Page 52 of The Ruthless Highlander's Hellion
His eyes kept drifting to the shaded portion of land that belonged to the McLaren clan—Leo Rankin’s stronghold. Hisfingers dug into the table’s edge as he leaned forward, thoughts full of war and strategy.
"I daenae ken what horrors the lass might be facin’. And all because she dared protect Alexandra, who now carries the weight of that sacrifice like a stone on her back."
He muttered to himself, tracing a possible route through the glen where his men might travel unseen. The thought of Leo keeping Erica in chains—or worse—tightened his chest.
"O'Donnell?" A soft knock came to the door.
"Enter," Nicholas responded.
The door opened and Councilman Alan stepped into the room.
“Laird O’Donnell,” he said firmly, folding his arms, “I heard ye’ve scouts tailin’ Leo Rankin. Is it true?”
Nicholas didn’t look up from the map. “Aye, it’s true. I’d be a fool nae to keep eyes on a man that showed up at our gate makin’ demands.”
Alan took a step forward, his voice growing tighter. “That’s a dangerous game, Nicholas. Are ye plannin’ to bring war upon us? Over a woman?”
Nicholas straightened slowly and met the man’s gaze. “Watch yer tongue, Alan. That woman is under me protection.”
“She’s nae yer wife,” Alan snapped. “And she’s nae O’Donnell blood. Ye’ve a whole clan to think of, men with families, land to protect. Ye cannae be ruled by yer heart alone.”
Nicholas’s hand slammed against the table, rattling the ink pots. “And ye cannae tell me what I may or may nae do. I’m the laird here, and I’ll make the choices needed to keep this land safe—and its people.”
Alan didn’t flinch. “Exactly. So think of all yer people, nae just the bonnie lass who’s caught yer eye. Ye’ve got farmers who’ll suffer if ye send their sons to die in some bloody feud. Merchants who’ll lose their trade routes if Leo brings down retaliation.”
“I daenae plan to start a war,” Nicholas growled, though the fire in his eyes said otherwise. “But I’ll nae stand by and do naught while a friend—a good woman—is in the hands of a beast.”
Alan took a breath, steadied himself, in an attempt to restrain his fear of Nicholas, “Then perhaps if ye could find another way? Before lifting yer sword consider that the clan follows ye, no matter what happens. But the woman that was taken is nought more than a handmaid. It seems to be Leo has a rightful hold over that handmaid if it be true that she is indeed his sister. Do ye not think we should stay out of this?”
Nicholas turned his back on him, staring out the window, his jaw tight. “I’ll do what must be done.”
Alan gave a small nod. “Then make sure it’s for the right reasons and that it will nae bring war down upon us.”
Nicholas turned to face Alan directly. “I will consider yer advice as always, but you walk a thin line between advice and orders. I will nay accept to be disrespected by ye or the council in an effort to control me. Take those words to heart.”
With that, Alan bowed his head in acceptance and turned and walked out, the heavy door closing behind him with a thud.
Silence settled over the study once more, broken only by the soft crackle of the hearth. Nicholas stared at the map, but he saw none of it now. Alan’s words rang in his ears like bells—heavy, unwanted, but not without truth. He could not lead his people into needless bloodshed.
But the image of Alexandra crying herself to sleep, trembling in his arms, would not leave his mind. Nor would the fire in her voice when she spoke of rescuing Erica. The lass had been through too much already, and it clawed at Nicholas to see her suffer. He clenched his fists, wishing he could snap Leo Rankin’s neck with his bare hands.
Aye, maybe it is foolish to risk so much. Maybe it's mad.
But Nicholas knew he could not sit idle. Not when there was a chance—any chance—to bring peace to Alexandra’s heart and justice to the woman who had given up her freedom to protect her.
His eyes returned to the map, narrowing on a ridge to the north—unmarked trails, deep forests, and forgotten roads. But he would be relying on McLaren Castle to have some sort of hidden passage that they would have to bribe a guard to reveal.
Nicholas exhaled hard and rubbed a hand down his face. “Blast it, Alan,” he muttered. “Ye might be right… but I still cannae let her go.”
Later that night, the great hall of Castle O’Donnell glowed golden beneath rows of flickering torches. Laughter echoed through the rafters as men and women crowded the long oak tables, their goblets filled with mead and ale.
Platters of roasted venison, buttery neeps, and herb-stuffed pheasant were passed down the rows, accompanied by the scent of spiced apples and fresh oat bread. A trio of fiddlers played lively reels from the dais, while younger clansfolk spun in dancing circles near the hearth.
Nicholas sat at the high table, his arms folded as a half-eaten trencher of venison cooled before him. He kept his expression firm as he surveyed the room, nodding now and again to a loyal clansman or a passing servant. His people needed this—light in the dark, warmth after the storm. But as he reached for his cup, he frowned, noting the one absence that now gnawed at his thoughts.
Alexandra has nae come down.
The scrape of boots on stone pulled his attention to the far end of the hall.
