Page 31 of Once Upon A Haunted Castle
And so it went. They searched the gardens, the stables, every chamber in the massive keep, every well, storehouse and hut. Every crofter’s hut. No sign of her.
“She’s gone,” Erik said accusingly. “What did ye say to her to make her leave?”
“I didna say naught.” Beiste had a feeling it wasn’t what he’d said necessarily—but the lack of what he’d been able to do for her. His failure to return her brother, except, dammit, he’d already done just that! Over a sennight ago!
“Then ’haps that’s what forced her away. Ye said naught.”
Beiste ground his teeth, not wanting to get into an argument with the lad, and feeling the need to rage all the same. “How could saying naught have made her leave?”
“Ye know nothing about women.” Erik shook his head and if Beiste hadn’t been on the edge of losing his temper, he might have laughed at how the roles seemed to be reversed.
But he was at the very precipice of madness and rage. Hands fisted at his side, he bellowed a war cry, punched the wattle and daub wall of the croft, leaving a massive dent, and let out a string of curses.
Who knew that the simple act of finding her gone would leave him so bereft? So angry? So lost…
Beiste grabbed up a bucket, flinging it over a hundred feet, then kicked a stone, ready to punch anyone who got in his way.
“My laird.” Gunnar’s stern voice was a wake-up call and Beiste glanced up to see his second-in-command staring him down. “We’ll find her.”
Beiste nodded, apologizing to the crofter whose house he’d just damaged, promising to see if repaired.
Only Gunnar knew the extent of his pain. Not that he’d ever told him, but the man had been around long enough to figure it out.
Another person he…cared about had gone missing. Beiste couldn’t bring himself to say how he really felt, for he’d only just realized it with the gut-wrenching that had torn through him. He was utterly, madly, deeply in love with Elle Cam’béal and she’d left him. Hadn’t believed in him.
“Stubborn wench,” Beiste growled.
Erik grunted. “Now ye’re starting to understand.”
Gunnar placed a firm grip on Beiste’s shoulder when he lurched forward to grapple the young laird.
“Best be keeping your opinions to yourself, lad,” Gunnar warned Erik.
Erik crossed his thin arms over his narrow chest. A lad, who had several years before he’d grow into a man. “I’m coming with ye.”
“Like hell,” Beiste growled. “I’ve searched half the damned countryside looking for ye. Ye’re going to stay right here and I’ll lock ye up if I have to.”
Erik narrowed his eyes, seemed on the brink of letting out a retort that would have Beiste boxing his ears, but then held his tongue.
“All right. But if ye dinna bring her back, then ye’re going to have me to deal with.”
Beiste raised his brow and the boy stood taller.
“I might only be a lad now, but one day I’ll be a man, Beiste MacDougall, and I’ve got the blood of leaders running through my veins.”
Beiste let out a fierce growl. “Ye’ll become the next Irish if ye keep it up.”
Erik knew what that meant, knew that Padrig Cam’béal had been at the mercy of the old Laird MacDougall. And while his eyes widened for a fraction of a second, then he was smiling.
“An honor. But one day, ye’ll see me as much more than that. I swear it.” And then he turned on his heel and headed back toward the castle like he owned the place.
Surprisingly, most of Beiste’s anger dissipated. Staring after the small form, head held high, Beiste felt a swell of pride.
