Page 19 of Promised to the Ruthless Laird (Highland Whispers of Love #2)

CHAPTER NINETEEN

T he wind howled as Edin and Finley reached the looming silhouette of Mackay’s castle.

It stood like a great black monolith against the starlit sky, its crumbling edges softened only by the faint glow of lantern light spilling from its narrow windows. The rain had turned the path into a sucking mire, and every step Edin took was met with the squelch of damp earth clinging to her boots.

She could sense Finley’s urgency in the way he had dismounted his horse and strode ahead, his jaw locked tight, his breath heavy.

As they approached the gates, a guard standing watch took immediate notice, his hand tightening around the hilt of his sword.

“Halt,” he called out, stepping forward. “State yer business.”

Finley squared his shoulders. “I’ve come tae see Laird Mackay.”

“And who are ye?”

“Finley Lennox.”

The guard studied him for a long moment before turning to another man stationed nearby. With a curt nod, the second guard disappeared through the gates.

Edin shifted beside Finley, bracing against the biting wind as they waited. It wasn’t long before the guard returned, his expression unreadable.

“Ye may enter,” he said finally, stepping aside to allow them through.

Finley wasted no time. He strode forward, Edin close behind, as they passed through the towering gates and into the stone courtyard beyond. A heavy wooden door loomed ahead, and without hesitation, Finley rapped his fist against it, the sound echoing into the halls within.

A moment passed. Then another. When there was no immediate answer, he pounded again, this time with enough force that Edin swore she heard the hinges groan in protest.

At last, the door creaked open, and another guard stood before them. His gaze was sharp, assessing.

“Laird Mackay isnae acceptin’ visitors,” the man said gruffly. “State yer purpose or turn back now.”

Finley didn’t hesitate. “I’m nae leavin’ until I speak with him.”

The guard’s expression darkened, but after a beat of silence, he gave a stiff nod. “Wait here.”

He disappeared, leaving them standing in the bitter cold. Edin wrapped her arms around herself, casting a glance at Finley, but he didn’t so much as shift. He was as still as the stone walls surrounding them, his jaw tight, his eyes locked on the heavy wooden doors ahead.

Minutes passed before the guard returned. “Come,” he said, his tone gruff but not unkind. “Follow me.”

Without another word, he turned on his heel and strode away. Finley and Edin fell into step behind him. There was no turning back now, no matter how much Edin’s heart was racing or how little she believed in this confrontation. She wouldn’t call it fear, not exactly, but unease curled in her stomach like a serpent. This wasn’t the wisest course of action, and she knew it.

Finley walked with the reckless urgency of a man who believed sheer will could bend the world to his liking. But she held her tongue. It wasn’t the time nor place to question him. The Triad had long since taught her the price of adapting, and she knew better.

They moved through dim corridors, the flagstone floors cold beneath their boots, the scent of old wood and lingering smoke thick in the air. Mackay’s grand hall felt dreadful in its emptiness — vast, cold, and unwelcoming. Banners hung from the rafters, their once-vivid colors dulled by dust and time.

At last, they reached a set of heavy doors. The guard stepped forward and rapped his knuckles against the wood before pushing them open. He strode inside first, his voice steady as he spoke.

“M’lord,” he announced, stopping a few paces ahead. “Finley Lennox requests an audience.”

Mackay did not immediately respond. He sat in a great carved chair, his form half-cast in shadow, fingers curled around the armrests. He didn’t rise at their entrance, didn’t so much as twitch.

Instead, he simply stared, his ice-pale eyes pinning them both where they stood, unreadable.

“What in God’s name dae ye think ye’re daein’ in me castle?” His voice then cut through the space between them, low and dangerous, weighted with a loathing that made the hairs on Edin’s arms stand on end.

Finley took a step forward, his chin high. “We need tae talk, Mackay.”

An uneasy silence stretched between them as Finley and Mackay stood locked in a battle of wills, neither so much as blinking, their tension coiling through the room. Then, at last, Mackay’s gaze shifted — to Edin.

She felt it piercing right through her, his ice-blue eyes raking over her with the kind of scrutiny that sought to strip a person down to their very bones. A lesser woman might have flinched under such a gaze, but Edin had faced far worse. She met his stare with unyielding steadiness, the cold press of his attention stirring not fear, but calculation. If it came to it, she could take him down.

His gaze slid back to Finley, and his lips twisted into something caught between a smirk and a sneer. “An’ what o’ her?” He inclined his head toward Edin, his tone laced with something unreadable. “One o’ the Triad lasses, aye?”

Edin lifted her chin, resisting the urge to shift beneath his scrutiny. “Aye.”

The room turned colder.

