Chapter 23

23

I t only occurred to Freya that Doughall might get the wrong impression when she was already opening the door to her bedchamber and heading inside.

Aye, this probably wasnae me wisest idea…

She had come to recognize the hunger in his eyes rather well, and there had been more than a gleam of it in the gardens, particularly after she had said she had something to share with him. But it was too late to make him wait in the hallway now; he was already striding in after her.

“Is it punishment ye seek?” His growl snaked down her spine, making her stomach flip. “Ye dinnae get to decide where it takes place.”

She did not dare to turn, certain that if she looked into his ravenous eyes, she would forget what it was she had brought him there for.

“The letter,” she croaked. “I found it again.”

She felt, rather than saw, the change in his demeanor, like a storm cloud suddenly rolling in on a sunny summer day.

“ That is what I want to share with ye,” she added, gathering herself as she walked to the writing desk where she had left the slim green book. “I was hopin’ ye could explain what it might mean.”

Taking another moment to calm her racing heart, she pulled open the top drawer. The unusually colored book was exactly where she had hidden it—beneath a few pieces of paper and a handful of ribbons. As she drew it out of its spot, a familiar thrill of excitement rushed through her. There was nothing more exhilarating than the prospect of solving a puzzle.

There wasnae before I met him, at least.

She smiled secretly, holding the book to her chest. Once they had figured out the note, maybe a punishment for her behavior in the gardens would not be out of the question.

“I told ye I didnae care what it said,” Doughall said as she turned to face him, his tone as dark as his expression.

“I ken that, but then I read it, and… I think ye will want to see it,” she replied in earnest, thrusting the book toward him. “It’s tucked inside the cover.”

He took the book reluctantly, his lips set in a grim line. Clasping her hands together, Freya struggled to hide her smile. He looked rather enchanting, standing there with the book in his masculine hands, as if he had emerged from one of her wildest fantasies.

Opening the book, his stern face clouded over entirely, becoming something harsh and sharp and severe. When he raised his gaze to hers, his lupine eyes glinted with a rage unlike any she had ever witnessed from him before.

“What is this?” he growled.

She had not expected such a visceral reaction, but it gave her some hope that he knew who had written the note and the meaning behind it.

“That’s what I thought ye might be able to help me figure out,” she replied, undeterred.

Moving to stand at his side, she looked down at the note that she already knew by heart— If I can’t have you, neither can he. But she had to blink, confused by what her eyes were seeing.

The small square of paper was fresher, whiter than the timeworn letter that should have been there, the words entirely new.

A lesson you should have learned: don’t talk about what doesn’t concern you.

A splotch of ink covered the small word that began the next sentence.

… you can’t keep your mouth shut, expect it to be shut for you.

She blinked again as if that might somehow turn the note back into the original one. But those new and threatening words did not go away, the handwriting more jagged and spidery than the previous one, as if every letter had been etched with pure fury. Tiny splatters of ink showed the force with which it had been written. The violence .

“Nay,” she whispered, taking the book from Doughall. “Nay, this cannae be right.”

She flipped frantically through the pages, trying to find the yellowed note, but it was nowhere to be found. Someone had come into her chambers, took the letter, and was now threatening to take her life.

“This isnae the note,” she whispered, her voice shaking. “Someone took it.”

Her stomach churned, her head swimming suddenly. She had already had one brush with death—she did not want another. But who would steal a note and leave another? Why would someone do such a thing? Had she come too close to finding out something she should not, or was it merely a matter of scaring her?

“I… think someone is tryin’ to frighten me,” she murmured.

Doughall’s eyes narrowed. “In this castle?”

“I dinnae ken.” She swallowed thickly. “Maybe. Maybe nae.” A sudden, awful realization dawned on her. “Do ye think… it might be Lewis?”

“What makes ye say that?” Doughall asked intently, his gaze blazing with anger.

