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H is hand remained tightly wrapped around the axe as he stared at the dry logs before him. He hadn’t used an axe in a while, and he understood that with the anger slowly rising within him, he didn’t need a refresher.

He grabbed the first log and set it in place. Without thinking too hard or too long on it, he swung. The log cracked. He exhaled and swung again. It cracked even wider. Then, he swung a third time, and it finally split in half.

Perhaps it was the satisfaction of seeing the log split, or the fact that it was him who did it, but one way or another, a wave of immense relief washed over him. He had done that. Him .

He grabbed another log and put in place, bits and pieces of the conversation he’d had with Keira suddenly gaining a life of their own and replaying in his head over and over again.

It was almost like he could hear her—her anguish, the frustration and stress in her voice.

Images of her wincing flashed through his mind, and he remembered how she had dismissed his concern.

He swung the axe, and the impact of the blade on the wood reverberated up his forearms. The wood cracked. He pulled out the axe and raised it above his head.

Why couldn’t he decide?

He brought it down with all the frustration and anger bubbling up inside him. He couldn’t marry her, not after he had promised himself not to put any other woman through what his brother had put Shona through.

He had promised himself to never get married, and for the past few years, he had managed to succeed in that regard. His mission in this aspect had been simple. He could bed a lot of women, and all he had to do was not fall in love with them. It was a simple method, and it had never failed him.

Until now. Until her.

He drove the blade into the wood, splitting the log in only two strikes this time. He couldn’t tell if this was working or not, but he was certain that he wasn’t done cutting logs.

He dropped the axe and walked to the pile of wood for another log. He made sure to pick a sturdier one this time.

“M’Laird?” The familiar voice had come from his left.

His eyes snapped up, and he could see his man-at-arms running toward him, one hand resting on the hilt of his sword and the other flailing back and forth.

“Rory?” he called, watching him approach as sweat trickled down his brow and into his eyes.

“M’Laird, what are ye doing? We have men for this,” Rory pointed out, a mixture of concern and utter confusion in his voice.

“I wanted to do it,” Evander explained, as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

He could tell Rory wanted to say something else in that regard, but something on his face must have frozen all the words in his mouth.

Rory shuffled his legs and watched Evander place the log in the right place, then reach for the axe.

“What I wanted to tell ye this morning? What ye said could wait?” he started.

“Aye,” Evander muttered, lifting his axe.

“I wanted to tell ye—” Rory broke off as the sound of shattering wood rent the air. “I wanted to tell ye that the other Lairds had arrived and were currently in the village.”

Evander wiped the sweat off his face and leaned on the axe, before turning to him. “The other Lairds?”

“The ones ye asked me to send invites to. Laird Marsden, Laird MacKimmon, Laird MacDonnell, Laird MacLiddell and Laird MacGunn. They intend to visit the castle by morning tomorrow.”

Evander nodded. “That is quite fair. I dinnae think I will have the energy to attend to them anyway.”

“Do ye need me to do anything for ye?” Rory asked, his voice soft and filled with severe calmness.

Evander tightened his grip on his axe. “Nay. I’m all well and good here,” he grunted.

“Och. I understand, M’Laird. I just dinnae think?—”

Evander ignored him and swung the axe against the heavy log of wood that rested strangely against where he had securely placed it. Rory swallowed thickly, his throat bobbing. Evander raised the axe again and brought it down on the log, ripping it in half.

He could feel the gaze of his man-at-arms burn holes into the side of his head. There was something else. Something Rory wasn’t saying. Something that, under normal circumstances, Evander would have pried out of his mouth.

But he couldn’t be less bothered at this moment. He said nothing and watched Rory continue to study him, study the routine in which he had placed himself. He must have cut at least seven or eight logs, and save for the way his face glistened with sweat, he was nowhere near tired.

Ye did this to me.

The words almost formed on the tip of his tongue.

Rory shuffled his feet as Evander grabbed another log and secured it in place.

“What is it?” he asked.

“Huh?”

“What more do ye have to say? Why are ye still standing there?”

Rory shifted his weight from one foot to another. “I thought we could pay them a visit—the Lairds, at least, before they arrive tomorrow. We dinnae want them to come unprepared.”

Evander scoffed. “How does us visiting them prepare them for the cèilidh?”

