Page 20 of Promised to the Ruthless Laird (Highland Whispers of Love #2)

CHAPTER TWENTY

T he rhythmic pounding of hooves echoed in Finley’s chest, each beat filling him with more rage, more determination.

He rode at the front of the column, the wind tugging at his dark cloak as his men followed behind, their faces determined, hardened by the years of training and warfare that had marked their lives.

The cold air bit at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the fury burning inside him. His fingers clenched tightly around the reins, the leather digging into his palms.

This was personal. Finley would have his sister back by nightfall, and if it took Laird Mackay's life to make that happen, then so be it.

His thoughts were consumed by dark images of Davina’s face, her sharp, intelligent eyes frantically scanning him for reassurance the last time he had seen her. The memory twisted in his chest, adding fuel to the burning fury that had been steadily building within him.

No one threatened his family. No one.

The castle loomed ahead, its dark stone walls towering against the pale sky. It was as ominous as its master. His mind flickered to the day before, when he and Edin had entered through its gates. He was glad he had left her at camp this time, despite her protests. He would never risk her in this war — not with so many lives about to be lost. He couldn’t bear the idea of losing her forever.

They’d arrived, and now, standing before the fortress gates, Finley allowed himself a moment to take in the sight.

Mackay’s army stood gathered outside, already prepared, already waiting. Laird Mackay, a gloomy figure even from this distance, stood at the front of his men, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of Finley’s force.

For a moment, everything seemed to stop.

Finley didn’t. He spurred his horse forward, the animal charging toward the castle gates with all the fury he could muster.

“Mackay!” The bellow tore from Finley’s throat, the sound echoing across the battlefield like a challenge thrown to the heavens themselves.

Across the field, Laird Mackay stood, his men a wall of steel and grit behind him. He did not flinch. Instead, he raised a hand, signaling his warriors to hold their ground until he had spoken.

And then, with slow, deliberate steps, Mackay advanced. His broad shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the war itself, and his face — unmoved, unreadable — was a study in control. Except for something in his eyes. Not fear. Not caution.

Hatred. Pure hatred.

“Well now,” Mackay called out, voice smooth, composed. “What have we here?” He tilted his head, considering Finley as though he were a simple, tedious insect, rather than a threat. “I must say, I’m almost impressed. Ye made it further than I expected.”

Finley’s nostrils flared, his blood hot as his grip tightened around his sword hilt. “Ye’ve taken something o’ mine, Mackay.” His voice was sharp enough to cut. “And I’ve come tae take it back.”

Mackay arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “Ah. The sister.” He exhaled, as though the subject bored him. “I did wonder how long it would take ye tae come sniffing around.” His pale eyes flickered with something cold, calculating. “It’s nae exactly a secret I intended tae keep hidden.”

Finley’s heart pounded against his ribs, his vision darkening at the edges. He spoke as if she was a thing. As if Davina — his own flesh and blood — was no more than a pawn in whatever twisted game Mackay was playing.

“Ye thought ye could keep her hidden forever?” his voice was steel, each word edged with barely restrained violence.

Mackay studied him, slow and deliberate, his burning gaze a noose tightening around Finley’s throat. And then, with a casual shrug, he said, “Perhaps.”

The single word sent fire through Finley’s veins. His breath came hard and fast, his control slipping, his vision tunneling on Mackay’s face — the smirk, the arrogance, the sheer indifference in his tone.

“So, ye’d wage war over a girl,” Mackay mused, tilting his head. “A reckless thing, Lennox. I’ll give ye one chance. Turn back now, and I’ll let ye keep yer life. Ye can go back tae yer sick faither.”

“Nay when ye’ve dared tae cross me and me family.” Finley’s voice was low, dangerous. He had never felt such anger before — boiling inside him, blurring his vision. “Nae when ye’ve held her captive.”

Mackay exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been either disappointment or anger. “Then I suppose there’s naething left tae say.”

The battlefield held its breath.

Then Mackay raised his right hand.

The deafening cry of battle shattered the air.

Finley’s men surged forward, their rage breaking like a wave upon the enemy, the clash of steel ringing like a dirge. The ground trembled beneath them, the scent of blood thick in the air. But Finley saw none of it. None of the chaos, none of the bodies crashing together in a dance of violence.

