As Cyrus followed the sound of Elspeth's voice, he found the whole of the Comyn clan lying in wait outside the walls. They all charged at once.
"Tùlach Àrd!" Cyrus shouted. The MacKenzie battle cry should summon the rest of his clansmen, as well as the MacKay and MacInnis men from inside the walls to fight these bastards.
In a fearsome rush, Cyrus slashed and thrust, battling his way through the Comyns and the smoke.
Where had Dalacroy taken Elspeth?
Cyrus had almost gone mad when he'd thought she was trapped in the burning house. Thank the saints she had gotten out. But then, for her to be nabbed by that weasel… he should've strangled the life from Dalacroy when he had the chance.
When he defeated the last opponent, he spun around, looking for the next one, but only his clansmen and allies surrounded him.
"The survivors fled north, into the wood!" Dirk shouted.
"Let them go!" Cyrus sprinted toward the horses in the field. "I saw Dalacroy and his guards mounting horses. I wager he's taking her to Greymont."
Dirk chased behind him. "Where's that?"
"She said it was five miles south. 'Tis where Fraser and my injured guards are taking refuge."
"M'laird!" A towheaded lad ran along the wall toward him. Cyrus remembered he was the stable lad, Tommy. "M'laird, I took care of Goliath since you left."
"Why didn't you take him to Greymont?"
"Master Fraser said you might need your horse here when you returned. But the other laird stole him away a few minutes ago. His guard was holding her ladyship captive on the other horse."
Saints! An eye witness. "Did you see which way he took Lady Grey?"
"Aye." Tommy pointed at the road which led south.
"Do you ken how to find Greymont Castle?"
"Indeed. I've been there a few times."
"Can you ride with Norval and show us the quickest way?"
The lad nodded and ran toward the guard. Cyrus borrowed one of the larger horses left by the Comyn clan.
The MacKenzie, MacKay, and MacInnis clansmen mounted. Norval and Tommy led the way, Cyrus right behind them.
In the road before them, several fresh hoof tracks had been jabbed into the black mud, confirming they were headed in the right direction. He resisted the urge to prod the horse to a faster pace.
Cyrus prayed as he never had before that Elspeth was unscathed. He hadn't even gotten a good glimpse of her to see if she'd been harmed by the fire. Thank the saints he'd heard her yelling his name, else he wouldn't have known she'd been captured.
Finally, a half-hour later, Cyrus spied the castle's harled tower and curtain wall in the distance. Minutes later, the portcullis of Greymont came into view. Standing with three men, Dalacroy held Elspeth before him, a knife at her throat.
A blinding rage grabbed hold of Cyrus, making him want to choke the life from the blackguard. Never taking his eyes off them, Cyrus drew up and slid from the horse. Elspeth's ginger curls were disheveled, and her face and clothing muddy. Thank God, she appeared completely untouched by the fire, other than a bit of soot on her creamy skin. Had that bastard hurt her in some way he couldn't see? Confidence glinted in her amber eyes. In fact, he was surprised to find that she looked far less terrified than Dalacroy. Cyrus felt his chest expand with pride and love for her. She was an exceptional woman.
"Release her, Dalacroy," Cyrus commanded. "You cannot win."
"We'll see about that." The whoreson tightened his arm around her waist.
"You have but two guards and a solicitor. How do you imagine you will be victorious over four dozen highly trained soldiers?" Cyrus motioned at his allies behind him.
"I have the wench, so I have all the power. You or any of your men come near me and I'll slit her throat."
Just imagining such a fate for Elspeth, Cyrus felt as if he'd been kicked hard in the stomach. He could barely draw breath. Never had he been seized by such a paralyzing fear combined with fury… similar to the time Ben Comyn had murdered wee Patrick, but a thousand times worse.
Cyrus's rage was like a lit cannon ready to explode, but he had to think rationally. "What do you want?"
