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"W hat do ye mean she's been taken?" Ewan's roar echoed through the great hall of MacNeil Keep, his voice carrying a fury that made the very stones seem to tremble. "What happened to her guards?"

Cameron stood before his laird, his face grim and streaked with mud, his clothes bearing evidence of a hard ride.

"The guard assigned to her, Malcolm, was found unconscious near the edge of Briar Wood.

He's got a nasty gash on his head but he's alive.

Says Lady MacNeil insisted on going to gather some plant for her work, something she needed urgently. "

"And he let her?" Ewan's voice dropped to a dangerous whisper, more terrifying than his earlier shout.

"He tried to stop her, my laird, but ye ken how determined yer lady wife can be.

She convinced him it was just a short way, broad daylight, no danger.

She told him to wait at the tree line while she gathered what she needed.

" Cameron's voice grew heavy. "That's when they struck.

Malcolm never saw them coming. He was hit from behind. When he came to, she was gone."

Grant stepped forward, his expression as dark as his laird's. "We found tracks, hoofprints heading north toward Ferguson lands. And this." He held up a strip of torn plaid, distinctive and unmistakable.

"Fergusons," Ewan breathed, the word carrying the promise of death.

Connor burst through the doors of the great hall, his face thunderous. "Is it true? Have those bastards taken Lileas?"

Ewan's jaw clenched so hard the muscle jumped. "Aye. And I'm going after her."

"Then I'm coming with ye," Connor declared without hesitation.

"No." Ewan's response was immediate and final. "Ye're staying here."

"Like hell I am!" Connor stepped closer, his own temper flaring. "She's family now, Ewan. I'll not sit here while—"

"Ye'll stay because Fiona needs ye," Ewan cut him off sharply. "She's expecting, Connor. Yer wife needs her husband safe at home, not riding off to battle."

Connor's face flushed with anger. "Dinnae use my wife to keep me from this fight!"

"I'm not using anyone," Ewan replied, his voice deadly calm. "I'm thinking like a laird should. If something happens to me, this clan needs its heir. They need ye to lead them."

"Ye think I care about being heir when—"

"Ye should!" Ewan's shout rang through the hall again. "This clan, these people, Fiona and yer unborn child, they all depend on us making the right choices. I won't risk leaving them defenseless because we both rode off to war."

The brothers stared at each other, the tension between them crackling like lightning. Finally, Connor's shoulders sagged slightly, though his jaw remained set.

"She's like a sister to me now," he said quietly. "I can't just do nothing."

"Ye're not doing nothing," Ewan replied, his voice softening marginally. "Ye're protecting our clan, our future. That's what Lileas would want."

***

M ILES AWAY, IN A SMALL stone cottage that reeked of old smoke and neglect, Lileas sat bound to a rough wooden chair near a poorly tended fire.

Her wrists ached from the tight ropes, and her shoulder throbbed where she had been roughly handled during the kidnapping.

But it was the crushing weight of her own stupidity that hurt most of all.

Fool, she cursed herself silently. Reckless, stubborn fool.

She had needed nettle root for a tincture, a simple remedy for the seasonal ailments that plagued several clan members, but she had been so focused on her work, so confident in her own abilities, that she had dismissed the very real dangers that surrounded them.

Malcolm had tried to warn her, tried to insist they wait for a larger escort, but she had been so certain that a quick trip in broad daylight posed no threat.

Now Malcolm was injured because of her foolishness, and the entire clan was at risk because their laird would surely come for her, walking straight into whatever trap the Fergusons had planned.

The thought of Ewan riding into danger because of her recklessness made her stomach clench with guilt and fear.

Dugald Ferguson paced before the hearth, his scarred face twisted with satisfaction and something that might have been nervousness. The same man who had led the attack on their camp months ago now held her captive, and she could see the cruel anticipation in his eyes.

"Comfortable, are we?" he asked with false pleasantry, his voice carrying the rough accent of the borderlands.

"Quite," Lileas replied with icy calm, pushing down her self-recrimination to focus on the present danger. "Though I fear ye've made a grave mistake."

Dugald laughed, a harsh sound that held no humor. "Have I now? And what mistake would that be, my clever lass?"

"Ye've taken the wife of Ewan MacNeil," she said, meeting his gaze steadily. "He will come for me, and when he does, ye'll wish ye'd never been born."

"Let him come," Dugald scoffed, settling into the chair across from her. "My laird has been waiting for this opportunity for months. Yer husband can rage all he likes, but ye're coming with us to Ferguson Keep, where yer skills will be put to proper use."