All he saw was Mackay.

The laird stood at the heart of the fray, sword in hand, his gaze locked onto Finley with something akin to dark anticipation. Not fear. Not hesitation.

Challenge.

The world around them blurred, the din of war faded, distant and unimportant.

There was only this. Only them.

“Ye willnae leave here alive, Lennox,” Mackay snarled, his voice laden with contempt. “Nae after all this.”

Finley didn’t answer. Didn’t waste breath on words.

He moved.

With a roar, he lunged, his blade slicing through the chaos as Mackay’s men surged forward, unwilling to leave their laird unprotected. Steel clashed against steel, sparks flying in the thick of battle.

Finley ducked beneath a wild swing, driving his sword deep into the gut of the nearest soldier. The man choked, blood bubbling from his lips, as Finley wrenched his blade free.

Another enemy charged. Finley twisted, his instincts razor-sharp, deflecting a blow meant for his head. He retaliated with a vicious strike, his sword biting through flesh and armor alike. A scream rang out, cut short as the man crumpled to the ground.

Mackay’s forces were relentless, swarming like a tide of bodies determined to shield their leader. Finley caught sight of Mackay through the fray, his expression fierce, barking orders as his men fought with renewed vigor.

A soldier lunged from behind, but Finley sensed him, spun at the last moment and buried his blade deep in the man’s chest. He kicked the lifeless body aside, pushing forward, cutting down anyone in his path. Blood slicked his hands, his breath ragged, but he didn’t falter.

Then, finally, he reached him.

Their blades met in a brutal clash, steel sparking. Mackay struck first, swift and punishing, his strength undeniable. But Finley was faster. He pivoted and then struck back with all the fury in his veins. Each blow was meant to kill.

Mackay did not falter.

He countered and drove forward with a relentless force that should have sent Finley reeling. But rage was a power of its own, and Finley wielded it like a blade.

His breath became ragged as they fought, a hurricane within the storm.

Mackay turned, swinging his sword in a desperate arc. Finley parried, their blades shrieking against each other. Mackay shoved forward, using his weight to force Finley back, but Finley was expecting it. He twisted free, ramming his hilt into Mackay’s ribs. The laird stumbled, teeth clenched against the pain, but he did not fall.

“Ye fight well, I’ll grant ye that,” Mackay panted, wiping a streak of blood from his mouth. “But ye’re a fool if ye think ye’ll leave here alive.”

“Then I’ll be a dead man, dragging ye tae the grave with me,” Finley spat, his grip tightening on his sword.

Mackay lunged again, but Finley was ready. He sidestepped the attack and brought the pommel of his sword crashing against Mackay’s skull. The laird’s eyes rolled back, his body sagging just long enough for Finley to seize him by the collar.

Mackay struggled, thrashing in his grip. “Ye think I’ll go easily?” he snarled.

And then —

With a vicious swipe, Finley’s blade found its mark.

Mackay staggered, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth as blood bloomed across his arm. He dropped to one knee, his sword digging into the dirt to keep him upright. His face twisted, more with anger than pain.

Finley stood over him, chest heaving, eyes blazing.

“Ye are defeated,” Finley said coldly, his voice full of contempt.

Finley wrenched the man towards him, his fingers digging into Mackay’s throat. “And I think ye’ll come wi’ me whether ye want tae or nae.”

Still, Mackay fought, his boots digging into the blood-soaked earth, but Finley was stronger. With a savage growl, he hauled the laird off his feet, dragging him through the battlefield as the fighting raged around them. Mackay’s men shouted in alarm, but Finley’s warriors closed in, cutting down anyone who dared approach.

The clang of steel, the screams of the dying — it all blurred into the background. The only thing that mattered now was reaching the dungeons.

Mackay’s eyes burned with anger, but it was over, the battle had ended. The laird’s army had fallen, and Finley had won.

Mackay's armor rattled with every step as Finley dragged him forward.

“I’m taking ye tae Davina. Now.” Finley’s voice was low, a growl from the depths of his chest.

