Ensnared by the Laird (Four Horsemen of the Highlands, Book 1)

by Emma Prince

  Abruptly, she sprang from the bed, too anxious to continue lying motionless. She slipped her discarded chemise over her head and padded bare-footed to the door. With a steeling breath, she cracked open the door, peering out into the dim hallway for a sign of Domnall.

  The hall was empty, but something on the ground in front of the door caught her attention. It was a tray, laden with two bowls of porridge, a pitcher of cream, and a clay pot with the lid removed to reveal a dark berry preserve inside.

  She frowned at the tray. So much for the idea that Domnall had left to secure them a meal to break their fast. Where was he?

  Kneeling, she rested a hand against one of the bowls of porridge. It was cold. Unease tightened her stomach. Wouldn’t he have brought the tray in if it had been there when he’d ducked out? How long had he been gone?

  Ailsa retreated back into the room and closed the door. The innkeeper would know where Domnall was. The man seemed to keep a close eye on everything and everyone under his roof. She hurriedly tugged on her gown and shoved her feet into her boots.

  As she slung her cloak over her shoulders, some impulse carried her to the shuttered window. Brilliant sunlight spilled into the room when she pulled back the shutters. She squinted at the fresh banks of glittering snow below, letting her eyes adjust to the flood of light.

  The window overlooked the alleyway that separated the inn from its stables. Her gaze caught on a few tracks in the snow between the two buildings, and—

  Her stomach did a strange lurch, then plummeted to her feet.

  One set of horse tracks led out of the stable, heading north.

  They could have been made by one of the innkeeper’s other patrons, some enterprising fellow who’d decided to get an early start to the day. But her instinct told her that the tracks belonged to someone else.

  Domnall.

  He had left her. And she knew in her bones only one thing could have pulled him away so abruptly.

  He was after Andrew.

  Before she realized what she was doing, she was out the door and halfway to the stairs leading down to the inn’s common room.

  She jumped the last few stairs, uncaring of the dull twinge in her ankle. The innkeeper, who was serving breakfast to an older couple at one of the round tables before the fire, started at her sudden appearance.

  “Ah, mistress,” he said, his brown eyes flashing with pity. “I hope ye are well this—”

  “Where did he go?” she interrupted breathlessly.

  The innkeeper’s gaze darted uncomfortably to the couple, then he stepped to the back of the common room, motioning for her to follow.

  “I hope ye willnae think me too bold, mistress, but I must express my indignation on yer behalf,” he murmured, glancing at the couple to make sure they could not overhear. Still, he dropped his voice further. “The way yer…ahem…companion departed this morn, taking the horse ye two arrived on, leaving ye on yer own with no means to see yerself away…”

  For a brief moment, the common room blurred and the innkeeper’s voice grew distant. The sound of her own pulse hammered through her head. She’d been right. Domnall had left, taking Fern with him.

  She forced the wave of dizziness down. She could not fall apart—not when every second might count to avoid a crossroads encounter neither Domnall nor Andrew could return from.

  “Where did he go?” she demanded again.

  The innkeeper’s brow furrowed. “He headed north,” he said. “I’d mentioned that yestereve, no’ long before the two of ye arrived, a man rode through the village in the same direction.”

  That must have been Andrew.

  “And what lies north of here?”

  “Only Saorsa Falls,” the innkeeper replied, “which I mentioned to yer companion as well.”

  A sickening thought flitted across her mind then. Had it been Domnall’s plan all along to use her, take her innocence and lure her into trusting and caring for him, only to abandon her in pursuit of her brother? He himself had said he meant to send her home now that she could no longer be used to bait Andrew. That he didn’t need her anymore.

  She shook her head as if to physically rattle the appalling notion out of her brain. Nay, when he’d said he planned to send her away, he’d spoken out of fear and frustration. He’d been trying to hide his true feelings. She’d proven as much when she’d kissed him last night.

  And he hadn’t known Andrew had passed through the village, else she doubted he would have been able to stop himself from pursuing him, even through a snowstorm.

