CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
" N ay banners, remember!" Nicholas shouted orders.
"Aye, cloaks only nay colors," Marcus added.
The courtyard was alive with quiet motion, the sound of hooves, leather, and murmured commands filling the cold night air. Torches lit the stone walls with a flickering glow, casting long shadows over the assembled men.
Nicholas stood near the center, issuing final orders to Marcus, his voice firm despite the anxiousness etched into his bones. "Every man should be armed to the teeth."
The sky was still dark, but a faint blue hinted at the coming dawn—just three hours away.
"I will order every man to strap a dirk in their boot," Marcus said.
As Marcus stepped away, Nicholas adjusted the strap across his chest. His breath fogged in the chill, and he pressed his lips into a hard line.
This was not just an ambush—it could spark clan war, and he knew well how war liked to steal things from men, most of all their peace.
He closed his eyes for just a moment, drawing in one last breath before the march.
Then he heard her voice—soft, gentle, and close. “Nicholas.”
He turned and saw Alexandra walking toward him through the torchlight, her hair loose beneath a cloak, and in her arms, little Charlie rested sleepily against her shoulder.
The boy’s small arms clung around her neck, his eyelids heavy with dreams, unaware of what the night was preparing to take.
Nicholas’s chest tightened, and he stepped forward, unable to speak for a moment.
“Da,” Charlie groggily murmured as Nicholas reached for him.
“Aye, lad. I’m here,” Nicholas said, lifting his son gently into his arms. Charlie stirred, blinking slowly, and laid his head against Nicholas’s chest.
“Ye goin’ away?” the boy asked, voice muffled.
“For a little while,” Nicholas said, swallowing hard. “But ye’re to be brave for me. Mind what yer nurse says. Help look after the castle. Yer in charge when I'm gone. Can ye do that?”
Charlie gave a tiny nod, his thumb pressing to his lips. Nicholas cupped the boy’s head and pressed a kiss to his soft curls, breathing in his scent one last time. “I’ll be thinkin’ of ye every hour, every step I take.”
Alexandra stepped forward, her arms already reaching. Nicholas handed Charlie back to her carefully, his hands lingering just a second too long.
Then his eyes met hers.
She held his gaze, her face pale in the torchlight, eyes glassy with tears she hadn’t let fall. “Ye’re brave for goin’,” she whispered.
“I ken,” he replied, voice rough with a teasing smirk.
“I still want ye to come back,” she said. “Charlie needs his faither.”
Nicholas searched her face, memorizing every line, every freckle, the way her mouth trembled just slightly. “And what about ye?” he asked, almost without meaning to.
She exhaled shakily. “Aye. I need ye too. More than I ever wanted to admit.”
His jaw clenched. He looked away before his resolve could break. “I’ll see ye again,” he said, turning toward his horse.
But as he mounted, the gates began to open with a groan of iron and timber, and something inside Nicholas shattered. His hand gripped the reins—then let them go. He swung down from the saddle and ran across the courtyard, boots thudding against stone.
Alexandra turned just as he reached her. He didn’t stop, didn’t think—he simply pulled her to him and kissed her, hard and desperate.
She kissed him back instantly, her hand fisting in the front of his cloak, her lips warm despite the chill. All the words they hadn’t said, all the nights they hadn’t shared, bled into that kiss. When they parted, her breath came fast.
“Return to me, Laird O’Donnell,” she said fiercely. “That’s an order.”
A slow smirk curved his lips as he stepped back. “Aye, me lady. That’s one order I’ll obey.”
He gave her one last look—long, burning, final—then brushed his hand over Charlie's hair, then turned and mounted his horse once more. This time, he didn’t look back as he rode through the gate, the sound of hooves echoing behind him like thunder.
But her kiss still lingered on his lips, and her voice—her command—rang louder than any war drum in his chest.
Nicholas led the men through the dark, their movements precise, measured, and ghostlike. The sliver of moon offered little light, but that suited him just fine. This needed to be done without drawing attention.
He kept his eyes ahead, his mind sharp, though the memory of Alexandra’s kiss still burned on his lips. He forced himself to push it aside.
The mission had to come first—Erica’s life, the safety of his men, and the knowledge that Leo Rankin would not stop until more harm was done and was preparing to attack O'Donnell castle. He clenched his jaw, reminding himself there would be time for feeling—later.
Marcus appeared beside him like a shadow and whispered low, “What’s the plan, then?”
