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CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

T he chapel was warm with the scent of candles burning tirelessly on the chandeliers.

Guests filled the pews, nobles from nearby clans mingled with stewards and retainers.

Torrin stood at the front, his shoulders stiff, his hands folded behind his back.

His foot tapped ceaselessly against the floor of the chapel, a rhythmic tap-tap-tap that he seemed unable to control.

Where is she? Is she still gettin’ ready?

Noah stood near the door, glancing periodically outside, waiting for any sign of Valora. Torrin knew there was no point in it—she would show up whenever she was ready. And yet, he was still impatient, still asking Noah to look for any sign that she was coming, just so that he could calm his mind.

But every passing moment only served to plunge him deeper into anxiety.

Torrin had never worn formal garb easily—his broad frame resisted finery and favored the stiff push and pull of leather and metal—but today he bore it like armor.

Still, beneath the careful calm, his nerves were taut.

More than ever, he was aware of the fact that the future of the clan rested upon his shoulders and it was up to him to ensure the safety of everyone.

Adjusting his sleeves, Torrin glanced towards the door, even though Noah had given him no signal yet. He, too, could see there was no movement, no sign of her in the chapel or the path that led to it from the keep.

Then, just as Torrin was beginning to think that perhaps he should check in on Valora, Daisy appeared, breathless, face pale.

Torrin’s blood went cold before she even spoke.

“Torrin,” she said, eyes darting toward the rows of guests. She rushed over to Torrin and lowered her voice, so that only he could hear her. “She’s nae in yer chambers. She was there just moments ago, but now she’s gone.”

Torrin didn’t speak. He didn’t need to. Noah was already rushing towards him, pushing past the few guests who had stood from their seats in alarm.

Torrin’s eyes hardened, his hands curling into fists.

He knew who was to blame—he knew it was none other than Laird Keith once more, acting in a desperate attempt to have Valora.

“Seal the gates,” he said to Noah, his voice low and sharp. “Nay one leaves.”

He stepped down from the altar, already moving to the chapel doors with Noah quick to follow, gesturing to the guards who were there to join them. The men acted quickly, falling into step behind them, but Torrin hardly registered any of it. In his chest, something old and wild stirred.

And the wild thing was war.

“Noah,” Torrin said tightly as they exited the chapel, “I want riders saddled right the now. Take every man we can spare. I dinnae want any delays.”

Noah was already turning, calling over his shoulder. “Ye heard him! Mount up! Blades ready!”

“Seal the castle!” Torrin barked to the steward hovering nearby. “Nay one leaves—nay staff, nay guests, nay clergy. Lock every corridor leadin’ tae the old servants’ wing. I want every guard searchin’ the west wall.”

He turned then, striding down the aisle with the weight of fury behind him. “Noah, she didnae run,” he said with conviction, and Noah nodded, surely thinking the same. “This was Laird Keith.”

“Aye,” said Noah. “I believe it.”

God help him once I get me hands on the bastard.

Before long, Torrin was on his saddle, his plaid swept back over his shoulder, his broadsword strapped across his back.

Noah rode at his side, grim-faced and silent.

A dozen riders flanked them, blades sheathed, expressions grim.

They rode fast down the sloping path from the castle, hooves pounding the cold earth as the wind howled through the trees.

The sun was high in the sky, but the light felt thinner now, pale and weak.

Torrin’s eyes never stopped moving. Every shadow, every clearing, every break in the brush was a question.

They searched the woodlands first—small game trails and forest paths known to servants and children.

A washerwoman near the east brook claimed she saw a boy leading a lady through the trees.

A farmer at the edge of the road said the same—described her gown, the silver hem trailing through the mud.

It was the stableboy who cracked.

They found him behind the paddock in the nearby village, eyes wild, cheeks flushed.

At the sight of Torrin and his troops, he tried to flee, running as fast as he could down the well-worn path.

Torrin made to rush after him, but before he could make a move, Noah had him by the collar before he had taken more than three steps.

Torrin dismounted without a word.

The boy's knees gave way the moment Torrin stepped in front of him.

“I… I didnae ken!” the boy cried, voice shaking. “They said she’d be safe! They said they’d just talk tae her. I swear it, I didnae ken?—”

Torrin knelt, gripping the boy’s tunic in one fist.

“Where did they take her?” he demanded.

“South,” the boy said immediately, nodding rapidly. “Through the old glen trail, the one that leads tae the low fields an’ the border path.”

Torrin stood, his jaw clenched, and looked south, past the hills and the line of woods that marked the edge of Gunn land, as though he could track her down with just his gaze alone. Something stirred in his chest; a tightness, a weight that was almost unbearable.

“Ride,” Torrin ordered, swinging onto the saddle with practiced ease. “Spread in pairs. I want every field, every stone watched. She’s ahead o’ us by less than an hour. They willnae be faster than us.”

“An’ when we find them?” Noah asked, mounting his horse again.

Torrin didn’t hesitate. “We bring her back. Whatever it takes.”