  Last night, when she’d spoken her heart to him, told him of her fears and argued that he should seek a different course, he’d truly listened. Mayhap she’d even been close to convincing him to reconsider his personal vendetta, if not his belief that her brother needed to face justice.

  Given the chance to speak to him again, she just might be able to alter his path of destruction. She couldn’t let him throw away his soul for someone as unworthy as Andrew. There might still be time to stop him from making a grave, irreparable decision.

  If ever there was a moment to act, to stand and fight instead of submit to fate, it was now.

  “I need to get to him,” she murmured.

  The innkeeper cleared his throat. When her gaze snapped to him, his eyes were full of sympathy.

  “It isnae my business, mistress, but I would suggest heading away from such a scoundrel, no’ toward him.” He straightened, giving a little nod of his head as if he’d decided something. “But as I say, it isnae my place. All I can offer is a wee bit of help for a lass in a bind.”

  He clasped her hand and patted it, a bashful blush sweeping across his face and over his bald head. “Please, mistress, take one of my horses. Once ye are someplace safe, ye can return it to me.”

  “Thank you,” she breathed through a tight throat, squeezing his hands.

  She followed him through a passageway that led to the alley behind the inn, then into the stables. As she waited for him to saddle and bridle a bay mare, her knees shook and her palms grew damp in anticipation of what she had to do.

  With his help, she boosted herself into the saddle and guided the mare out of the stables. The innkeeper called after her from the stable doors, kindly warning her once more to look after herself and forget the rogue who’d abandoned her. Ignoring him, she pointed the horse toward the tracks in the snow heading northward.

  The trail was clear and easy to follow, and the mare happily fell into the already-broken tracks. Now all she could do was pray that she’d reach Domnall in time.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Domnall had been waiting for the roar of tumbling water to guide him to the precise location of Saorsa Falls. He was caught off-guard, then, when the forest abruptly fell away, opening onto an iced-over pond surrounded by craggy rocks. At the far end of the pond’s frosted expanse was the falls, which were frozen motionless.

  The cold snap over the last several days must have gradually stilled the cascading water. Last night’s snowstorm would have put the finishing, icy touch on the falls, leaving an exquisite, still display.

  In the late afternoon sun, the falls was illuminated like finely cut glass, refracting the light so that it appeared to be dancing within the ice. The top of the falls stood mayhap three times Domnall’s height from the pond’s frozen surface. Jagged rocks encrusted with fresh snow rimmed the pond and rose sharply around the motionless falls.

  A flicker of movement caught Domnall’s eye in the tree line closer to the waterfall. A horse stood tethered amongst the pines, a hale chestnut stallion.

  His stomach twisted with a surge of anticipation. Even through the trees, and from a long stone’s throw away, Domnall recognized the horse.

  It was the same animal Murray had used to escape the alehouse in Strathyre last eve. He’d gotten a more than close enough look at the horse when it had come a quarter-stride away from trampling both him and Ailsa.

  The innkeeper had been dead-on, then, not only in his
declaration that the falls were the obvious and mayhap only destination due north of his village, but also that they offered a clear place to shelter from a storm. And Murray had done just that.

  Domnall guided Fern a few paces nearer to the falls, but then dismounted and looped the horse’s reins over a branch. It would be easier to approach undetected on foot rather than on horseback. He had no qualms about using the element of surprise again, especially given his last encounter with Murray.

  Now that he was closer, he could see footprints in the snow along the rocks leading behind the frozen falls. The hairs on the back of his neck lifted. His quarry was nigh.

  His pulse thundering in his ears, Domnall half-crouched and slid the dagger—Murray’s dagger—out of his boot. It was time to give the blade back to its rightful owner.

  He crept toward the pond’s edge, thinking to approach the falls on the ice to prevent his boots from crunching in the snow. It was a miracle he was even getting a second chance to confront Murray. He couldn’t risk even the smallest detail—a sound or a movement that would alert Murray to his presence—causing it to go awry again.

