Page 72 of The Highlander's Captured Bride
He tried his arms again and there was little give-way in the tightness binding him to the chair. The rope’s knots were under the arms of the chair, so he began to twist his wrist, working them up from underneath. The rope was rawhide so it rubbed his skin raw but he had to get free.
Gritting his teeth, he breathed through the pain and managed to get the tie to where he could lean over and use his teeth on it. His back stretched and strained just a little past bearable limit but he had the knot in his teeth and was working it. The light was dimming but he could not give up. If he did, he, Mister O’Cain, and Violet were as good as dead.
His jaw ached and his back smarted but he had to keep on. When the knot loosened, he attacked the other part with fervor and got the double knot loose. Triumphant, he shook the rope off and went to loosen his other hand, when he heard steps coming towards them.
“Damnation,” he grunted, as he tugged at the knot.
As he plucked the rope off, the door was pushed in and his uncle stepped in—holding a knife. Light cast him as a silhouette, and Ethan met his eyes for a fleeting heartbeat before his uncle lunged, and he was twisted out of the way.
He toppled with the chair upturned between him and his uncle, as his ankles were also tied to its legs. With his heart pounding in his ears, he shoved the chair into his uncle’s chest and was satisfied when he heard the man let out a loud distressed grunt. Then, as he dropped his legs, the wooden leg of the chair splintered in half and his leg was loose. His uncle rallied up while he was trying to untie his right leg and he was tackled to the ground. Madness was in his uncle’s eyes while Ethan grappled to stop the wicked blade from slicing through his throat.
“Ye’re possessed,” he grunted.
“Funny,” his uncle snarled. “Yer lady friend said the same thing. Good thing she in the dungeon. I can assure ye, I am as mad as yer faither is wise.”
Heaving him off, Ethan, though still hobbled by the chair tied to his leg, leaped to his feet and spun, accidentally slamming the back of his chair into his uncle’s head.
Callum folded to the floor dazed and the knife slipped from his grasp. He grabbed it and quickly cut through his bond and went to free O’Cain when the older man shook his head.
“Leave me,” he said hoarsely while Ethan was cutting though the binds around his legs. “Go find Violet. Go, now!”
Ethan paused and looked to make sure the man was lucid. The gleam in O’Cain’s bruised eye told him he was. Without another word, Ethan ran out of the room and darted down the stairs. He darted through the growing night to the bailey, but instead of going to the dungeons, took the spiral staircase to the top, open level where the distress horn rested on its iron stands, facing the outer lands.
The horn was made from the remains of a majestic wild steer his great-great-grandfather had killed back when those mystic creatures roamed the ice-capped plains of the northern lands was on its iron stands. He grabbed the horn and took a precious moment to catch his breath.
Sucking in deeply so his lungs were filled, he put his mouth on the opening and blew. The booming but long and mournful sound was in the air until his lungs burned and he pulled away to suck into another breath. As he blew again, a hand grabbed at him, he was yanked away and a fist met his jaw.
His head snapped back as pain lanced through his face, rippling to the back of his head. Ethan tripped over his feet and slammed his head on the cold brick. His uncle was over him, delivering a barrage of blows. His military training kicked in and he reacted, finding the soft spot on his uncle’s chest and jabbing his fist there.
Callum howled and shrunk away as his body, never honed to fight, became Ethan’s focus point. He slammed his palm on Callum’s temple, jabbed his knee into his stomach and sent him to the floor groaning. Not wasting time, Ethan ran down the stairs and took to the slender spiral down to the dungeon. Then—he ran headfirst into the door, thesecurelylocked door.
“Blood and thunder!” he snarled, banging on the door. “Violet! Love, I’m here. I’m coming for ye.”
He heard scuffles and then a thump came from the other side, followed by Violet’s muffled voice, “Ethan?”
“Aye,” he said. “Hold fast, love, I’ll be back.”
Pausing to press a hand to his throbbing head, Ethan turned and ran back. His uncle had to have the key with him and dead or alive, Ethan was going to get it. He emerged at the top level to screaming bedlam coming from the outside. Night had descended and even that was not enough, thick fog from the loch made the war below rather ghostly.
He saw MacTyre flash by him and realized, his men were warring with the mercenaries his uncles had brought in, the speeds of their swords silver flicks in the ethereal light. He spun to dart up the stairs only to have the door be kicked in and men sprawl into the room. Adair was holding his own against an armed brute the size of a cannon yielding a halberd.
A fist rammed into his side gut sending him flailing sideways but, he got his balance back to dodge the next swing. Dropping low to tackle his assailant, he plowed his fists into the man’s body until his opponent lay out cold on the ground. He dashed to the stairway that was blocked by more men and more attacks.
He bore away through the human blockade—earning himself an aching shoulder and smarting fists—to get back to the open level where the horn was to find his uncle—gone. In a flash, he knew where his uncle was and cursed himself. Darting back down the stairs, he ran to the dungeon and darted through the open door to nearly have his heart fail him.
Callum had an arm around Violet, and a knife to her throat. She was struggling, clawing at his arms and gasping for breath. He braced his hands on the wall to gasp in air, “Let her go, ye traitorous bastard!”
“Is that how ye talk to yer elder?” Callum sneered, “Nay wonder yer bloodline was doomed to die out.”
“Only because ye put yer hand to it,” Ethan snarled while looking for a way to get Violet away from him. “Ye killed yer own nephew!” He roared.
A sinister laugh came from his uncle, “I’m surprised yer maither did not birth Finley as invalid as addled she is.”
Ethan stopped cold as suspicion sank into his gut, “…What did ye dae to me maither?”
“I was the one who saw yer mother first, at Edina,” he spat. “But she chose to marry yer faither rather than me. So, I went to England and found a nifty little chemist who made almost undetectable poisons and such. I came back and administered a small dose to her evening tea. The next morn—” he laughed, “—she became a nervous lunatic.”
Poisonous fury burned every drop of blood in his body and it was just the glint of the knife hovering inches away from his love’s pulsing neck that stopped him from lunging himself at the two of them.