Nicholas didn’t pause. “We hide the men in the forest. Ye and I will go on foot, scout the camp’s edge, get a read on their numbers and state of rest. Once I give the signal—an arrow —the assassins move in quiet and knock out the watchmen first. Our men will then fan out, hover close while the bastards sleep, and when the moment comes—we strike. ”
Marcus nodded, his eyes gleaming. “Sounds like a good plan, laird.”
An hour passed as they quietly made their way to their stopping point.
The soft rustle of hooves faded as the men dismounted, securing their horses to the low branches.
They moved into the woods with barely a sound, the years of discipline and training showing in every step.
Nicholas felt pride swell in his chest. Not a single twig snapped underfoot.
He and Marcus advanced ahead of the others, weaving between thick trees until the clearing came into view.
Leo’s camp lay just beyond the tree line; a ring of tents and wagons surrounded a dimming fire.
Men were strewn in bedrolls, snoring softly, and two guards sat near the perimeter, more interested in gnawing on roasted meat than keeping watch.
Nicholas crouched and motioned toward the guards. “Slack fools,” he mouthed, and Marcus gave a short nod in return.
He was just about to creep closer when a voice cut through the stillness. “Erica, are ye awake?”
Nicholas froze. He and Marcus turned their heads slowly toward the fire. An old man, his white hair gleaming faintly in the firelight, was making his way toward a wagon. There, tied to one of the wheels, was Erica, slumped but alert.
“Aye, I’m awake, Councilman James,” Erica answered, lifting her head. “What do ye want?”
Relief poured through Nicholas’s chest at the sound of her voice. She was alive. Not only would Alexandra be relieved—he felt a weight lift off his own heart.
James knelt beside her, glancing over his shoulder as if to be sure no one else was nearby. “I have a secret, lass. One I should’ve told ye long ago.”
Erica tensed. “What kind of secret?”
“I was yer parents’ most trusted advisor,” he said, his voice hushed and gravelly. “And I ken why Leo killed them.”
Nicholas inched closer, keeping low and hidden. His heartbeat thundered in his ears, but he dared not miss a word.
Erica sat up straight, her eyes wide despite the flickering shadows. “Tell me.”
“Yer parents had plans,” James whispered.
“Leo thought he was to be Laird—but they never intended that. They saw the darkness in him from a young age. Instead, they meant for ye to take the mantle yerself. To be the Lady, but to marry a man of power from the southern clans, unite the clans. They had been thinkin’ of a child of a powerful laird.
He was just a child at the time, like ye. "
Erica gasped, her whole body tense with shock. “Me? They wanted me to be the Lady?”
“Aye, lass,” James said, voice breaking in a soft whisper. “That’s why Leo killed them. He feared if word got out, nay one would accept him as Laird. He destroyed the truth to build a lie.”
Nicholas’s fists clenched around the hilt of his dagger. He felt the rage boil in his chest, not only for what Erica had lost, but for the wickedness Leo had wrought to secure power. Marcus glanced at him, his jaw tight. He’d heard it too.
Erica’s voice wavered. “Why are ye tellin’ me this now?”
“Because,” James said, placing a frail hand over hers, “I cannae stand it any longer. I watched him twist everythin’ that was good, and now ye are sufferin’ for it. We council thought ye dead lass. I feel so much guilt for nae searchin’ for ye and upholdin’ yer parents wish."
Nicholas leaned back, breath shallow. Everything made sense now—Leo’s madness, his ruthlessness, his hatred. He’d stolen not just a lairdship, but a legacy.
He turned to Marcus and whispered, “This changes everythin’.”
Marcus nodded, his eyes fierce. “Aye. What’s the move?”
Nicholas looked back at Erica, her face lit by the flames, fierce despite the ropes on her wrists. “We get her out—tonight. Quiet and fast. And if we’re lucky, she’ll be the one to tear Leo’s lies apart and stop a clan war between us.”
He rose slowly and signaled for Marcus to fall back. It was time to set the trap and strike, but now—now there was more than rescue at stake. Now, it was justice.
Marcus nudged Nicholas with the back of his hand. “Now or never, laird. The sun’ll be risin’ afore long.”
Nicholas gave a sharp nod, lifting his bow with steady hands. He drew the string back, eyes fixed on a tree deep in the woods, and released the arrow. It flew fast and struck the bark with a dull thud.
At once, the shadows stirred. From the dense forest, soft rustling spread like a wave. Dark figures crept forward—O’Donnell assassins, faces cloaked, blades drawn. They moved with practiced grace, knocking out the two inattentive guards before either could raise a shout.