Page 53 of Promised to the Ruthless Laird
CHAPTER TWENTY
The rhythmic pounding of hooves echoed in Finley’s chest, each beat filling him with more rage, more determination.
He rode at the front of the column, the wind tugging at his dark cloak as his men followed behind, their faces determined, hardened by the years of training and warfare that had marked their lives.
The cold air bit at his skin, but it was nothing compared to the fury burning inside him. His fingers clenched tightly around the reins, the leather digging into his palms.
This was personal. Finley would have his sister back by nightfall, and if it took Laird Mackay's life to make that happen, then so be it.
His thoughts were consumed by dark images of Davina’s face, her sharp, intelligent eyes frantically scanning him forreassurance the last time he had seen her. The memory twisted in his chest, adding fuel to the burning fury that had been steadily building within him.
No one threatened his family. No one.
The castle loomed ahead, its dark stone walls towering against the pale sky. It was as ominous as its master. His mind flickered to the day before, when he and Edin had entered through its gates. He was glad he had left her at camp this time, despite her protests. He would never risk her in this war — not with so many lives about to be lost. He couldn’t bear the idea of losing her forever.
They’d arrived, and now, standing before the fortress gates, Finley allowed himself a moment to take in the sight.
Mackay’s army stood gathered outside, already prepared, already waiting. Laird Mackay, a gloomy figure even from this distance, stood at the front of his men, his eyes narrowing as he took in the sight of Finley’s force.
For a moment, everything seemed to stop.
Finley didn’t. He spurred his horse forward, the animal charging toward the castle gates with all the fury he could muster.
“Mackay!” The bellow tore from Finley’s throat, the sound echoing across the battlefield like a challenge thrown to the heavens themselves.
Across the field, Laird Mackay stood, his men a wall of steel and grit behind him. He did not flinch. Instead, he raised a hand, signaling his warriors to hold their ground until he had spoken.
And then, with slow, deliberate steps, Mackay advanced. His broad shoulders seemed to carry the weight of the war itself, and his face — unmoved, unreadable — was a study in control. Except for something in his eyes. Not fear. Not caution.
Hatred. Pure hatred.
“Well now,” Mackay called out, voice smooth, composed. “What have we here?” He tilted his head, considering Finley as though he were a simple, tedious insect, rather than a threat. “I must say, I’m almost impressed. Ye made it further than I expected.”
Finley’s nostrils flared, his blood hot as his grip tightened around his sword hilt. “Ye’ve taken something o’ mine, Mackay.” His voice was sharp enough to cut. “And I’ve come tae take it back.”
Mackay arched a brow, his smirk deepening. “Ah. The sister.” He exhaled, as though the subject bored him. “I did wonder how long it would take ye tae come sniffing around.” His pale eyes flickered with something cold, calculating. “It’s nae exactly a secret I intended tae keep hidden.”
Finley’s heart pounded against his ribs, his vision darkening at the edges. He spoke as if she was a thing. As if Davina — his own flesh and blood — was no more than a pawn in whatever twisted game Mackay was playing.
“Ye thought ye could keep her hidden forever?” his voice was steel, each word edged with barely restrained violence.
Mackay studied him, slow and deliberate, his burning gaze a noose tightening around Finley’s throat. And then, with a casual shrug, he said, “Perhaps.”
The single word sent fire through Finley’s veins. His breath came hard and fast, his control slipping, his vision tunneling on Mackay’s face — the smirk, the arrogance, the sheer indifference in his tone.
“So, ye’d wage war over a girl,” Mackay mused, tilting his head. “A reckless thing, Lennox. I’ll give ye one chance. Turn back now, and I’ll let ye keep yer life. Ye can go back tae yer sick faither.”
“Nay when ye’ve dared tae cross me and me family.” Finley’s voice was low, dangerous. He had never felt such anger before — boiling inside him, blurring his vision. “Nae when ye’ve held her captive.”
Mackay exhaled through his nose, a sound that might have been either disappointment or anger. “Then I suppose there’s naething left tae say.”
The battlefield held its breath.
Then Mackay raised his right hand.
The deafening cry of battle shattered the air.
Finley’s men surged forward, their rage breaking like a wave upon the enemy, the clash of steel ringing like a dirge. The ground trembled beneath them, the scent of blood thick in the air. But Finley saw none of it. None of the chaos, none of the bodies crashing together in a dance of violence.
