Chapter Twenty

B y dawn on the morning of the fourth day, Raina struggled to maintain hope, harassed by a diminishing certainty that Torsten would come for her.

Her brother was truly wretched. Though she was provided with sustenance once a day, no other care had been shown to her. She was forced to sleep on the hard timber floor, was not offered a blanket to chase away the icy chill of the night. Though a chamber pot had been provided she was not afforded either a cloth or water to wash her face or scrub her teeth. The door opened but once a day. Then, under the watchful gaze of one of Donald's minions, a timid lad who had yet to make eye contact with Raina entered to deliver food and a cup half filled with warm ale. He retrieved the plate and cup from the day before and emptied the chamber pot and that was all. Raina saw no one else.

Her brother had not returned, and any residual familial connection or love born of duty was quickly eroded.

Inside an empty chamber whose lone window was covered with planks and boards nailed to the wall, in creeping darkness every minute save for when the door was open, Raina struggled with many emotions. Fear had not completely left her, but it was often overshadowed by a deep sorrow. In those moments when she allowed herself to think that it wasn't that Torsten couldn't find her, but that he had chosen not to, the sadness became overwhelming. Mayhap he'd received Donald's demands—the return of his wife for the return of Lochlan Hall—and had simply decided he would not risk losing Lochlan Hall. Perhaps what she had considered genuine tenderness inside their bedchamber had been only a subconscious hope of hers, painting him with broad and wishful strokes.

Her fingers were raw, having spent hours and days scratching and pulling at planks, the wall, the floor, the boards covering the window, all to no avail.

Despite having little else to do but listen for hours on end, Raina had only gleaned a few scraps of information, and even those were mostly conjecture. She surmised that she was kept in a two-story structure or dwelling, likely not very large. When the door to her prison chamber was opened, she could see only the opposite timber wall, but not the stairs, other doorways, or windows. She had begun to recognize the sound of the lower, perhaps outer, door creaking and groaning as it was opened. The proximity of that door's sound to her own door, along with the echo of footsteps on wooden stairs—less muffled than they would be on stone steps—suggested a rather primitive structure, not a fortress or keep. In the ceiling of this chamber there was one sliver of space between two planks, which allowed for the thinnest slice of sunlight to creep along the floor throughout the day, by which Raina approximated the hour.

Several times she'd heard what had sounded like a number of mounted horses galloping nearby, suggesting her brother's army was close. Occasionally, she heard the distant murmur of voices, muffled by the walls but unmistakably male, often punctuated by harsh laughter or abrupt shouts. The clinking of metal suggested soldiers' armor or weapons being handled. Once or twice, she caught the faint smell of smoke and roasting meat, indicating a nearby campfire.

That was the extent of her knowledge about her own circumstance.

And while she didn't wholly believe her brother would actually kill her, she realized that the Donald who stunned her with his presence four days ago was a different animal entirely from the brother she'd known in her youth. At least far different from what her mother had allowed her to see, and later, from what she'd allowed herself to believe.

Late in the morning on the fourth day, mayhap an hour before her meal would arrive, she heard again the pulsing of hooves against the earth, but today the thudding was different.

The tremendous sound that suddenly erupted was unlike anything she'd heard or experienced. It was deafening, a cacophony of earth-shattering noise. Her heart raced, a wild mixture of hope and fear surging through her veins.

A call to arms echoed through the air, a primal roar, unmistakable and urgent. Her breath caught in her throat.

Torsten had come for her.

Raina crumbled with relief, tears springing to her eyes. But scarcely did she revel in her own joy before she was overcome with worry. She dropped to her knees and prayed for Torsten and for every de Graham man who'd just marched into battle. She startled at the first clang of metal against metal, imagining that to be Torsten's blade, and was forced to abandon prayer as the noise outside enlarged to a flurry of screeching, strident sounds as the battle was met in full. Men bellowed and screamed, horses whinnied, and the clash of metal continued, the sounds drawing closer as if the de Grahams pushed back on the MacQueens.

