Page 20 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)
CHAPTER TEN
" C olin... Colin, wake up. Something's happened. Morag is gone."
The voice seemed to come from somewhere far away, muffled by the thick fog that always followed his nightly draught. Someone was shaking him—roughly, urgently—but Colin's limbs felt leaden, his mind struggling to surface from the depths of drugged sleep.
Morag is gone.
The words finally penetrated, and Colin's eyes flew open. He swung blindly at whoever dared take Morag from him, his fist connecting with solid flesh.
"Christ!" Niven stumbled backward, rubbing his jaw.
Colin’s eyes flew open. "Where is me wife?" Colin roared, lurching upright and stumbling toward the bed covers. He yanked them aside with desperate hands. "WHERE IS ME WIFE?"
The bed was empty, the covers thrown back, but no sign of Morag anywhere.
"I heard noises," Niven said grimly, his voice tight with urgency. "Came running with some of the men. We even followed outside, but there was no one. She's gone, me laird."
Horror filled Niven's eyes as he continued, "I ken that every night ye take a sleeping draught, and it's unlikely ye would have woken easily. When I got here, the guards outside where dead, the door was open and yer wife was naewhere tae be found"
Colin staggered, the room spinning around him as the remnants of the potion made it hard for him to think with clarity. The damned potion. That's why he hadn't heard anything, why he hadn't protected her when she needed him most.
Colin threw on clothes with violent efficiency, his hands shaking slightly from the lingering effects of the draught. Every second that passed was another second Morag was in danger, another moment she might be suffering because of his failure to protect her.
Should have posted guards inside the chamber. Should have anticipated this. Should have kent Fraser would try something this bold.
Despite the fog clouding his thoughts, Colin grabbed his sword.
"Stay here and secure the castle. Comb everyone that came in yesterday. Fraser may have infiltrated our castle, there might be some of his men among the villagers."
He was already moving as he spoke, his mind racing through possibilities and probabilities. The sleeping draught still clouded his thoughts, making everything feel sluggish and dreamlike, but rage burned through the fog like fire through dry kindling.
He strode through the corridors with deadly purpose, his bare feet silent on the cold stone. Servants pressed themselves against the walls as he passed, recognizing the dangerous set of his shoulders, the way his hands already reached for his weapons.
"Wake Macleod. Tell him tae ready twenty men. Now," he barked at the first guard he encountered.
The castle courtyard erupted in controlled chaos as Colin's orders spread like wildfire. Grooms appeared with saddled horses, their faces grim in the torchlight. Duncan MacLeod emerged from the barracks, still fastening his sword belt, his weathered face tight with concern.
"Which direction?" Duncan Macleod asked without preamble.
"Unknown. We spread out, cover all the main routes." Colin swung onto his destrier, the great horse dancing beneath him, sensing his urgency. "Likely headed fer Fraser territory. Look fer signs, tracks, anything."
"Aye, me laird." Duncan turned to the assembled men. "Teams of four! Ye, take the north road, Ye, take yer men and follow the eastern path. The rest with me and the laird!"
They thundered out of the castle gates like the wrath of God, hoofbeats echoing off the stone walls. The moon was high but partially obscured by clouds, casting shifting shadows across the moors that could hide an army.
Colin pushed his horse harder than was wise in the uncertain light, but caution was a luxury he couldn't afford. Every instinct he possessed screamed that time was running out.
Hold on, lass. Just hold on.
They reached the first fork in the road within minutes.
Colin pulled up, his eyes scanning the ground for any sign of passage.
The earth was soft from recent rain, and there he saw the deep gouges of horses moving at speed, heading toward the old stone bridge that marked the boundary between Armstrong and Fraser lands.
"There!" he shouted, pointing toward the tracks. "They're making toward the Fraser borders!"
The chase became a desperate race across treacherous ground. Colin's destrier was bred for war, not speed, but the horse seemed to understand the urgency, stretching into a gallop that ate up the distance between them and their quarry.
Behind him, Duncan Macleod and the others followed, their mounts' hooves, striking sparks from the rocky ground. The sound was like thunder in the night, a promise of retribution that echoed across the empty moors.
As they crested a hill, Colin caught sight of movement ahead—riders silhouetted against the sky, moving fast but not fast enough. His heart lurched when he saw the unmistakable figure of a woman slung across one of the horses, her long hair streaming like a banner in the wind.