The first thing she felt was pain, sharp and splitting throb behind her eyes, as though her skull had cracked in two. Then came the smell—sharp vinegar and damp earth. Her mouth was dry, her limbs heavy, and for a moment she wasn’t sure she could lift her head at all.

Then she heard a woman’s voice, muttering words that blurred together. She couldn’t make out the meaning of them, though she didn’t know whether that was because she couldn’t hear her or because she was still too dizzy to understand her.

A cool cloth pressed against her brow and Valora blinked against the dim light in the room, trying to place her surroundings.

The ceiling above her was low, made of wooden beams blackened with smoke.

One seemed to sway slightly above her, as though the wind outside was pressing against the walls.

She turned her head too quickly and nausea rolled through her stomach. A soft, pained moan escaped her lips.

“There now,” the woman said, her tone not unkind. “Drink this. It’ll help.”

A cup was brought to her lips, trembling fingers guiding it. The water tasted stale, but Valora drank greedily, her throat burning. Her hands trembled as she took the cup for herself and a few drops fell on her dress, staining it.

“What… where…?”

She managed to speak only fragments of sentences, but the door creaked before she could finish, opening without urgency; slowly and with intent. Through it, Laird Keith stepped like a man arriving home.

“Ye took longer tae wake than I expected,” Laird Keith said lightly, his hands folded behind his back. “We’re a bit short on time now.”

Valora tried to sit up straighter. Her hands gripped the thin blanket draped across her legs and only then did she notice that they were shaking. “Where am I?” Her voice cracked, but her spine stayed straight as she refused to show any weakness. “What have ye done?”

Laird Keith stepped closer, ignoring the question. “I didnae think they’d use vinegar. Smells foul, but I suppose it daes the job. These arenae exactly the surroundings I’d envisioned, but there’s charm in simplicity, isnae there?”

Valora stared at him. The pain was receding, but her mind still swam. Her thoughts were sluggish, slow, but she still knew the truth of what had happened.

“Ye had yer men take me,” she accused. “Ye had them render me unconscious an’—”

“Ye left me nay other choice,” he said, with maddening calm. “Ye made it so terribly difficult, Valora. I let ye go once. That was me own mistake. I willnae make it again.”

Valora froze, her mouth falling open in shock. She could hardly believe just how insistent Laird Keith was, just how hellbent on having her. This went past the alliance with her father, with her clan; she was certain of it. This was bordering on obsession.

“Ye have nay right,” she said through gritted teeth, pointing an accusatory finger at him. “Ye have nay right tae take me from me home an’—”

Laird Keith raised a hand, not in threat but to silence her.

“It’s yer home now, is it?” he asked with a mocking chuckle. “I’m nae here tae argue, Miss MacNeacail. The ceremony is bein’ arranged right the now. Me men are settin’ the chapel. It willnae be grand, but it will be bindin’.”

Valora blinked a few times, uncertain she’d heard him correctly. “Ceremony?”

He smiled again, and this time it chilled her to the bone. There was nothing warm or friendly about that smile. It never reached his eyes, and it seemed to twist his entire face into an unfeeling mask.

“Aye,” said Laird Keith, as he gestured at her vaguely. “Ye’re already dressed fer it.”

Dread dropped like a stone in her stomach. She was still wearing her wedding dress, the one she was meant to marry Torrin in. And now, Laird Keith threatened to ruin what was meant to be the happiest moment of her life.

“Nay,” she said, shaking her head vehemently. “Nay, I’m nae marryin’ ye.”

“Ye are,” Keith said simply. “Ye’ll walk tae that altar, or ye’ll be dragged. But it will happen, Valora. One way or another.”

The woman, who was now standing near the basin at the far corner of the room, looked away as if ashamed. Valora looked at her for help, but she had the suspicion that even if she cried out, even if she fought, she would receive no reaction in the end.

Her breath came short, shallow. The cot shifted beneath her as she stood, bracing herself. Her knees buckled slightly, but she remained upright, even as her vision swam from the pain.

“I willnae walk tae any altar with ye. Torrin?—”

“Torrin Gunn willnae find ye in time,” Keith interrupted smoothly. “He’ll come. That’s expected. But he’s far behind, an’ ye’ll be me wife by then.”

“Ye’re mad,” she whispered, the reality of her situation settling heavy on her shoulders. Laird Keith truly was going to force her to marry him and there was nothing she could do to stop him.

“Nay,” Keith said, stepping forward. His hand brushed her cheek, and she recoiled. “I simply have a plan. An’ I’m willin’ tae dae anythin’ it takes tae complete it.”

He gestured again to the gown that was half-hanging off her frame, the back undone—most likely by the woman herself, who had tended to her.

“Fix it.”

“Nay.”

Keith nodded to the woman, wasting no time. “Make her, if she refuses again.”

Valora’s body moved before her mind had caught up—she moved back on trembling legs and plastered herself to the wall, her chin lifting defiantly. She would buy herself some time. She would think of a way to get out of there, even if it was the last thing she would do.

She would not break.

Come, Torrin. Come quickly.

She prayed and prayed, even as the woman grabbed her and forced her to turn around so she could lace the dress. Because when she walked down that aisle, it would not be to say yes; it would be to fight.