After what felt like an eternity but was possibly not yet a quarter hour of listening to the tumult outside, the door below her slammed open and footsteps bounded up the steps.

Raina faced the door, her hands fisted in anticipation, expecting Torsten to crash into the chamber in triumph.

But a key turned in the lock and it was her brother, Donald, who burst into the room.

His face was nearly unrecognizable, contorted into a mask of frenzied panic and seething anger. His eyes were wild with desperation. Wearing an ugly snarl, he seized Raina roughly and dragged her from the chamber and down the stairs and outside.

The scene that met her eyes was one of utter chaos as the de Graham army clashed ferociously with her brother's men. Bodies littered the ground, and the air was thick with the bitter stench of blood and sweat.

The blood drained from her face, never having witnessed such intensity or carnage. As her brother dragged her along, moving swiftly, swords flashed in the sunlight, while axes and maces swung with deadly precision. Horses, wild-eyed and frothing at the mouth, reared and kicked, their riders struggling to control them amidst the fray. The cries of the wounded and dying could be heard with the clang of weapons and the shouts of commanders. Raina saw the silhouette of what looked like an abbey in the distance, a watchful spectator to the violence unfolding before it. Her brother's army was in disarray, falling back under the relentless assault of the de Graham forces, who pushed forward with a disciplined ferocity, hacking and slashing to cut through the chaos .

She searched desperately for Torsten amid the fight, imagining his imposing silhouette would be easy to recognize but she could not find him.

Watching the fight rather than where she was going—where Donald was dragging her—Raina stumbled and fell, her arm jerked from her brother's grasp. Donald paused and yanked at her, first wildly at her hair until he clasped his hand around her arm again.

"Look!" He growled in her ear as he bent over her. "Look! See what your precious husband has done! This is his doing!" –As if he, himself, and his unsound mind had not perpetrated this carnage!

Raina resisted his desperate efforts to lift her to her feet, making herself limp as her gaze swept again, still, over the battlefield, searching for Torsten among the mounted green-tartan-ed de Grahams. But she and her brother and the building in which she'd been held were behind the scrambling MacQueen army, and a veil of dust had risen, enveloping the fight, obscuring much of her view. While Donald cursed and tugged at her, for a moment dragging her through the short grass, Raina's heart pounded, waiting, wishing fervently to see Torsten emerge from the swirling dust.

Her brother bellowed another expletive and heaved her upward at the same time he laid a dagger against her throat. Donald's desperation was palpable, surely having realized that the battle was lost. When she was on her feet again, he held her in front of him and shoved her forward toward the line of MacQueen horses, skittish and dancing where they were roped between many trees .

Just then, a thunderous roar rose above the deafening din of warfare. Raina's heart leapt at the sound of Torsten's voice, and she turned to find him, but the cold press of the blade against her skin stymied her desire. Donald's grip tightened, his movements growing more frantic as he dragged her toward the horses, likely meaning to make his escape. Raina struggled against him, trying to stall him, glancing backward all the while.

At the exact moment the blade cut into her neck, Torsten emerged from the churning dust like a ruthless specter, his eyes locking onto Raina with an intensity that sent a shiver down her spine. He bellowed again at the sight of her, this time a wordless war cry that resonated with raw power. Several de Graham warriors surged forward in his wake.

Donald was given pause, pulling Raina closer, using her as a shield.

Torsten's approach was relentless, his gaze never leaving Raina, his eyes filled with blazing fury—he, too, nearly unrecognizable for the ferocity of his expression.

The de Grahams closed in, forming an arc around Donald and Raina.

"Halt!" Donald called urgently. "Halt! Don't make me do something I might one day regret." He gripped a portion of Raina's hair at the back of her head, forcing her chin up, and pressed the knife closer to her neck.

Torsten brought his steed to a halt, seemingly calm to one who didn't know him.

"?Tis your end, man," Torsten vowed in a low voice.

"?Tis her end, wrought by you," Donald countered with a high-pitched nervousness, "if you do not back away." He moved again, striding slowly backwards, taking Raina with him. "Lay down your swords now!" He commanded, as if the idea had just come to him. "I'll release her when I'm far enough away."