Morag.
The old stone bridge loomed ahead, ancient and weathered, spanning a rocky stream that marked the traditional boundary. Once the Fraser men crossed it, they'd be on their own territory, with reinforcements potentially waiting and terrain they knew better than any Armstrong.
"We have tae stop them before the bridge!" Colin shouted over the thunder of hooves.
But the Fraser men had seen them coming.
Instead of fleeing, they wheeled their horses around to face their pursuers, weapons already drawn.
Colin counted four men, all armed, all positioned to fight.
The one holding Morag maneuvered his horse behind the others, using her unconscious form as a shield.
The men showed no fear at being discovered. Their leader, a scarred brute with arms like tree trunks, grinned through his beard with feral anticipation.
"Aye, Armstrong!" their leader called back boldly, raising his sword in mocking salute. "Glad ye came. We were hoping ye'd follow. Taenight we kill ye, take yer lands, yer bride, and eventually MacDuff himself! This is just the beginning!"
"Like hell it is," Colin snarled, spurring his destrier forward.
The first Fraser man barely had time to raise his sword before Colin was on him. The laird's blade swept in a deadly arc, finding the gap between helmet and gorget, and sending the man tumbling from his horse into the rocky stream below. Blood darkened the water as the current carried him away.
The second attacker swung wildly at Colin's head, but years of combat had honed the laird's reflexes to lethal perfection.
He ducked low in his saddle, the blade whistling harmlessly overhead, then drove his dirk up between the man's ribs.
Steel slid through leather and flesh with a wet whisper, and the Fraser warrior toppled sideways, his scream cut short.
Behind him, Duncan and the others engaged the remaining kidnappers in a clash of steel that rang out across the night like a blacksmith's anvil. The Fraser warriors were skilled—Colin would give them that—but Armstrong soldiers fought with the desperate fury of men defending their own.
"Fer Lady Armstrong!" Duncan MacLeod roared, his sword weaving deadly patterns in the moonlight.
The cry was taken up by the other men, and suddenly the night air rang with battle cries and the sharp song of steel on steel. One Fraser man fell with a gurgle, Duncan's blade having found his throat. Another managed to wound young Tim MacDonald before taking a spear through the chest from Hamish.
But Colin's attention was fixed on the leader—the one who held Morag. The bastard had wheeled his horse around, trying to flee with his prize, using her unconscious form to shield himself from pursuit.
"Nae this time," Colin growled, urging his destrier forward.
The gap between them closed with terrifying speed.
At the last moment, Colin leaped from his saddle onto the other horse, his hands closing around Fraser's throat with crushing force.
The impact sent all three of them—Colin, the kidnapper, and Morag—tumbling to the hard ground in a tangle of limbs and curses.
Colin rolled, using his momentum to come up on top of his opponent. The Fraser was strong, broader through the shoulders than Colin, but desperation gave the laird inhuman strength. They grappled desperately on the rocky ground, each trying to gain the advantage.
The Fraser pulled a hidden dagger, the blade gleaming wickedly as he slashed at Colin's face. The point scored a burning line across his cheek, but Colin barely felt it. Blind fury had overtaken him, the red rage that came when everything he cared about was threatened.
His fist connected with the man's jaw with a sickening crack that echoed off the stone bridge. The Fraser's head snapped back, but he kept fighting, clawing at Colin's eyes with desperate fingers.
"She's ours now!" the man snarled through broken teeth. "Fraser will have his revenge, and ye'll watch yer pretty wife suffer fer it!"
That was his mistake. Colin's vision went white with rage, and his hands found the man's throat again. This time, he didn't let go. The Fraser thrashed and clawed, but Colin's grip was iron, unbreakable, fueled by every nightmare he'd ever had about failing to protect someone precious.
When the body finally went limp beneath him, Colin released his hold and immediately turned to Morag. She lay crumpled where she'd fallen, her face pale as moonlight, her breathing shallow but steady.
"Morag," he whispered, gathering her carefully into his arms. "Morag, can ye hear me?"
She didn't respond, but her pulse was strong beneath his fingers, and he could see no obvious injuries. Whatever they'd given her had knocked her unconscious, but she was alive. She was safe.
Around them, the battle was over. The Fraser men lay dead or dying, their blood dark on the ancient stones. Duncan approached, his own sword dripping, his face grim with satisfaction.