Page 90 of Promised to the Cursed Laird

He tsked and used his blade to trace the side of her cheek lightly without drawing blood. Blood from the blade smeared her cheek. She closed her eyes and swallowed, her heart pounding.

"Ye owed me naething, nae." He crouched slightly, bringing himself level with her, and she made herself hold his eyes rather than let him see her flinch. "But ye were the instrument that undid everything regardless. Dae ye understand what ye've done, simply by choosing him? A Chisholm bride, bound tae MacKinnon land under the Crown's own seal. That singular alliance makes the river land my family lost generations past unreachable forever."

She shifted and winced as pain shot through her knees. Cailleach carried on, his voice growing angrier with every word he said.

"Nae court in this kingdom would hear my claim again, once that Accord was sealed. I spent twenty years waiting for a crack in that wall, Neilina. A moment when the match might fail, when Fearchar's own doubt might undo it before it ever began. And then ye went and chose him. Freely. Ruined the one weakness I was counting on with nae more than yer own stubborn heart."

"Good," she said fiercly, despite the tremor she couldn't fully keep from her voice. "I'm glad I ruined it. I'd ruin it again, a hundred times over, before I'd let a man like ye take anything else from anyone ever again. I am nae responsible for the failure of a weak man, and I’d choose Marcas again every time."

He sneered, something ugly flickered across his face.

"Brave words, for a woman on her knees in her own hall." He straightened, looking past her toward the fighting still growing from somewhere deeper in the castle, the clash of steel, a man's shout cut short, the sound of men dying. "But words willnae save ye, nor will they save him. The longer this was lasts, the weaker the Accord looks tae every clan watching it. I need only keep MacKinnon bleeding long enough for others tae begin questioning whether the Crown’s grand settlement brought peace at all. A siege. A hostage. Enough uncertainty, and allies begin choosing whichever side looks strongest. Then I can take back what is mine."

"So just let me go, ye dinnae need me. What dae ye mean tae dae with me?"

"Kill ye," he said simply staring into the distance. His eyes came back to hers, flat and terrible. "Ye, Neilina, lying dead at his gates, left for the dogs would delay him a great deal more effectively than any siege I could mount."

Ice flooded through her, colder than anything she'd felt yet, and she heard herself speak without thinking, refusing to let the fear own her voice entirely.

"Ye'd murder me," she said, "tae win a stretch of grazing land yer own family lost before either of us was born."

"I'd murder considerably more than ye, lass, tae see it won." He drew his blade, unhurried, and the sound of it clearing the scabbard seemed to swallow every other sound in the hall. "Though I'd rather nae, if it can be avoided. Take her tae to east wing," he said, to the men still gripping her arms. "MacKinnon will come for her soon enough. When he does, he’ll see plainly what he stands tae lose if he doesnae surrender.

"Nae…please, nae—" She fought again, wild, desperate, as they hauled her up off her knees. "MARCAS!” she screamed, hoping desperately that her voice might carry through the castle. “Dinnae listen tae him! Dinnae ye dare surrender this castle for me, dae ye hear me⁠—"

"He'll hear ye plainly enough, I expect," Cailleach said, almost gently, falling into step behind the men dragging her toward the doors. "Men generally do, when the woman they love is screaming for them."

She twisted against the hands holding her and caught one blurred glimpse through the far archway. Fighting still raged beyond it—MacKinnon and Chisholm plaid tangled together, blades flashing g, men she recognized falling and rising and falling again. Then she screamed his name once more, raw and desperate, into the chaos.

"Marcas!"

And somewhere, through the screaming and the clash of steel and her own pounding heart, she thought she heard, distant but unmistakable, a voice roaring her name back.

Cailleach heard it too. She watched the cold settle into his face and he raised his blade, angling it toward her throat as the men forced her still.

"Let's see how fast he can run," he said.

Marcas shouted and drove his sword into the MacRath warrior, his arm already weary as he slammed his shoulder into another warrior.

Fearchar came up behind him with three MacKinnon warriors at his back, his sword already bloody, a gash running up his forearm.

"Marcas! What the devil is happening?"

Marcas parried a blow and drove his shoulder into the man before him, sending him staggering back. "They came through an old damned passage beneath the keep. "

Fearchar turned sharply. " A passage?"

"Aye. One nae one remembered existed."

For one heartbeat, they both stared at each other.

"That passage must have been sealed." Fearchar wiped the sweat from his brow.

"Not well enough, it seems."

Another MacRath warrior charged them, and Marcas caught the blow hard enough that the impact jarred his arm to the shoulder. The pain worsened.

"They knew exactly where tae come in," Marcas said, bringing his sword down against another man’s blade. "They’ve been inside long enough tae take the lower guardrooms."