“The… words.” She gulped. “It’s because of me that… Adam found out about… Laura and James. If I’d kept me mouth shut, me braither wouldnae have run James through. Lewis must ken that. Ye said he was spotted nearby. What if he managed to get inside the castle? What if he has been watchin’ me, waitin’ for an opportunity? What if this is his way of tellin’ me that he can enter undetected at any time?”

She bent over at the waist, breathing hard as dizziness swept through her, blurring her vision. From what she remembered of Lewis Brown, he could crush her like a blackcurrant with his bare hands, he could snap her neck like a twig, and he could do a thousand, more terrible things if it was revenge that he sought.

Why else would he be near this castle if nae to exact revenge through me?

Laura herself was unaccounted for, Adam had ridden to town the previous day with no trouble whatsoever, and no one would be foolish enough to attack Doughall, which left her—Freya Kane, the mouse of the family. The easiest target… or the first target, at least. Maybe Lewis was trying to work his way through all those who had crossed James Stewart, beginning with her.

“Stay here,” Doughall snarled, picking her up and dropping her on the bed. “Dinnae move from this spot. Am I understood?”

Holding back frightened tears, Freya nodded.

“Ersie will be posted outside. Our best men with her,” he added, storming toward the door. “If Lewis thinks he can set foot in me castle again, can scare me bride, I’ll tear him to so many pieces that nae even his maither would be able to identify him.”

He slammed the door shut behind him, the sound of a key turning in the lock somehow comforting. She was not being locked in like a prisoner—all threats were being locked out.

Remembering her lesson in patience, she sat up on the bed, hugged a pillow to her chest, and stared at the door. She would not move an inch until Doughall came back to her with news of Lewis’s demise.

If not, she doubted she would ever sleep again. Certainly not alone.

Moonlight had turned the shingle shore to pebbles of pure silver, the loch a looking glass where not even the fish dared to jump and disturb Doughall’s search. He did not know the hour and did not care; he would hunt the wretch down no matter how long it took, even if he had to raze half of Scotland to the ground.

I ken ye’re here. I can still feel ye.

With the aid of his soldiers, he had already scoured the entirety of the castle and grounds for Lewis, noting any weaknesses in the walls through which the cretin might have snuck in. Now, there was an army in the forests and across the moors, moving slowly outward to the borders of Doughall’s lands, bound to leave no stone unturned. There was a significant reward for the soldier who managed to capture Lewis, but Doughall hoped that the privilege would be entirely his.

“M’Laird?” a voice whispered from the trees.

Doughall’s head snapped toward the sound, and he drew his sword.

“It’s me.” The rabbit thief from the other morning crept out with his hands up. “Apologies, M’Laird. I didnae mean to intrude.”

Doughall was in no mood for pleasantries and would not be held responsible for his actions if the man asked for more coin.

“What do ye want?”

“I… have seen the man ye told me to look for,” the thief replied hesitantly. “At least, I think I did.”

Doughall’s lip curled. “And ye didnae think to inform me?”

“Well, I… was on me way to the castle when… all these soldiers started pourin’ into the forest. I’ve been… uh… doin’ me best to avoid them, so I couldnae get out to reach the castle,” the thief explained in a tremulous rush. “I?—”

Doughall put up his hand for silence, eyeing him more intently. “Ye’ve seen the man tonight ?”

“Aye, M’Laird. Nae far from where ye found me the other day.” The thief nodded eagerly. “He has a camp there. Made himself a… hut out of peat. Ye cannae tell it’s there unless ye ken.”

With an inferno burning in his belly, Doughall slid his sword back into its sheath and unslung his bow from his shoulder. “Lead the way and be quick and quiet about it.”

“Aye, M’Laird.” The thief bowed his head and took off across the grassy bank that bordered the shore, moving as silently and stealthily as a shadow.

Jumping down from the saddle of his horse, Doughall followed suit, pursuing the rabbit thief toward—with any luck—much bigger game.

The closer Doughall got to the northernmost curve of the loch, the more certain he became that Lewis was the man responsible. Evidently, James’s former man-at-arms had been keeping a watchful eye on the Kanes, waiting for his moment to avenge his Laird. He would have no other reason to be near MacGordon Castle otherwise.