"My husband will find me and when he does—"

"When he does, he'll find himself outnumbered and outmatched," Dugald interrupted.

Despite her bonds, despite the danger, Lileas felt her lips curve into a smile that held no warmth. "Ye clearly dinnae ken my husband very well if ye think he can be so easily beaten."

Dugald's expression darkened. "We'll see about that. For now, ye'd best reconcile yerself to yer new circumstances. Ye belong to Clan Ferguson now, and ye'll serve our interests whether ye like it or not."

"I belong to Ewan MacNeil," Lileas replied fiercely. "And I'll never willingly help ye or yer clan."

"Willingly?" Dugald's laugh was genuinely amused now. "Who said anything about willingly? Ye'll do as ye're told, or ye'll suffer the consequences. There are ways to make even the most stubborn lass see reason."

The threat hung in the air between them, but Lileas refused to show fear. Instead, she lifted her chin and met his gaze with defiance that burned like fire.

"Try it," she said quietly. "And discover exactly what kind of woman Ewan MacNeil chose to marry."

***

B ACK AT MACNEIL KEEP , Ewan stood in the courtyard as his men prepared for what might be their final ride.

The warband he had assembled was small but elite with twenty of his best fighters, men who had proven themselves in countless battles and would follow him into the depths of hell if necessary.

Grant checked the straps on his horse's tack one final time. "The lads are ready, my laird. We can be at Ferguson Keep by dawn if we ride hard."

"Then we ride hard," Ewan replied grimly, swinging up into his saddle. His destrier snorted and pawed the ground, sensing his master's urgency and rage.

Patrick appeared at his stirrup, his face set with determination. "What are yer orders if we meet resistance on the road?"

"Cut through it," Ewan said without hesitation. "Anyone wearing Ferguson colors is an enemy. Anyone who stands between me and my wife dies."

A murmur of approval ran through the assembled riders. These men had grown to love their lady, had seen how she improved their lives and brought happiness to their laird. They would ride through fire to bring her home.

Connor appeared in the courtyard, his face still dark with frustrated anger. "Ewan—"

"I've said my piece, brother," Ewan cut him off. "Stay safe. Protect what matters."

Before Connor could respond, another figure emerged from the shadows near the keep's entrance. Morna moved with the quiet grace of someone who had spent a lifetime tending to others, her silver hair gleaming in the torchlight and her wise eyes fixed on Ewan with an intensity that made him pause.

"Morna," he said, his voice softening with affection and respect. "I must go. There's no time—"

"There's always time for wisdom, lad," she interrupted gently, approaching his destrier. "And ye'll need it where ye're going."

Ewan frowned, recognizing the distant look in her eyes that sometimes came when she saw things others could not. "What is it?"

"Take care with their laird," Morna replied quietly, her voice carrying the weight of certainty. "All is not as it seems with him. He is in need of a good woman, just like ye were once."

"Morna, I'm not going there to play matchmaker," Ewan replied with exasperation. "I'm going to get my wife back and likely kill every Ferguson who stands in my way."

"Aye, and ye should protect what's yers," Morna agreed. "But remember, lad, sometimes our enemies are not who we think they are, and mercy serves us better than the sword."

Ewan stared down at the woman who had raised him, who had never steered him wrong in all his years. Her sight had saved them more than once, and though he didn't always understand her visions, he had learned to trust them.

"Ye're asking me to spare a man whose clan took my wife," he said slowly.

"I'm asking ye to use that sharp mind of yers before ye use yer blade," Morna replied.

For a moment, Ewan wavered. Every instinct screamed for blood and vengeance, but Morna's words carried the weight of hard-won wisdom.

"I'll question him first," he said finally, his voice rough with reluctance. "But if he's harmed her, if he's threatened what's mine..."

"Then ye'll do what ye must," Morna finished. "But give truth a chance to speak first."

For a moment, the brothers glanced at each other, years of shared battles and brotherhood passing between them. Then Connor stepped forward and gripped Ewan's stirrup.

"Bring her home," he said roughly. "And come back alive, or I'll never forgive ye for leaving me to tend this daft clan alone!"

"I'll bring her home," Ewan promised, his voice carrying the weight of an oath. "Whatever it takes."

With that, he spurred his horse forward, and twenty riders thundered through the gates of MacNeil Keep, riding hard toward Ferguson lands and whatever fate awaited them there.

In her chamber, Fiona placed a protective hand over her growing belly and whispered a prayer for the safe return of both Lileas and the man who had become like a brother to her.

***