Gavin said nothing else. Only one man would follow his wife. Against five if they’d somehow breeched the land, they’d have little chance.

Their worst fears were confirmed as they dropped anchor. Their men were already moving for the narrow paths, riderless mounts behind them.

Malcolm was back.

Not wasting time to lower the dory, Greylen and Gavin removed their boots and climbed the railing. Daggers in hand, swords across their backs, they jumped to the water below. Ian, Connell, and Duncan followed but seconds behind.

They reached the shore minutes later, where Hugh waited just beyond the water’s edge.

Greylen stood before his man, fixing him a stare that demanded answers.

Hugh began immediately. “Her medallions were found affixed to a tree by a dagger. ’Twas a struggle, Greylen. We found blood and strands of her hair, her wedding band as well,” he reported, holding out the items.

Greylen grasped his wife’s possessions, his heart plummeting as he waited for Hugh to continue.

“Kevin and Alex followed the tracks south. I’d just returned to gather the men when I saw the ship. The men wait in the bailey.”

“Who had her watch?” Greylen demanded through clenched teeth.

“She informed Alex that she would run the distance and was instructed to seek Kevin before leaving the area of the lake.” Hugh paused. “He never saw her, Greylen. Alex was relieved for a time, unaware she’d not returned until Lady Madelyn sought her to feed Tristan.”

“When did she leave?”

“Shortly after dawn.”

“How. Long. Hugh?” Greylen asked, enunciating each word through his teeth.

“Seven hours, Greylen. They’ve had her at least seven hours.”

“Disband the men. We ride alone.”

Greylen stormed through his chamber doors, allowing but a second of scrutiny as he took in its emptiness. He grabbed his boots, quickly pulling them in place before slipping his dagger inside. He reached within his wardrobe and removed a sealed jar atop the shelf. He opened it, spreading the blue paint across his forehead, cheeks, and more across his chest.

He left his chamber at the same moment Gavin left his. Gavin’s image was an exact reflection, as he, too, chose war paint. Isabelle was holding Tristan and met him on the landing. His son began to cry, reaching out with his arms. Greylen took him immediately, hushing his cry as he hugged him. He brushed some of the paint on his son’s forehead and cheeks.

“You’ve a wet nurse, Isabelle?” Greylen asked.

“No one feeds your son but me,” she returned, clearly challenging him to argue.

Greylen nodded his acknowledgment as he handed Tristan to her. Then he and Gavin took the stairs. Their men were waiting just below the steps. Within seconds they were racing through the night.