Mackay exhaled through his nose, shaking his head with something close to a laugh. But there was no humor in it — only malice. “The Triad raises their blades fer the Lennoxes now, dae they?” His smile twisted in mockery. “Funny, that. Considerin’ how they turned their backs when I went tae them. When I begged them tae hunt down the bastard that slit me wife’s throat.”

Finley took a breath. “Mackay, I understand?—”

“Dae ye, lad?” Mackay’s voice was a rasp of splintered glass, his steps slow, deliberate, like a predator closing in. “Ye understand what it is tae bury a wife, dae ye? While the world goes on, deaf and blind tae yer grief?” He let out a breath, sharp as a blade. “Nay. Ye dinnae understand a damn thing.”

The firelight twisted over his face, deepening the hollows beneath his eyes, casting his sneer into something almost inhuman. “Ye come here, beggin’ tae talk? Wi’ one o’ them?” he turned to look at Edin, his features twisting with disgust, as if he could have ripped her to shreds with his bare hands any second. “As if I’ve forgotten how they left me tae rot.” His lip curled. “The same help I was denied, aye? When I begged? When I bled?” He was almost shouting by the time he finished speaking.

Finley held his ground, but Mackay only laughed — a dry, humorless laugh that curdled in the air. “Nay, lad. Let the Lennoxes feel the cold grip o’ helplessness. Let them choke on the same silence that smothered me.”

His smile was a death knell.

“An’ now ye want me help?” he drawled. “The same help I was denied? Nay, lad. I think it’s past time the Lennoxes learned what it is tae be abandoned.”

Edin’s stomach clenched. She could see Finley was trying to reason, but Mackay would not yield.

And worse, she could feel Mackay’s eyes on her again.

It wasn’t an ordinary gaze — it was something far more insidious. A quiet, measured scrutiny, as if he were already imagining how her neck might break.

Her pulse hammered against her ribs.

Mackay was not a man consumed by grief. He was something far more unsettling — she saw it in his measured words, in the cold gleam of his eyes under the dim light.

She fought to keep her face unreadable; to stop her hands from curling too tightly at her sides. But she could not stop the chill seeping into her bones.

This was not a man to be reasoned with. This was a man to be feared.

“Mackay—” Finley started.

“Ye should leave, Lennox.”

Finley’s hands clenched tighter. “Me men are waitin’ at the border. If ye refuse tae discuss further, we’ll take the castle.”

Mackay didn’t flinch. “Then come, lad. Come an’ see how little I’ve got left tae lose.”

For a moment, the silence was deafening. Edin felt something shift in Finley, but she wasn’t sure what he was thinking.

Then Finley exhaled sharply through his nose, grabbed Edin’s wrist, and turned on his heel.

“Let’s go.”

She didn’t resist. There was nothing left to say.

They strode through the cold, dimly lit corridors, their footfalls echoing against the ancient stone. The wind howled, rattling against the iron sconces like some restless spirit urging them to leave.

Finley said nothing. He walked a step ahead of her, shoulders rigid, his every movement sharp and purposeful.

When they pushed through the heavy wooden doors, the night swallowed them whole, the wind lashing against their cloaks, curling through their hair with icy fingers. The sky hung low and bruised, thick clouds hiding the stars, threatening rain or worse. Finley’s boots crunched against the frost-bitten earth as he made straight for the horses, mounting without hesitation.

Edin followed, swinging herself onto her saddle with practiced ease.

Still, he didn’t look at her, didn’t so much as glance her way.

The ride back to camp was a silent one, the wind a constant wail in their ears, the hooves of their horses kicking up mud and frost in equal measure.

Mackay’s words settled deep within Edin. They pressed into her like the cold seeping through her cloak, sharp and unrelenting. She couldn’t decide what unsettled her most—the raw bitterness in his voice, the simmering rage barely held in check, or the inescapable truth buried beneath it all. The Triad had failed him. And now, with Finley’s warning hanging in the air like a blade poised to drop, they had promised him war.

When they finally passed through the perimeter of the camp, the fires were still burning, their glow casting long, flickering shadows against the canvas of tents. The scent of roasting meat and damp earth filled the air, but Edin barely noticed it. Finley dismounted without a word, barely pausing before gesturing for her to follow.

“Tae me tent,” he said, his voice rough, clipped. It wasn’t a request.

Edin hesitated, gripping the reins of her horse for a moment longer than necessary before swinging down.

A dozen eyes turned in their direction, but no one dared speak, not when Finley was like this, storm-dark and brooding. She followed him, her steps deliberate, refusing to scurry after him like some obedient hound.

The interior of Finley’s tent was unembellished, yet far from barren. A sturdy table stood near the entrance, strewn with maps, parchment, and a few candles.

A chair sat askew. Against the far wall, a narrow bed lay beneath a heavy layering of furs, smelling of pine and the damp musk of the forest. A brazier in the corner lent the space a surprising warmth, its embers casting faint flickers of orange against the canvas walls.