  Suddenly, a figure emerged from behind the falls. Shocked, Domnall froze.

  Murray picked his way down the rocks on the far side of the icy cascade and onto the pond’s solid surface. He strode as hurriedly as the slick ice would allow, cutting a direct line toward where he’d tethered his horse.

  He must have known that he was being hunted—by Domnall and mayhap his debt collectors—hence his hasty departure. Still, he was in such a hurry and so preoccupied with his shortcut that he didn’t even notice Domnall at first.

  Halfway across the pond, some instinct had Murray’s head snapping up, and his dark eyes fixed on Domnall. He skittered to a halt, his sharp exhale a white puff before his face.

  “You again.”

  Domnall had already recovered from his surprise. Pent energy now surged through his veins in anticipation of what was about to happen.

  “Aye. Ye think after all ye’ve done, all the suffering and death ye’ve caused, I would give up so easily?”

  Murray’s gaze darted to either side of Domnall. He was clearly looking for a way to escape. Domnall took a step forward, narrowing the distance between them. He angled slightly so that he blocked Murray’s path to his horse.

  With dwindling options for a getaway, Murray’s posture changed subtly. He tensed, his knees bending slightly as if preparing for an attack. Abruptly, he yanked an arming sword from its sheath on his belt and brandished the weapon before him.

  Though the arming sword was smaller than a full-length longsword, it was at least twice the size of the handspan-long blade Domnall held. Not that it would deter him, but he’d have to be careful of his distances.

  He’d envisioned this so many times in the fortnight he’d spent in Scone’s dungeon, and the last month hunting Murray. Just as he’d secretly hoped, it had come down to single combat—naught but his own two hands, his skill, and Murray’s dagger against the traitor. Domnall was more than ready.

  He took another step forward, but halted when the pond seemed to groan beneath his feet. He dared a glance down. The ice was thin enough that he could see air bubbles drifting up below him. The bubbles became trapped against the underside of the ice only an inch or two under his boots.

  Christ. The pond wasn’t as frozen as he’d initially assumed. But he doubted Murray would agree to shift their fight onto solid ground. This wasn’t some courtly tournament where the rules of knightly conduct applied.

  Murray, too, now glared warily at the ice. He jerked his attention back to Domnall with an exaggerated sneer.

  “It seems this is the only way to get rid of you,” he said, extending the arming sword. From the arrogant glint in his dark eyes, he must have assumed the longer blade gave him the advantage. He waited, the sword lifted in a challenge, an invitation for Domnall to make the first move.

  He was more than happy to oblige.

  Domnall coiled in preparation for an attack. But before he could launch a strike, the distant thundering of hooves echoed through the surrounding forest.

  Both he and Murray froze, their heads snapping toward the sound.

  What Domnall saw stole his breath.

  Nay. Ailsa.

  She broke through the tree line, her horse’s hooves spraying snow as she reined him to a sharp halt. Even before the horse had reached a standstill, she slid out of the saddle, stumbling to keep her footing.

  “Stop!” she cried, staggering forward in a tangle of skirts and snow.

  “Ailsa, stay back,” Domnall barked, but she did not heed his words. Instead, she stepped out onto the ice, slipping and sliding until she’d cast herself between him and her brother.

  She was much lighter than either Domnall or Murray, he told himself, watching in horror as she came to a halt in the middle of the pond. The ice held both men, separated as they were by a dozen paces. It would hold her, too.

  At least he prayed it would.

  “Ailsa, what the bloody hell are ye doing here?” he hissed. “Get out of the way before ye are hurt.”

  “I won’t,” she shot back. “If this is the only way to stop you, so be it.”

  “How can ye defend his life?” Domnall pointed the dagger over her shoulder at Murray. “He isnae worth saving.”

  “I’m not saving him, you fool! I’m trying to save you!”

  She turned to her brother, holding his dark gaze, so like her own. But when she spoke, it was to Domnall.

