them?

He arrived at Isabelle’s door and stopped. It was only a flimsy piece of wood that stood between them and yet, it felt as thick as a castle wall.

He raised his fist to knock but hesitated, his reflection in the blacksmith’s forge, playing through his mind. He was afraid of what she might see when she looked at him. Isabelle had never been afraid of him, had never seen the hulking brute that most people saw, but what if that had changed? What if he’d broken her trust and her image of him? He wasn’t sure he could bear that. But neither could he turn away.

With a trembling hand, he knocked on the door, the soft thudding sound harsh in the quiet hallway. He waited. Finally, the door creaked open just a sliver, revealing a pair of wary hazel eyes framed by soft dark tangles.

“Magnus?”

“Isabelle,” Magnus breathed her name like a prayer. “Can I come in?”

A flicker of surprise passed through her eyes, quickly replaced by a complex mix of emotions that Magnus couldn’t begin to decipher. She looked at him cautiously for a second, then her gaze dropped to his bloody fists.

Magnus winced. What must he look like?

She stepped away from the door, opening it wider in silent invitation. He followed her inside, his heavy boots thudding against the wooden floor.

The room was warm and softly lit by the dying embers of the fire flickering in the hearth. It was a stark contrast to the harsh cold outside, and to the hot violence of the blacksmith’s shop.

Isabelle was watching him closely, her face shadowed. “Are you hurt?” she asked quietly, her gaze dropping to his bloodied hands .

The concern in her voice triggered a mix of emotions within him: relief at her caring, shame at the reason for it. He rubbed his sore knuckles on his plaid.

“It doesnae matter.”

Isabelle crossed the small space between them and gently took his hands in her own. Carefully, she turned them over to inspect the damage. Her touch was cool, gentle, a soothing balm on his raw knuckles.

“Is this... is this your blood?” she asked hesitantly, her gaze flicking up to meet his.

Magnus shook his head, clenching his teeth against the surge of guilt. “No,” he admitted, unable to meet her gaze. “It isnae.”

She flinched slightly and retreated from him. There was a heavy silence that seemed to stretch on for eternity before she finally spoke again.

“Why are you here?” Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper, but it carried the weight of the world with it.

Magnus looked at her. “Dinna ye know?”

“Should I? I’ve given up trying to work you out, Magnus.”

Her words stung him and he winced, but knew that he deserved them.

She gestured at his sore knuckles. “I’m guessing you spoke to the blacksmith?”

“Aye,” he admitted.

“I hope you found what you were looking for.” There was an edge of bitterness in her voice .

“I did,” he said with a nod. “Although it turns out what I was looking for was something different to what I thought it was.”

She narrowed her eyes but said nothing. He turned his gaze from her and looked around the room, taking in the simple wooden furniture and the cozy fireplace. The room was warm, comfortable, a place of quiet peace. A stark contrast to where he’d been earlier tonight.

“You still haven’t answered my question,” Isabelle said. “Why are you here? It’s getting late and I’m tired, so if you’ve nothing else to say—”

“I do. I have much to say.” He cleared his throat, trying to decide where to begin. “Isabelle, tonight I chose my personal mission above all else. Above my duty to the Order of the Osprey. Above my vows to my sword-brothers.” He looked up, met her gaze. “Above my feelings for ye.”

She didn’t move or interrupt him but her eyes never left his face.

“But as I stood in that blacksmith’s smithy tonight I felt only one thing: regret. Regret and an emptiness so deep it felt like a stab wound.”

He took in a deep breath, trying to find the words to express what he was feeling. He’d never been good with words but this time he had to make them count.

“Ye asked why I came. Well, I came because I realized that what I was searching for... it wasnae in the mission. It wasnae in the fight. It wasnae in the blood and the sweat.” He paused, struggling to find words that felt woefully inadequate .

His gaze softened as he looked at her. “It was in ye, Isabelle.”

Her eyes widened, a soft gasp escaping her lips. Now he did walk over to her and took her hands in his.

“I’m sorry, Isabelle. I made the wrong choice. I hope it isnae too late to unmake it.”

She stared up at him. The firelight danced in her hazel eyes, making them glow like amber. “Does that mean...? Does that mean you’re coming to Dun Saith with us after all?”

“Aye,” he rumbled. “If ye’ll have me. I made a promise to keep ye safe and help ye find a way home. I’m sorry I lost sight of that. I’m sorry I lost sight of what matters most to me.”

His hands cradled hers, and he traced gentle circles on the back of her hand with his thumb. “I’ve been blind, Isabelle. Blind to my purpose, blind to what truly matters... blind to ye.”

He watched as a flurry of emotions played out across her face—surprise, relief, and then, something he hardly dared hope for. Joy. Her hands, still captured within his own, gave a tiny squeeze.

“Yes,” she breathed, a soft smile curving her lips. “Yes, I’ll have you.”

Pure relief washed over him. He had been granted a second chance—an unexpected gift that he would not squander again.

Gently, Magnus lifted one of her hands and pressed it against his heart. His eyes never left hers as he said softly, “Ye hold my heart in yer hand, Isabelle. Do what ye will with it. ”

With her free hand, Isabelle reached up and touched the stubble on his cheek. The touch sent a surge of electricity right through him. He tried to hold himself still, tried to let her lead, let her do what she would. But he couldn’t hold himself back any longer.

With a groan of need and longing, he yanked her into his arms and kissed her.