“Come to me, Frae,” he said, holding out his hand to her. Frae ripped off the blindfold and gag, leaping toward her brother. He could feel how she trembled, and he held her close to his side before Mirin embraced her.

Moray snickered, glancing over Jack. “You never said you were a bard.”

“You never asked,” Jack replied.

There were many things Jack needed to know. The questions were like a flood within him, and he wanted Moray Breccan to answer every single one.

That is, if Jack didn’t murder him. The temptation was keen, pounding in his skull as Moray continued to stare at him, unrepentant.

The Breccan was opening his mouth, beginning to say Adaira’s name.

Jack snapped. Reality began to overtake him, and he bared his teeth and swung the corner of his harp. It caught Moray in the side of his head.

Down he went into the grass, limp and pale. Blood began to pool in Moray’s golden hair.

Jack stared at the Breccan for a moment, wondering if he had just killed the Heir of the West.

“Jack . . .” Mirin sounded hesitant.

“Bind his wrists, Mum,” Jack said. His strength was waning. He could no longer stand and slowly sank to his knees. “We need to take him inside, tie him to a chair.” His hands were tingling, going numb. Jack’s harp tumbled to the ground. “Call for Adaira.”

It was his last request before he was captured by exhaustion. Jack sprawled facedown in the grass next to Moray Breccan.

His enemy.

His laird by half.

Chapter 25

Sidra was walking along the western road on the way to visit a patient when she heard Mirin’s voice on the wind. She was calling for Adaira, and she sounded desperate.

Concerned, Sidra quickened her pace, heading in the direction of Mirin’s croft. She veered from the road and trusted the hills, Yirr in her shadow. The land shifted for her, folding kilometers and flattening craggy slopes, urging her forward through deer trails in the heather.

She was anxious when she reached Mirin’s gate. By appearances, everything seemed well, and Sidra approached the front door.

“Mirin? Frae?” She knocked and waited. Sweat was beginning to seep through her dress when Sidra decided to open the door. “Hello?”

She ordered Yirr to wait for her in the yard and stepped inside the cottage. It was empty and dimly lit, all of the shutters latched save for one. The back door was cracked open, inviting a stream of morning light. Sidra set down her basket of herbs and slowly walked to it.

She stepped onto the rear stoop and was amazed to find Mirin and Frae attempting to drag a body through the garden. Sidra didn’t know what shocked her more: the blue plaid on the man, how his hands were bound, or the blood on Mirin’s dress as she struggled to haul him to the house.