“I just dinnae?—”

“’Tis a cèilidh, Rory, nae a duel.”

Rory opened his mouth to speak, but the words remained stuck in his mouth as Evander raised his axe again and swung down as hard as he could.

“If they say they’ll be here tomorrow, we shall wait for them tomorrow. Now, is there anything else?”

A few seconds passed, filled only with silence, before Rory spoke.

“Nae at all, M’Laird,” he replied, his voice low and firm.

“Good. Now, go.”

“M’Laird, I can continue the work if ye want me to?—”

“I said, go.”

Rory nodded and left just as soon as he had come, leaving Evander to his solitude once again, thoughts of Keira slapping themselves straight into his thoughts after thinking he had managed to escape them for quite a while.

Perhaps he had been so quick to dismiss his man-at-arms, as he was only now realizing that he had been a nice distraction for him.

Visiting them in the village.

He grumbled to himself as he grabbed a few more logs and scattered them by his feet, ready to rip every single one of them. He snatched the first log from the pile and secured it in place, then smashed it.

Why did everything in this situation have to be his fault? He was merely a victim of circumstance. If his castle hadn’t been set on fire, he wouldn’t have felt the need to look for another one.

He was on his own, and whether she liked to hear it or not, her people had caused the entire thing. It didn’t matter whether she gave the order or not. The attack had come from her clan, and all of a sudden, he was the villain?

A grunt escaped his lips as he brought the axe down on another piece of wood, his eyes peeled as shards scattered across the blade. He raised the axe again, his train of thought growing even more intense by the second.

None of this would’ve happened if her people hadn’t attacked him.

Also, why did the conquest of this castle have to be so complicated?

If the castle had a laird in the first place, it would’ve been vacated one way or another.

He probably would’ve killed him if he had to. But no. It just had to have a lady .

He swung again, the rhythmic sound of shattering wood now growing distant as his thoughts began to echo louder in his mind.

Thwap!

And if it had to be a lady, why couldn’t it be any other woman?

He was very certain that he wouldn’t have had half the problems he had now if it had been anyone except her.

Someone who didn’t question whether or not he deserved respect.

Someone who properly feared him and had no reason to call him out on anything one way or another.

But no.

Thwap!

It just had to be her .

Why did it have to be the one person he couldn’t reason with? Why did it have to be the one person who would constantly argue with him?

Of course, his attraction to Keira had grown, but what fully solidified it was when she had put Thistle in his room. He could no longer help himself at that point.

Thwap!

He had managed to maintain his rakish lifestyle because of duty.

He didn’t have to worry about things like love or his future with someone else because of duty.

He had never cared what happened to any woman he had slept with because of duty.

So what was it about Keira that wouldn’t let him stop thinking about her?

Thwap!

Why couldn’t it be— Thwap!— anyone else—Thwap!—but her?

Another low grunt escaped his lips as he finally let go of the axe, staring at the work he had been doing for what must have been at least thirty minutes.

His anger had abated significantly, of course, but there was something else he still needed to do.

Something to bring it all down to an incredible extent.

He walked away from the logs and headed to the castle. His feet were quick, and he ignored the maids who saluted him as he crossed the stables and headed toward the courtyard.

The sun was fully up now, and the entire field had been cast in a bright yellow light. Not even the clear skies could break his stride, now that he was aware of what he had to do.

Of course, he had known he would do it since the first day, but now it felt like a divine revelation or something. Like something he had to do now to fully dispel, or at the very least, quell the frustration he had been feeling all morning.

The horse ride had helped him a lot, and cutting the logs did exorcise some of his frustration as well. But now it was his turn to do something else. Something way more drastic .

A few faces from his clan peered at him as he walked. He found Rory by the goat shelter, watching Thistle munch on some berries.

“Come with me,” he barked, his voice sharp and leaving no room for any kind of question or demand for an explanation.

Rory dropped the berries in his hands and followed, just as Evander had asked. They walked in silence for the next few minutes, the castle doors looming ahead.

“I apologize, M’Laird, but where are we going?” Rory eventually asked, after a brief silence had settled between them.

“To break down the borders. Pull out yer blade,” Evander ordered, reaching for the hilt of his sword as they closed in on the castle doors.