  “Andrew isn’t worth your soul.”

  Through the nigh-blinding hatred for Murray and gut-wrenching fear for Ailsa, the image in front of Domnall slowly started to penetrate.

  Her unbound golden hair and cloak whipped gently in the frosty wind. Her feet were planted wide, her fists balled at her sides. She held her chin up fearlessly, despite standing in the midst of danger.

  Before him stood a brave, strong woman, one who would risk herself to save him.

  She fixed him with those rich brown eyes, which were filled with determination, but also desperation. She cared for him. She feared for him. And she was doing her damnedest to keep him from losing himself fully in his hunger for vengeance.

  Love like he’d never known before flooded him, drowning out the hate.

  The air left his lungs. He was completely awash, lost in the breadth and depth of his love for her, like a man bobbing helplessly on a vast, endless sea.

  “Ailsa…”

  Before Domnall could find his words, Murray sprang into motion.

  He dove forward, sending Ailsa sprawling across the pond’s surface.

  Nay!

  Domnall lurched forward, but the ice beneath his feet gave an ominous moan. He extended his hand, but she was still a pace beyond his reach.

  Murray didn’t bother heeding the squeals coming from the frozen pond. He scrambled forward and grabbed hold of his sister’s arm, dragging her to her feet.

  With a twisted grin, he notched the arming sword under her chin. She inhaled as the metal pressed into her delicate skin.

  The whole world fell away then. The forest, the falls, even Murray’s cruel smirk blurred and faded away.

  All that existed was the place where the blade touched Ailsa’s throat.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  God, please. God, please.

  The desperate entreaty thudded through Domnall’s mind with each wild hammer of his heart.

  God, please. Dinnae take her from me.

  “I should have thought to do this before.” Murray’s voice drifted by, as if he spoke from a vast distance. “If you will not stop hunting me, mayhap I can make you.”

  A single drop of blood welled against the blade. It slid down the sword’s edge and splattered onto the ice at Ailsa’s feet. It leeched out from where it had landed, appearing like a blurry fingerprint of madder root dye used to make fabric red.

  But it was not dye. It was his Ailsa’s blood. His beloved’s blood, s
pilled before his eyes.

  Domnall’s heart seemed to lurch so hard that it broke against his ribs. She was going to die at the hands of her madman brother, and he would have to watch, unable to save her.

  “…Just what you intended to do to me, is it not?” Murray was saying. “Mayhap I should use your own plan against you, instead. She clearly means something to you. If I take her from you, threaten you with her safety, mayhap you will do as I say.”

  Slowly, Domnall held up his hands in a show of surrender. “Dinnae hurt her.”

  Murray smiled coldly. “That’s more like it. Do not move.”

  He began inching toward the edge of the pond, pulling Ailsa along with him.

  Domnall lifted his gaze to hers. Her eyes were wide and sheened with frightened tears.

  “It will be all right,” he lied, his voice nearly crumbling to dust.

  His thoughts ground to a halt. All he could do was watch as Murray and Ailsa shuffled along. For all his plans, all the different ways he’d imagined it unfolding, he’d never in his worst nightmares thought it would end like this.

  Her foot slid out from under her and she jerked in Murray’s hold. Domnall’s stomach clenched sickeningly as her neck pressed into the arming sword, but somehow Murray managed to rebalance them both before he accidentally sliced into her throat.

  They were still at least ten paces from the pond’s edge. This torture, of watching his enemy drag away the woman he loved, felt like it would never end. And he was completely helpless, fixed in place and rendered impotent by the blade at Ailsa’s neck.

  A loud snap from the woods had them all jerking their heads around.

  Nay, it couldnae be.

  Fern came charging through the tree line, half the branch Domnall had secured him to tangled in his reins and dragging behind him. He barreled past Ailsa’s abandoned horse and straight onto the pond’s frozen surface.

  When his shod hooves met the ice, he was forced to slow and pick his footing more carefully, yet he continued on—right for Murray and Ailsa.