Boyd’s jaw tightened as laughter rippled through the group. He crouched to Clara’s height, doing his best to ignore the heat creeping up his neck and the knowing smirks surrounding him.
“It was a fierce one, lass,” he said, dropping his voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Big as a house, with claws sharp enough to cut through steel.”
Clara gasped, her little hands clasping together. “Did you use a sword?”
Aye, he did. All night. Boyd’s back was sore, his thighs aching like he’d truly gone to battle. But he wasn’t about to explain that to a lass of five—or this gaggle of smug adults. The grins on their faces only deepened, and he shot them a withering glare before turning to Clara.
“No sword needed, lass. Just quick thinking and Highland grit. The dragons are gone now, and they won’t be comin’ back.”
“But what if—”
“Here.” He fished into his pocket, pulling out a silver coin and pressing it into her hand. “Buy some sweets.” Or ear plugs...
Boyd turned to the rest of the room. Their mirth faded, and they eyed him expectantly, each of whom was willing to ride out with him to bring Beth back. Their loyalty wrapped around him like a mantle, filling the spaces he hadn’t realized were empty. This was what it felt like to belong, to have people who wanted the best for him, not out of duty or debt, but out of care.
“Thank you,” he said, his voice roughened by emotion. “I couldn’t wish for a better family this Christmas. But this is something I have to do alone. Stay here, enjoy my lousy hospitality, and I promise I’ll bring Beth back.”
Cheers and clapping followed him as he turned on his heel. The crisp morning air bit his skin, but it couldn’t cool the fire that burned in his chest. With renewed purpose, Boyd strode across the front drive, his boots crunching against the frostbitten gravel.
Reggie awaited him with his horse, the lad standing stiff as a church steeple, the reins clutched tightly in his gloved hands. Boyd vaulted into the saddle with practiced ease, already bracing himself for the long, cold hours—first to the station, then to Oporto.
He nudged the stallion forward but reined in sharply at the sight ahead—three workers circling the fountain like vultures around a carcass.
His eyes narrowed. “What the hell are you doing?”
The nearest worker hesitated, a crowbar in one hand and a sheepish look on his face. “We’ve orders to tear it down, sir.”
Boyd’s gaze darted to the bears. His bears. The stone creatures stood shivering in the pond. Damn it if they didn’t resemble Highlander bears in the morning light.
“You touch my bears,” he growled, his voice a low rumble, “and I’ll ensure you regret it.”
The workers exchanged confused glances, their tools lowering as Boyd’s steely glare pinned them in place. Without another word, he nudged his horse into motion, the beast kicking up a plume of dust as they cantered toward the train station.
Over his shoulder, he called out, “Find something else to break. The blasted roof, for all I care. But leave the bloody bears alone.”
Chapter twenty-two
"A rogue may be forged by spite, but only love can temper his steel." The Rogue’s Guide to Refinement
Boyd stepped into Croft’s entry hall, his boots echoing on the marble floors that once struck him as the height of refinement. The grand staircase curved above him, a hulking, ornamental beast, but its polish had dulled, the edges of each step slightly worn. Portraits of Croft’s ancestors hung on the walls. Their once-vivid faces had faded over years of sunlight exposure.
The butler approached, his livery frayed at the cuffs, and bowed. “Mr. Sandeman, Mr. Croft awaits you in his study.”
Boyd nodded, the tightness in his chest growing. The last time, he had been greeted by disdain and a razor-sharp dismissal that had cut him down before he’d had a chance to speak. He’d leftthen, humiliated, the mocking words echoing in his mind for years afterward.
But he was not that youth anymore. At least, he reminded himself, he shouldn’t be.
He wasn’t here to seek Croft’s approval—he was here for Beth, and for whatever future they might build together.
The butler led him through the familiar corridors. Boyd found himself gripping his gloves tighter, nerves he thought he’d left behind clawing their way back.
The door loomed as imposing as ever. The butler opened it with a slight bow, stepping aside to let Boyd enter. He squared his shoulders, steeling himself for the encounter.
Croft sat behind a massive mahogany desk, papers spread before him, his figure gaunt, yet his eyes sharp as they flicked up to meet Boyd. The man who had once stood as an imposing symbol of wealth and prestige now appeared shriveled, his skin drawn tight over his bones, his hair a ghostly white. Even the mustaches that had once curled like the tusks of some noble beast, had withered to greasy wisps clinging to his upper lip.
The object of Boyd’s hatred had become a relic of his former self.
“Boyd Sandeman,” Croft said. There was no warmth, no welcome, just a vague acknowledgment, as if Boyd were a necessary inconvenience.
