Page 56 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
“Where is she?” Ian asked without preamble. “Where’s Rhona?”
Baird’s hands stilled on the bandage. “I… we were separated when the attackers came. Last I saw she was with one of the village children – a wee boy wailin’ his head off. I shouted fer her tae get tae safety, but I dinnae…”
Safety.
The word mocked Ian like a curse. In a village under attack, where was safety? Where would a woman with no weapon but her courage take a terrified child?
“Which direction?” Ian’s voice was sharp with barely controlled urgency.
“Toward the grain stores, I think. But me laird, that was where the heaviest fightin’–”
Ian was already moving, his heart hammering against his ribs like a war drum while his instincts screamed in warning. The grain stores were exactly where the raiders had focused their attack – not because they particularly cared about destroying food supplies, but perhaps because they’d been looking for something. Someone.
They knew she was here. They knew exactly where tae find her.
The thought sent him urging Dubh faster through the village streets, past splintered wood and scraps of torn fabric, pools of spilled ale mixing with blood in the dirt. A merchant’s stall still smoldered nearby, filling the air with the putrid smell of burning wool and scorched grain. Other warriors were helping villagers restore order, but Ian’s focus was laser-sharp on one singular objective: finding Rhona before anyone else did.
He found Gavin and Malcolm near the blacksmith’s shop, both nursing minor wounds but otherwise intact. “The lady?” he said without preamble. “Have ye seen her?”
“Aye, me laird,” Gavin replied, his young face tight with worry. “When the raiders came I saw her grabbin’ wee Thomas MacTavish – he was standin’ right in the path of the horses. She was headin’ fer the grain stores.”
Baird was right. And that was where the fiercest fighting had taken place. Ian’s blood ran cold as he imagined Rhona caught inthe middle of that chaos, protecting a child with nothing but her own body as shield.
“That was the last ye saw of her?” he pressed.
“Aye, me laird. We tried tae follow, but the raiders were pushin’ us back. We held the line as long as we could, but–”
“Ye did well, lads.” Ian said as he moved onward. The grain stores stood at the edge of the village square, their thick stone walls blackened with smoke but still intact. The heavy wooden doors hung open, splintered and scarred from the battle, but there was no obvious sign of life within.
“Rhona!” he called, his voice echoing off the stone walls. “Rhona, where are ye?”
Silence answered him, broken only by the distant sounds of villagers beginning to clean up the aftermath of the attack. Ian’s heart clenched like a fist as he dismounted and approached the building on foot, his hand hovering instinctively over his sword’s hilt.
The interior was dim and dusty, filled with the scent of grain and the lingering smoke from the attack. Sacks of wheat and barley were scattered about, some split open where they’d been used as impromptu barricades. But there was no sign of Rhona or the child she’d supposedly been protecting.
“Me laird!”
The voice came from outside – one of his warriors calling from the square. Ian emerged from the grain store to find Callum running toward him, his face flushed with exertion.
“What is it, lad?”
“We’ve searched the entire village, me laird. Nay sign of the lady or the MacTavish bairn. But…” Callum hesitated, clearly unsure how to continue.
“But what?” Ian’s voice was deadly quiet.
“There’s a cart overturned near the furthest grains store, me laird. ‘Tis blockin’ the door completely. And…” the boy swallowed hard. “We thought we heard somethin’ from inside. Like someone callin’ out.”
Ian’s heart stopped, without another word, he ran toward the indicated building, his warriors falling in behind him like a pack of trained hunting hounds.
The scene that greeted them was precisely as Callum had described. A heavy wooden cart lay on its side in front of the storage building’s door, its contents scattered across the ground in testament to the carnage of the afternoon. The cart was large enough and positioned in such a way that it would be impossible to open the door from the inside – effectively trapping anyone within.
“Rhona!” Ian shouted, pressing his ear to the wooden door. “Rhona, are ye in there?”
For a moment, there was only silence. “Rhona!” he called again, harder this time. Then, faint but unmistakable, came the sound of his name being called from within. The voice was muffled by the thick wood, but Ian would have recognized it anywhere.
“Ian? Ian, we’re in here. We cannae get the door open.”
Relief flooded through him with such force that his knees nearly buckled.