Mackay winced, a grunt of pain escaping his lips, his body swaying unsteadily as Finley’s grip tightened. His eyelids hung heavy, and blood seeped from his wounds. He couldn't speak or move. His breath came in short gasps; his face pale with pain and frustration, lips pressed tight. Yet he stayed silent, unable to respond.

Finley could feel the man’s pulse pounding beneath his fingers as he dragged him along with every step, and part of him savored the growing helplessness in Mackay’s expression.

The dungeons loomed ahead, the entrance dark and foreboding, the stench of damp stone thick in the air. Finley dragged him inside, his eyes locked on the laird’s face, waiting for some sort of protest, some sign of resistance. But Mackay gave none.

Finley’s fingers had just grazed the handle when Mackay wrenched free.

With a snarl, he swung at Finley, landing a heavy blow to his ribs. Finley staggered, but caught himself, his teeth gritting as Mackay lunged again. Their bodies collided, slamming into the stone wall as they grappled for control. Mackay fought with the desperation of a cornered beast, his strikes fueled by raw defiance.

“Ye think I’ll let ye drag me like a dog?” Mackay spat, shoving against Finley’s chest.

Finley answered with his fist, driving it into Mackay’s jaw with bone-rattling force. The laird reeled, blood at the corner of his mouth, but he refused to fall. He came back swinging, his knuckles cracking against Finley’s cheek.

Finley barely felt the pain. His vision narrowed, instincts taking over as he dodged the next strike and drove his knee into Mackay’s stomach. The laird let out a strangled sound, but before he could recover, Finley slammed him hard against the stone wall.

Mackay sagged slightly, breath ragged, but his glare burned hot with hatred. Finley pressed his forearm against the man’s throat, pinning him. “If ye had any sense, ye’d stop fightin’,” he growled, his voice low and lethal.

Mackay struggled, his hands clawing at Finley’s arm; but his strength was waning. Finally, with one last shove, Finley wrenched him away from the wall and dragged him inside.

The heavy dungeon door groaned open, revealing the dim torchlight within. Finley shoved Mackay forward, causing him to stumble onto his hands and knees. This time, the laird stayed down, breathing hard, his fingers curling against the cold stone.

“Finley!” Davina cried out, her voice high with relief.

“I’m here Davina. I have come tae get ye!” he answered her, his voice betraying his emotion.

And then, Finley’s gaze lifted?—

And he saw her.

Edin.

His breath caught for a moment at the quiet intensity in her expression. She was crouched in front of Davina’s cell, her movements precise as her fingers worked quickly at the lock.

Edin’s focus was unshakable, each movement calculated.

“What are ye daein’ here?” Finley’s tone was sharper than he’d meant, laced with disbelief but also an undercurrent of something like pride.

His gaze flicked from Edin to Mackay, who remained slumped in his hold, no longer putting up any resistance.

“Daein’ what I was called tae dae.” There was no apology in her tone. Only certainty. Edin returned her gaze to the lock, barely sparing him a glance, as she gave it one last twist. It clicked open. Only then did she stand, her eyes meeting his. “I was makin’ sure she was safe,” Edin said softly, her tone steady despite the circumstances. “I’m nae leavin’ without getting her out.”

Finley felt a tightening in his chest, not just because of her words, but also because of the conviction in them. He hadn’t asked for her to come, yet she was there, by his side, nonetheless.

He pushed Mackay forward, dragging him toward the cold stone wall. The laird staggered slightly before regaining his balance, his eyes darting between Edin and Finley.

There was a long pause before he finally sighed, his shoulders slumped.

“Ye think ye can intimidate me, Lennox?” Mackay sneered, but the venom in his voice lacked the conviction it once had.

“I’m getting me sister back.” Finley’s words were cold. “And ye’re going tae give her tae me, whether ye want tae or nae.”

Mackay’s expression hardened again, his jaw clenching as he squared his shoulders. “Ye really dinnae understand, dae ye? Ye never have. This has never been about yer sister.”

Finley’s patience was wearing thin. He had no time for games, no time for Mackay’s cryptic nonsense. “Then tell me what it’s about. Now.”

Mackay’s gaze turned inward, as if he were calculating his next words carefully. He breathed in deeply, his chest rising and falling with the effort. When he spoke again, it was quieter, more resigned.

“It’s about the Triad.”

