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He looked down at Rowan, his dark eyes devoid of anything resembling mercy.

“Nae if we ride without stopping,” Caelan stated, his voice a harsh, absolute command. “If the horses break, we leave them in the dirt, and we run the rest of the way on foot. I daenae care if it takes me last breath.”

Rowan stared up at him, recognizing the unyielding, terrifying resolve of the Black Laird. He did not argue. He grabbed his own reins and swung up into his saddle.

“We are nae chasing Fergus anymore,” Caelan said softly, his hands tightening fiercely on the leather reins until the thick hide groaned under the pressure. “We are going to meet him.”

Caelan spurred his warhorse forward without another word.

The massive beast let out a sharp cry, rearing up before slamming its hooves down and breaking into a dead, punishing sprint straight into the pitch-black northern treeline.

Without a single word of hesitation, Rowan, Ewan, and the eighteen heavily armed riders whipped their horses, falling into a tight, relentless formation behind their laird. The light of their torches vanished rapidly into the dense, ancient woods.

The hunt had truly begun.

29

“Pull the mounts up!” Fergus shouted, his voice cracking sharply against the biting Highland wind. “We make camp here.”

The massive bay gelding beneath Mabel dug its hooves hard into the freezing mud, coming to a sudden, jarring halt. The brutal, repetitive slamming of the leather saddle against her aching thighs finally ceased. Mabel slumped forward, her chest hitting the coarse black mane of the horse. She gasped desperately for air, the freezing wind burning her lungs. Her wrists were bound tightly behind her back, the thick hemp rope having chewed through her skin during the endless, agonizing night ride. She had no feeling left in her fingers.

“Get her down,” Fergus ordered smoothly, swinging down from his own saddle with infuriating ease.

One of the armed guards stepped forward. He wrapped his thick hands roughly around Mabel’s waist and dragged her sideways off the horse. Her bare, bruised feet hit the frozen, hardened earth, and her exhausted legs gave out. She collapsed hard into the dirt, her shoulder slamming painfully against an exposed root.

“Get up,” the guard grunted, hauling her forcefully back to her feet by her upper arm.

He shoved her toward a tree at the edge of the small, dark clearing. He pushed her backward until her spine hit the rough, freezing bark. Taking a spare length of rope, he lashed her bound wrists directly to the thick trunk, pulling the knots brutally tight.

Mabel bit the inside of her cheek until she tasted copper, refusing to give them the satisfaction of a scream. She sagged heavily against the ropes, her breathing ragged, the freezing air biting at her torn shift.

Fergus walked slowly across the small camp. He kicked a pile of dead branches together with the toe of his polished riding boot. “Nay fires,” he told his men, his voice carrying the strict authority of a commander. “Eat the dried meat and rest the horses. We ride again at first light. We cannae afford a slow pace on the ridge.”

He turned his attention slowly toward Mabel.

He did not wear the polite, charming smile he had so carefully maintained during his weeks of visits to Blackthorn Keep. The handsome, courteous nobleman was gone. In his place stood a cold, calculating warlord staring down at a piece of stolen property.

“Ye look terrible, Mabel,” Fergus noted calmly, stopping directly in front of her. His dark eyes swept over her bruised face, the mud caked into her golden hair, and the blood seeping from the ropes at her wrists.

Mabel lifted her chin. Her striking blue eyes blazed with absolute, unadulterated hatred. “Go to hell.”

Fergus chuckled, a dry, humorless sound that barely disturbed the quiet of the forest. “I imagine Caelan MacCarron is currently experiencing exactly that. Do ye ken how much dry timber is built into the western wall of Blackthorn Keep? It burns beautifully.”

“He will hunt ye down,” Mabel stated, her voice hoarse and raw from the cold but ringing with absolute certainty. “He will find ye, Fergus. And he will skin ye alive.”

“He will certainly try,” Fergus corrected smoothly, taking a deliberate step closer to the tree. “But by the time he extinguishes the fires and realizes ye are truly gone, it will be far too late. He is likely bleeding out in the mud of his own courtyard right now. It was a simple tactical distraction, Mabel. The great Black Laird was outmaneuvered by his own predictable honor.”

“Ye are a coward,” Mabel spat, disgusted by the arrogant pride shining in his eyes.

“I am a survivor,” Fergus countered coldly, his dark eyes narrowing. “And tomorrow, I will be yer husband. Once me priest hears yer vows in the north, Clan MacAllister belongs to me. The northern borders belong to me. And Gregor MacNab will be forced to recognize me absolute authority.”

Mabel pulled fiercely against the heavy ropes binding her to the oak, ignoring the sharp, burning agony tearing through her wrists.

“I will never say the vows,” Mabel swore fiercely, her voice vibrating with pure MacAllister steel. “I will stand before yer priest and tell him ye stole me from me home. I will scream it until me lungs bleed. I would rather die than become yer wife.”

The change in Fergus was instantaneous and terrifying.

The calm demeanor snapped. His handsome face contorted with a sudden, vicious rage. He raised his hand and struck her brutally across the face.