Agreeably, and without hesitation, Torsten lifted his sword, bright red with the blood of MacQueens, and tossed it aside. He held up both hands then to demonstrate he had no other weapons. Aonghas, James, Rory, and several others she recognized did the same, relinquishing their arms.

Raina whimpered at their easy capitulation.

Her gaze returned to Torsten, her fear not relieved but mounting.

The raging fury behind her husband's blue eyes was tempered by a brief, gentle flicker, what she understood as a silent vow that he would not let any harm come to her.

TORSTEN'S RECENTLY born suspicion that Raina's own brother was behind her abduction and commander of the army they'd just decimated was supported by the obvious resemblance between Raina and her captor—the man was almost exactly her height, was of a slim build, and owned eyes shaped and colored as were Raina's.

For Raina's sake, he was sorry that her brother would be killed. For the senseless carnage behind him and the loss of his own men today, Torsten knew he would lose little sleep over the man's death—he would be naught but one less traitor breathing the same air as him.

He was sorrier that the man's final retreat was made so haltingly, and that Raina continued to know fear. He tried to let her know with a fleeting but intense look of reassurance, that he was in control, that it would be over soon .

He and his army, their numbers inflated by Gregor Kincaid's men, had not ridden hastily into battle. They'd scouted ahead and had set up a perimeter, and for the last two hours, De Graham and Kincaid archers flanked the entire scene. When came the battle, those archers had in truth done much of the work, having neutralized a quarter of the MacQueen force before Torsten and the charging armies had first drawn blood of their own. At this moment, at least four nearby archers, yet concealed, had Raina's brother in their sights, and were only waiting an opening.

Having realized her brother's intent—to get to the horses and ride off with Raina—Torsten knew their best opportunity for a clean shot was nearly upon them; Raina and her brother could not mount at the same time.

Though it pained him greatly, he did not move to pursue the coward fleeing with Raina but held his destrier still as his wife was dragged further away from him. The sight of the harm already done to her made Torsten want to murder the man with his own hands—she was more greatly disheveled than he had ever seen her, pale and wan, and with blood creased around her neck—but he would not risk any injury to Raina by engaging her brother himself.

Torsten knew of bit of unease as Raina's brother did not merely pick the closest horse to him but ducked under the rope and went several rows into the crowded throng of chargers, making the chances of an easy shot less likely. However, though the man was watchful, sending anxious glances at Torsten and his motionless men, he did not extend his gaze beyond what he believed to be the most immediate and discernable threat, and thus he was not aware of one of Torsten's own, Frederick, stealthily moving closer with his bow and arrow to have a better sightline.

Frederick crept on foot between James and Rory's horses, holding steady now while Rory angled his horse just a hair to block him from view. At the same time, a Kincaid archer positioned himself at the edge of the brush near where he'd been concealed.

And then Raina's brother made it almost absurdly easy. He pushed her up into the saddle ahead of him, jabbing impatiently at her bottom as she placed her foot into the stirrup. Once Raina was seated, and just as Donald MacQueen hoisted himself up, two arrows flew through the air with a familiar swoosh, striking their mark in Donald's back. He staggered, his grip on the pommel failing, and he tumbled to the ground, clutching at the dirt as he landed.

Raina screamed, her mouth wide with horror. The horse beneath her and those nearby reacted violently, rearing and snorting in fear and confusion.

Torsten and his men sprang into action, leaping from their destriers. Aonghas, having retrieved his sword, hacked at the rope penning in dozens of horses, causing them to burst forth in a frenzy of whinnies and pounding hooves. Spooked and agitated, a few chargers reared and bucked, their eyes wide with fear and their manes flying wildly.

The presence of Torsten and his men slowed the small stampede somewhat. Torsten ran toward Raina, able to latch his hand on the harness before the horse beneath her might have bolted. While his men shouted and waved their arms, directing the stampede away from Raina, Torsten swiftly pulled her from the saddle and into his arms. He held her tight against his chest until the last of the horses had raced by him and then bore her away from the ghastly sight of her fallen brother, whose body had been mercilessly trampled underfoot.

