She propped the weapon on the tea table and curled up beside her mother on the divan, determined to stay awake, listening to every sound—the howl of the wind, the occasional rattle of the shutters, the creaks of the cottage, the pop of the fire. Sounds that made her stiffen, until she set her head on Mirin’s lap and her mother caressed her hair, humming a happy song. A song Frae had not heard in a long time.

She drifted to sleep, but the stranger with his blue tattoos and his great horse followed her into her dreams.

Torin was standing on the hill between his croft and his father’s, desperate for an answer as to where his daughter had been taken. He always began in the place where Sidra had stabbed the culprit, following her descent down the hill until anger burned in his marrow. Sidra had lain here, unconscious for only the spirits knew how long. Whoever this man was, Torin was going to find and kill him. As he crouched in the crushed heather, he thought about how he would slowly end this person’s life. The sky above him teemed with stars and a waxing moon, and he let out a frustrated sigh when suddenly his left hand began to ache, as if he had plunged it into ice water. The throbbing quickly intensified, stealing his breath.

Torin waited for the pain to either subside or expand, counting the pulses. Five trespassers. He closed his eyes, seeing the place where the Breccans had crossed. The Elliotts’ croft.

He wanted to be surprised that the Breccans were raiding in summer, the day after the successful trade. But Torin could only chide himself.

He should have expected this.

He turned and ran back to the cottage, which was dark. Sidra was staying with Graeme at night, to Torin’s immense relief. He didn’t want her to be alone, and he couldn’t afford to sleep. Only a span of an hour here and there when his exhaustion was debilitating. But he had learned how to push his body, to find an unexpected thread of strength even when he felt like he had reached the end of himself.

He tapped into that source as he approached his stallion in the byre. Torin tacked and mounted him, then set off at a gallop along the western road, his teeth cutting the wind. When the road curved back to the east, Torin departed from it and rode across the hills, heading directly for the Elliotts’.

The raid might be over by the time he reached the farm, he thought with irritation. He hadn’t doubled the watchmen at the clan line yet; traditionally, he waited to do so until after the autumnal equinox, when the weather began to turn cold. This attack was very unexpected, and Torin felt scattered and unprepared. His eyes watered as the wind bit his face and clawed his hair.