Page 85 of A Highland Rogue to Ruin

“Where ye’ll never find them.” A flicker of unease creased Ghost’s brow, in spite of his cocky retort as he took in the unified colors blazing forward.

But Tormund couldn’t relish Ghost’s reaction. Brighde and wee Owen and Aileana were trapped inside with the monks. And if he had to slice every man down singlehandedly to gain entry, he would.

“Block the gate!” shouted Ghost, but Tormund swallowed hard, set his cousin in his sights, and succumbed to the darkness.

His war cry roared from his throat. The sound echoed through his men, reverberating through James, fury unleashing. A demon and devil taking on the enemy and conquering hellfires.

The doors to the courtyard began to swing closed, but Tormund spurred Nykr harder, kicked his boots wide and shoved the wooden doors open again, sending those trying to close them reeling. Sword unsheathed. Struck true. Again. As his and James’s men poured through the fractured gates behind him. The world a blur and yet, more acute than it had ever been before, Tormund’s sights trained on Ghost backing up a step, then another, as Tormund, Reaper, James, Angus, and Niall fought their way through the barrier of turncoats and enemies. Ghost’s tunic, Tormund now saw, was stained in old blood, and the man favored his side as he moved.

Good lass. He gritted his teeth. She’d shivved him true. But then again, she came from MacDonald stock. She might never have stepped on an ant, but that fierceness still ran in her blood.

Shouts rang out. A crackling sound sickened Tormund’s belly further, as wood splintered from a window and the first sight of orange flames lapped for freedom.

The shutters collapsed, spraying sparks. Townsfolk cordoned off from trying to douse the flames or unbar the doors by Ghost’s henchmen fled into the hills. Seven long years of searching, hunting, and grief shot from Tormund’s limbs as he lay waste, cutting his way toward the barred doors, where he now heard the wailing of those trapped inside.

Fok, if he didn’t get within the monastery soon and find his family, they’d perish. He kicked back a MacNicol warrior with his boot, sending him staggering, unsheathed his other sgian achlais and flung it spinning, as it landed true on its mark and the warrior fell. He wheeled Nykr around to knock his hooves and rump into an advancing adversary, every part of his and his steed’s bodies weaponized. Tossed his sword into his left hand as he dropped the reins and steered his horse with his knees, knocking away his opponent’s metal, jutting the steel forward when they fell off step.

Demons unshackled. They rode at his heels. He’d promised to draw blood.

Nearby, he sensed James unleashing. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he registered more horse hooves. Sensed the arrival of dark blue tartan as the Gordon standard billowed above a horseman, more swords joining the fray.

Saw Reaper make it to the door. “Unbar it!” he bellowed, as his man barely heaved the beam aside before drawing his sword just in time to fight back against another attacker.

The monks, free of their imprisonment, flooded out the main doors, coughing as black smoke rolled over the lintel, and the Reverend Father ushered them out to huddle along the wall. Tormund turned in a circle, a quick survey showed him that the enemies were subdued and Aileana was hobbling out, her face covered with her kerchief and James grabbing her, beseeching her. But where is Ghost?

He spotted him climbing over the wall. The whoreson thought to escape? Nay. He spurred weary Nykr once more, rode along the wall of the courtyard, and wrenched the traitor backward. He cast aside his sword and leaped off his horse as he slammed his cousin to the ground. One, two, three pummels rendered the man unconscious.

“Niall!” he shouted, leaping off Brodie and scrambling to the monks. As much as he wanted to finish him, he needed to find Brighde and Owen more. Flames were roaring out another window. Trusses within were crackling. “Bind him! Bind him tightly!”

Tormund snatched forth the Reverend Father by the cassock. “Where are they! Pray, have they made it out?”

“The cellars, Tormund! He barred them in the cellars! Owen was crying…”

Images struck of his lad so frightened. He couldn’t lose him. Thoughts of Brighde huddled in Tioram’s buttery with their bairns while his men attacked assaulted him. He’d terrified her then and couldn’t bear to think on it now as he and James plunged frantically into the darkness, following the sconces and eying the ominous smoke rolling along the ceiling, seeking freedom.

The dread knotted tighter in Tormund’s belly. The monks in France, perishing when their abbey went up in flames as his family fled into the countryside. His mother’s hair sinking beneath the waves. Owen bleeding out upon his lap. Aye, it had always been fear. And he was about to lose everything.

“Owen!” he shouted, the smoke thickening, feeling along the plaster for the door down to the cellars. “Angel!”

“Sister!” James yelled.

Tormund dropped to his knees, the heat intensifying and the smoke now filling the corridor, wavering specks of orange flickering in the fog of blackness, when his hand blessedly felt the latch. He flinched back. Scalding. Wrapping his hand in his mantle, he ripped the latch open so hard, the door cracked off its hinges.

He barged down the stairs, losing James, but Tormund knew these vaults well. The cooler air was soothing, but it was only a matter of time until the beams overhead gave way and doomed them all to their funeral pyre. He turned the corner, coming to a door well barred, and he flung aside the beam. Heaved the door open.

And there Brighde sat huddled with only a tallow candle for light among sacks of flour and crates of salted meat and a barrel of drinking water upon which hung a ladle, her knife drawn, shrouding Owen with her body and embrace.

She bolted to her feet, eyes pinched tightly, and swung wildly with the metal.

“Ye’ll nay harm us, Brodie!” she screamed, the knife landing true across Tormund’s knuckles. “Ye’ll nay do it! Ye—”

“Wheesht,” he crooned, grabbing her hands and easily twisting loose the knife as relief settled upon him. Pride burgeoned. “Breathe, my fierce lass…” His hands softened as her madness slowly abated and her muscles relaxed.

“Torm?” she exhaled, eyes finally opening.

“I’ve got ye.” He petted her hair back, and she threw herself at him. “He canna’ ever get to ye again.”

“Da!”