In front of the building in which she'd been held prisoner—an abandoned and decrepit outlying farmstead, was his guess—Torsten went down on one knee and set Raina down. She clung to his arms even as she was released from his embrace. Before he met her gaze, he gently took her face in his hands and lifted it, bending to inspect the blood at her neck, judging it an incidental scrape of the blade by a desperate man.

Satisfied that the wound was not grave or in need of immediate attention, he met her watery eyes. The torment of the past five days was evident in the dark circles beneath them. Her once bright gaze was haunted, staring back at him with a hollowness that tortured him. Her hair, tangled and matted from neglect, framed her pale, dirt-smudged face. Her soiled and torn léine, a purple bruise on her cheek, and the general air of exhaustion he noted spoke volumes about her ordeal.

Torsten's heart ached for her. He brushed a thumb across her unmarred cheek, wiping away a tear. "You're safe now, Raina. ?Tis done."

She breathed shakily, and tried to nod, but it was wobbly.

Torsten turned to his hovering men, stretching out his hand. "Water," he requested. Rory jumped forward, setting his horn into Torsten's hand. Uncapping it, Torsten handed it to Raina, who drank thirstily.

When she was done, she returned the flask to Torsten and sat wearily, drained, her shoulders curved inward.

She lifted her brown eyes to him .

"I...I didn't know if you would come," she said, her voice weak.

Torsten froze, a riot of thoughts and emotions responding to her statement, words that cut him deeply.

Aye, they had never spoken of love or of any affection, and their connection, though warm in moments of intimacy, was built on shaky ground, but how could she have doubted him? And Christ, what torture must she have endured, captive and waiting, unsure if her own husband would even bother to save her?

More stung by her words than he cared to admit, he replied tightly, "Ye are mine to protect."

HE LEFT ALMOST HALF of his army behind to clean up the aftermath of the battle. The men set about their grim tasks: tending to the wounded, burying the dead, and scouring the field for any remnants of the conflict. They gathered weapons and armor, sorted through the scattered supplies, and ensured that the fallen de Graham and Kincaids received proper rites.

As ever, Torsten was sorry for any loss of life, but knew some gratefulness that his own losses, including de Grahams and Kincaids, were not larger. Conversely, the MacQueen army had been decimated, its number reduced by more than half. The surviving MacQueens would be offered the chance to swear fealty to him and Robert Bruce. If accepted, his own army would be bolstered by the additional numbers, and pardons would be granted after each man had proven himself loyal to the de Graham name and Scotland. If they refused, and depending upon the vehemence of their refusal, they would either be banished from Lochlan Hall or imprisoned.

With Raina in his arms upon his destrier and surrounded by half his army, Torsten returned to Lochlan Hall. She'd asked almost immediately after Samuel, and after assuring her the lad would be fine once his leg healed, Torsten gave her a wee bit of grief for having disregarded Samuel's command to run and save herself initially when her abductors had stormed the beach.

"?Twould have meant Samuel's death," she countered woodenly, "and I could not have lived with myself."

He did not have the heart to tell her that the lives lost today might have been spared had she managed to escape then. Given her understandable lack of experience with conflict, strategy, and decision-making, he recognized that she was unlikely to comprehend necessary sacrifices and the consequence of actions made in the heat of the moment.

While Raina slept most of the ride, Torsten wrestled with thoughts he'd ignored over the past few days. His dogged focus on finding Raina had precluded any consideration of a background truth, which he was compelled to deliberate now.

The recent ordeal of her kidnapping had shaken him in ways battles never had. Torsten clenched his fists around the reins, feeling the weight of the truth press upon him. As laird and commander, he was expected to be resolute, unwavering in his decisions, yet he knew now that his actions to rescue Raina had been driven not just by duty, but by desperation, by a fear that had clawed at him like some unseen beast.