He stood near the table for a moment, running a hand through his hair before moving wordlessly to the edge of the bed, where he sat. Edin watched him, her own pulse a steady drumbeat against her ribs. She could feel the moment stretching between them, taut and expectant, and she hated it, hated the uncertainty.

She sat beside him, careful to keep a small space between them, though the warmth of his body still reached her.

“So,” she said finally, keeping her tone even, unreadable. “Shall I go, then?”

His head lifted slightly, but he didn’t look at her. “What?”

“Me duty is done,” she clarified, turning to face him fully. “We found yer sister. That was all I was here fer, aye?” She arched a brow. “Unless ye’ve other plans?”

For a moment, he said nothing, only stared at the ground with a furrowed brow, his jaw tight. Then, finally, he let out a dry, humorless laugh.

“I thought this was what ye wanted,” he muttered, shaking his head slightly. “Tae dae right by the Triad.”

Edin forced her expression into something unreadable, smoothing over any flicker of hesitation.

This was what she had wanted, wasn’t it? From the beginning. Serve the Triad, do her duty, and nothing more.

Yet hearing Finley say it now, so plainly, so easily, as if nothing between them had shifted, sent a sharp pang through her chest. How could he still think this was all there was to it? After everything they had been through together—was it only she who had begun to see things differently?

Or had he never changed at all? Was she the only one who was different now?

If he hadn’t changed, she had been foolish — foolish for no longer seeking the Triad’s approval. For what mattered to her now was Finley, his approval. She longed for his attention, his presence, and it pained her whenever he withdrew into silence, as he had earlier. The mission no longer held the weight for her it had once.

His approval mattered because it could bring him happiness, because it could give him the chance to reunite with his sister. And perhaps, just perhaps, it would allow her more time with him. But what came after? What was she meant to do when the task was completed?

Return to the Triad? Feign interest in rising through the ranks? Pretending that it mattered when, deep down, all she yearned for was to lie beside Finley, to banter with him endlessly, savoring the simplicity of being in his company.

“Aye,” she admitted, her voice quieter now. “Once, maybe.” She shook her head. “But I cannae help but wonder now — who am I daein’ this fer? The Triad? Or fer meself?”

He turned to her then, properly, and the intensity in his gaze nearly made her look away. But she didn’t. She wanted him to see her now.

Edin let out a hollow chuckle. “Ye ken what I think? I think we’re the same, ye an’ I.”

His brows knit together. “What dae ye mean?”

She huffed, leaning back on her hands. “The only thing ye care about is yer family,” she said, her voice softer now, but no less certain. “Same as me wi’ the Triad. That’s the only thing that’s ever mattered.” She exhaled sharply. “An’ what happens tae us when this is done? When yer sister’s safe, when there’s nay more fightin’ tae be had?” She laughed, but there was no joy in it. “I ken well enough what’ll happen then. Ye’ll go home and marry some fine lass yer family’s chosen fer ye.” She smirked, though she felt like screaming. “At least I dinnae have tae answer tae anyone but meself. I am free tae make whatever choice I want.”

“Ye think that’s what I want?” His voice was low, dangerous.

Edin shrugged, feigning nonchalance. “I think it daesnae matter what ye want.”

For a long moment, he didn’t answer. The only sound was the wind whipping outside, rattling the tent’s canvas. Then, finally, he sighed, his shoulders sinking slightly.

“Stay,” he said, barely above a whisper.

Edin blinked. “What?”

His gaze found hers again, and this time there was no trace of anger — only something raw, something she wasn’t sure she wanted to name. “Stay,” he repeated, firmer now. “At least ‘til the battle’s done.” He swallowed. “We’ll talk after.”

She wanted to laugh, to dismiss the situation with a scoff, to throw out a sharp, cutting remark that would distance her from the vulnerability rising inside her.

But the raw truth was, she didn’t want to leave. She wanted to stay, to continue lingering in the warmth of whatever connection they shared, even if it was fleeting.

That truth — the depth of her desire to stay — terrified her more than anything. How long could she endure the slow unraveling of whatever it was between them, this connection she clung to, knowing all too well that it would come to an end?

Was it better to walk away now, in this instant, before things could get even more tangled? To push herself into the next mission, and the next, until the memories of him faded into the background?

Could she ever truly forget him? Would she ever be able to erase the way he made her feel, or the way everything seemed clearer when he was near? The idea of trying to forget felt almost impossible, yet the thought of facing the inevitable heartache was even worse.

Still, she nodded. “Aye,” she said, quieter now. “I’ll stay.”

But even as she said the words, she couldn’t shake the sinking feeling that when the battle was done, there’d be nothing left to say at all.