He must have been watchin’ MacNiall Castle. Must have seen Adam and Emily leave, then Freya, and figured she was the easiest prey.

Perhaps Lewis had intended to kidnap Freya on the night she was attacked—after untold horrors had been inflicted on her. Doughall and Ersie saving Freya had not been part of the plan, thus prompting Lewis to improvise.

The note and the camp by the loch certainly reeked of desperation. A last, clumsy effort.

If Freya had been in the room when he put that note in the book…

Doughall clenched his jaw, his blood rising, every sense sharpening until he felt like he could sniff Lewis out if he had to. He could kill the man for what he had not yet done, just as much as for what he had done.

Just then, the rabbit thief stopped and put a finger to his lips, pointing toward a gathering of gnarled oak trees and dense knots of briars that did not immediately suggest something suspicious. Upon closer inspection, Doughall could just see a thin wisp of smoke emerging from the briars. Clearly, they had been cut and dragged to use as camouflage.

Pulling an arrow from his quiver, he nocked it and approached with catfooted stealth. The rabbit thief hung back, crouching and wide-eyed, no doubt fearful that he would not receive his dues if anything happened to Doughall.

Spotting the peat hut inside the camouflage of briars and leaf piles, Doughall edged around it until he found the small hole that served as the only way in and out.

Stupid to back yerself into a corner.

“Come out,” he growled.

A twig snapped inside the peat mound, chased by the sound of harsh breaths.

“Ye can come out and face me, or ye can die like the rat ye are, in yer hole.” Doughall did not pull the bowstring taut. Not yet. “One lantern thrown in there and ye’ll burn alive.”

He had neither torch nor lantern, but he had his tinderbox. It would not be difficult to turn that peat hut into an oven.

He heard movement inside the mound, and then a pale-faced figure emerged from the hole.

It had been a while since Doughall had set eyes on Lewis Brown. The man had lost some weight, the lower half of his face shrouded in a coarse beard to which small leaves clung, but as he stood to his full height, he was unmistakable as Laird Orkney’s former man-at-arms.

Doughall slung his bow over his shoulder once more and drew his blade. To shoot the wretch with an arrow would not be nearly satisfying enough. He wanted to see the light leave Lewis’s eyes, up close.

“I suppose I shouldnae be surprised that ye finally found me, eh?” Lewis asked in a voice as rough as his appearance.

Doughall said nothing, centering himself, allowing that familiar sensation of chilling calm to freeze in his veins.

“Dinnae suppose ye’d believe me if I said I was just here for the good fishin’?” Lewis let out a croaky laugh, his hands still up.

Doughall glowered at the bastard. “It’s only ye that’s bein’ reeled in at last.”

“For what reason? I havenae done aught to ye.”

Tightening his grip on his sword, Doughall resisted the urge to run Lewis through right there and then. “Ye meant to.”

“Ye dinnae ken what I had planned,” Lewis sneered. “All I ken is that someone has to pay for what happened to M’Laird, and that whore’s blood will serve well enough. She caused this—she can end it with her life. It’s only fair. Och, ye’re lucky I’m nae set on killin’ the lot of ye.”

“Lucky?” Doughall spat.

Lewis shrugged. “She got M’Laird killed because she couldnae let it lie. She deserves the same fate.” He took a few steps forward. “But I dinnae see what concern it is of yers. What is she to ye, eh? As far as I ken, she’s nothin’ to ye other than yer ally’s sister.”

It was a relief to hear that James Stewart was not alive, but it provided no balm to soothe Doughall’s ire. He did not want to use his sword anymore, he wanted to use his bare hands to strangle the life out of the despicable creature.

She’s nothin’ to me? Och, ye couldnae be more wrong.

“I’ll tell ye what she is,” Doughall snarled. “She’s me bride.”

He lunged, but as he did, Lewis drew a blade of his own.