Finley’s grip on Mackay’s collar tightened. “Explain yerself,” he spat, though something in his gut told him he wasn’t going to like what he heard.

Mackay let out a dark, venomous laugh. “Ye Lennoxes think yerselves untouchable; that the Triad stands above all. But I see through the lie. Ye’re naething but cowards, hiding in the dark, clinging tae stolen power. Power handed tae ye by that wretched organization,” he spat. “But I will burn them tae the ground. Every last one.”

His voice was shaking now, as his lips tightened, sparks flying from his eyes.

“They turned me away when I needed them most. When I begged them fer their help — when I demanded justice. They left me tae rot. So, I swore I’d rip them apart piece by piece, until there was naething left but ash.”

Finley’s stomach turned, but it was Edin who stepped forward, her eyes like steel. “What did ye dae, Mackay?” Her voice was eerily calm.

Mackay turned his gaze to her then, and the smile that curled his lips was not one of amusement but of cruelty.

“I started clearing out the rot.”

Silence.

His face twisted with something between contempt and satisfaction. “What else was I supposed tae dae? The Triad could have helped me, but they refused. This was the only way.”

Finley’s anger flared, but he was holding back — barely. His pulse was a constant drumbeat in his ears, his fists clenched so tightly that his nails dug into his palms. He wanted to strike Mackay; to make him feel every ounce of pain and frustration that had been building up in him since the first moment he had learned of Davina’s abduction.

Before he could do anything, before the rage could take control of him, Mackay’s expression shifted again. His lips curled into a grin that sent a shiver down Finley’s spine.

In the next instant, Mackay’s hand shot out, pulling a small, gleaming dagger from the folds of his cloak.

Finley’s eyes widened as Mackay hurled the blade in Edin’s direction.

“Nay!” Finley shouted, his heart lurching in his chest.

The dagger sailed through the air in a flash, and Edin, who had been standing with her back to Mackay, turned just in time to feel the sharp sting of the blade cut across her cheek. The blood welled up immediately, trickling down her skin as she staggered back, her hand instinctively pressing to the wound.

Finley’s vision went red with fury. His mind screamed with horror, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He turned on Mackay, his hands shaking with the force of his anger.

“Ye—” He lunged forward, grabbing laird Mackay by the throat and slamming him into the stone wall.

But there was no time for mercy. Nothing Mackay had done could be forgiven.

With a swift, decisive motion, Finley drew his dagger from his cloak and drove it deep into Mackay's chest.

The blade sank with a sickening finality, and Mackay’s body went slack in his arms, the life draining from him in an instant. Blood pooled around them, staining the cold, unforgiving stone of the dungeon floor.

Finley stood frozen, staring down at the lifeless form of the man who had dared to threaten his family. His chest heaved with the enormity of the moment, his breath shallow as the adrenaline of battle began to fade, leaving behind a cold, hollow stillness. His heart hammered in his chest, a relentless beat that drowned out everything else.

He could still feel the weight of the dagger, the reverberation of his own actions rippling through him like an unstoppable force.

Edin.

He turned to her immediately, his gaze searching for any sign of deeper injury. Her hand was still pressed to her cheek, the blood staining her fingers.

“Edin,” he breathed, his voice strained. “Are ye alright?”

She looked up at him, her gray eyes wide with surprise and something else — perhaps fear, perhaps concern for him. The wound on her cheek was shallow. She’d be fine, he knew it; but the sight of her blood sent a sharp pang through his chest.

“I’m fine,” she said, her voice steady despite the pain. “It’s just a scratch.”

Finley reached out, his hands trembling as he gently cupped her face, his thumb brushing over the blood on her cheek. The simple gesture shocked him, the tenderness of it taking him by surprise. It wasn’t just concern for her safety — no, this was something deeper; something he hadn’t fully acknowledged until this very moment.

It wasn’t just the mission anymore. It wasn’t just about saving his sister, about avenging his family.

He cared for her. More than he had ever expected, more than he could have foreseen.

More than he had ever cared for anyone.

And he would never let anything happen to her again.

In that moment, Finley realized just how far he would go for her — for them.

He would defy his family. He would fight against everything he had known and risk it all. For Edin.

But now he had to focus on Davina, make sure she was alright too.