Tender emotion was to blame, was a vulnerability, he'd come to understand. It clouded his judgment, turned his fierce determination into a desperate frenzy to protect her at any cost. His men had looked to him for guidance, and he had led them, but each decision felt heavier, laden with the knowledge that his heart was now exposed, that decisions and actions had felt more frantically reactive than intuitively sound.

Could he afford such weakness in times of war? Torsten closed his eyes and felt the wind whip through his hair, struggling to reconcile the role he'd single-mindedly cultivated for more than a decade, an efficient, detached, unyielding leader with the man who had felt a soul-deep agony when Raina was torn from him. He had not spoken of love to her, nor had she to him, yet in the depths of his heart, he knew.

And yet...love, he feared, had already begun to weaken him.

MANY HOURS LATER, RAINA welcomed Torsten's fierce thrust as he drove deep inside her. He withdrew and plunged again. He rolled his hips and rubbed himself against her until she cooed in surrender.

"Oh, God," she moaned, her neck arched to his kiss, "that feels good."

In truth, he'd resisted at first, had said she was weak and fatigued, and needed to recover. Raina had pursued him, had brazenly run her hand over his naked chest and beneath his braies.

"Raina," he'd warned, his body stiffening.

"Torsten, I need this. I need you."

He'd relented at her plea, his touch tender and careful, but Raina craved more than gentleness. She yearned for him, needing to feel his power, his energy—to be enveloped by his strength and desire. She sought a return to wholeness, normalcy, and vitality once more. She wanted to forget.

After his initial reluctance, he'd complied willingly, soon as hungry as she it seemed so that their coupling was frantic and quick, both of them possessed.

" Jesu , how I feared for ye," he'd admitted a moment after his release, when, spent and perspiring, he dropped his head to her chest.

Raina likened so fierce a statement to an admission of feelings. She entertained a fleeting thought, scarcely gladdened that their marriage had needed a tragedy to bring them closer.

Or so she imagined in that moment, and sadly, only for a moment. She waited, hoping more distinct words would come, but they did not.

In the ensuing days, he began to distance himself. At first, she didn't recognize it, brushing off his late returns to their bedchamber and the absence of his usual kiss and caress as residual effects of their recent calamity—the tragic loss of lives in Peterugie. She, too, struggled with haunting memories and fears from her captivity, often besieged by intrusive thoughts that started with "What if...?"

But as his touch grew more sporadic and his aloofness extended to the supper hour, Raina's unease deepened. Soon, his withdrawal permeated every hour of the day, and his habit of slipping into bed late and rising before she woke became a regular thing. With each passing day, Raina's fragile hope waned. They weren't making progress, they were regressing.

The distance between them felt insurmountable, the void widening with every day .

And how could she question him? He'd warned her, had he not, that he had little to give, that he wouldn't allow emotion.

And then one day, a fortnight after her rescue, Torsten announced his intent to depart Lochlan Hall. By this time, having resigned herself to their loveless and now cool union, Raina was not surprised but the pang of sorrow sliced deep.

"You and your army?" She questioned. A wee bit of hope might be retained if he left without his army, meaning he had every intention of returning.

"Aye," he answered, avoiding her gaze. "The king has sent a messenger. He intends to expand his warfare against houses loyal to England, against Comyn's followers. We're to meet him anon upon Carrick lands."

Raina had some suspicion that even if the king had not called him to duty, Torsten would have left eventually. Soon.

Boldly, she questioned, "And will you return to Lochlan Hall?"

"We'll see what the king demands of me," he hedged. "I imagine when next the king grants me leave, my time should be spent at Glenbarra Brae, where I have nae stepped foot in—"

"Will you return ever to Lochlan Hall?" She persisted rigidly.

Torsten clamped his lips and met her gaze, his blue eyes unfathomable.

"I dinna ken."

Tears pricked at the corners of her eyes, but she held them back, unwilling to let him see her pain. She nodded.

"I wish you Godspeed, Torsten," she said, her voice steady despite the weight of sorrow crushing her.