“We have to find her.”

Aidan stood in the hall with his sisters-in-law, Graeme, and Father Simon. He’d already wasted too much time waiting in the bakehouse for Clarissa to arrive. Perhaps he’d still be there, broken, if Allie hadn’t found him.

The dull ache in his chest had turned to raw fear in an instant. He’d assumed she was with Reid and Allie, that his silver-tongued Clarissa had convinced them to take her to Burness Abbey. Upon realizing the awful truth—that she’d gone alone—he’d gathered the others together to arrange a rescue mission. Aye, they needed to find her, but there were multiple roads she could have taken.

“I will take the old Roman road,” he announced. “Graeme—”

“North Ridge Way,” his brother said. “Let’s go.”

“We’ll send others on less likely paths, to be safe.”

“Aidan, wait.”

He and Graeme were already heading for the door when Allie stopped him.

“There’s no time.”

“You should know . . . this may be my fault,” Allie blurted.

He waited for her to explain, and when she didn’t, he was not feeling generous.

“Allie, what the hell do you mean?”

Her eyes darted to Reid, who’d followed Graeme and Father Simon out of the hall.

“I . . . we talked this morning, in the garden. And . . . oh God, I am so sorry.”

“What . . . did . . . you . . . say . . .”

“It wasn’t until we realized she was gone that I considered our conversation more carefully. We spoke of Covington and . . .” She swallowed hard. “She asked why I did not flee to Highgate End to escape the marriage.”

Aidan didn’t have time for this. “Allie—”

“I . . . told her that I stayed behind because I worried what would happen to Gillian if I broke the betrothal.”

“You told her the truth.”

Allie nodded, tears forming in the corner of her eyes.

He reached her in two strides. Wrapping his arms around her, he hugged his sister-in-law. “I would never fault you for telling the truth, Allie. It is not your fault she left. Clarissa has been scared from the moment we met. And ’tis something none of us can overcome for her.”

Releasing her, Aidan left to join the others. They would find her.

She may already be at Burness Abbey. She may already have joined the order.

The thought nearly brought Aidan to his knees. If she was already there, it was by her choice. But if not . . .

God, please do not let any harm come to her.

“Ready?” Graeme asked as he approached them.

He wasn’t, not really, but there was no hope for it. Grateful for his brother, who took charge, sending men out in every northward direction, Aidan mutely followed the others out of the great gatehouse. When Reid and Graeme took off on their respective paths, Aidan continued on his own—the most likely route to Burness Abbey. He told himself to slow down. Putting himself at risk would not help Clarissa’s cause, but his mind kept spinning ever-worsening visions of what could happen to her.

He was so distraught, he very nearly missed it.

Aidan wasn’t sure what made him look down at that exact moment, but he reared up at the sight of a glint of gold. Dismounting, he picked up the ring and immediately recognized it as Clarissa’s. Every hair on his body stood up straight as he searched the area.

Nothing except for dirt upset with the imprint of hoofmarks.

Something had happened.

Back on his horse, Aidan gripped the reins so tightly his knuckles turned white. He’d vowed to protect her, a vow he’d failed to uphold, but Clarissa was out here somewhere, and he would find her. And neither God nor the saints could save anyone who dared harm her.

“Aye, Jon. I am fine.”

She’d repeated the phrase so many times that Clarissa was sure he did not believe her. Perhaps because it was not exactly true. Her head hurt, but as she touched a finger to it, blood no longer stained her fingers. The small wound had dried, and though she knew little about injuries, Clarissa was sure it was not serious.

When she made the perhaps reckless decision to scramble for the dirk at her captor’s side, the thought of falling and breaking her neck had been real, but also had the visions of what her captor planned for her. He’d stopped briefly, just once, and allowed her to sit up in front of him. That’s when she noticed the dagger. The scene flashed before her again.

His smell nearly gagged her, but more importantly, they were stopped.

It had been the opportunity she’d waited for.

“What in the devil . . .”

Clarissa had stolen the small dagger and jammed it deep into his leg.

“God’s blood,” he roared as she’d taken advantage of his scream of surprise.

She fell, none too gracefully, from his horse. Her head had cracked the road, but Clarissa could not pause to bemoan the wound. Picking herself up, a quick feel of her temple confirming she had been, in fact, bleeding, Clarissa did the only thing she should.

Ran.

Clarissa knew she could not outrun a horse. There were trees, aye, but none thick enough for her to hide in. And her attacker would likely have been able to find her.

But that’s when she spotted Jon.

Clarissa had never seen a sight so welcome as the fletcher. As they rode, every noise making Clarissa jumpier than she was already, she learned the arrow maker had recently come to Highgate looking for work. She also learned that her unlikely helper had lost the gold ring in his hurry to rescue her from the reiver.

A good man, though a terrible guide.

Jon’s scream pierced the otherwise tentative quiet, sending her heart leaping into her throat. Luckily, she sat in front of him, so when he toppled to the ground, she managed to stay seated. Had the reiver come back? Was her friend dead? Clarissa dismounted before she could think it through, intent on helping Jon.

An anguished voice stopped her.

“Clarissa.”

She had just knelt beside the fletcher. Blood oozed from a dagger wound in his shoulder onto the dirt road beneath him.

“Aidan?”

He pulled her up so quickly, Clarissa would have fallen had he not steadied her.

“He’s hurt.” She tried to pull away.

Aidan spun her around, his gaze finding the wound on her head. “What happened to you? Did he—”

Finally breaking free, she scrambled back down to the ground. “He’s hurt,” she repeated. “His shoulder . . . Aidan, do something.”

When Aidan didn’t move, she realized how he had come by that wound. A dagger handle stuck out of his shoulder. She was going to be ill. Aidan had . . . he must have thought . . .

She stood and shoved him toward Jon, words tumbling out of her. “He did not hurt me. I hired him as a guide. He’s from Highgate, the—”

“Fletcher.” Finally, Aidan knelt down beside them. “How did he . . . Clarissa, did he do that to you?”

While Jon bled to death, Aidan glared at her head. Nay, nay, she could not allow him to die!

“Nay, it was not him,” she shouted. “I will explain later. Will you please help him?”

Jon groaned in response.

With a final glance at her, Aidan said, “Turn your head.”

She trusted him, and so she did as he asked.

Aidan was here.

She’d hardly had time to reconcile that fact in all the excitement. Had he come looking for her? She’d wondered if he would be too angry to want her back. Too angry to look for her. But this was, after all, Aidan. Protecting others was his specialty.

“Clarissa, hand me my waterskin.”

It took a moment for her to find it. When she turned back around, Clarissa froze.

Aidan was not wearing a surcoat. Or a shirt. His broad muscled shoulders moved in perfect unison as he ripped his linen shirt to shreds.

“Clarissa? The skin?”

“Ah . . . aye . . . the skin.” Thrusting it into his hands, she watched as Aidan proceeded to clean and wrap Jon’s wound. Or, more precisely, she watched his bare forearms as they worked quickly to bind the fletcher’s shoulder.

When she finally realized Jon was watching her watch Aidan, it was too late. Clarissa turned away from his knowing smile.

“Will he . . . live?” she asked Aidan in an undertone.

He laughed. The man actually laughed.

The devil take him.

“Aye, lass, he’ll live.”

Aidan stood and helped Jon to his feet. “Can you ride?”

Jon nodded. “Aye, milord.”

Aidan walked with him back to his mount. “I will escort the lady north,” he said. “Go back to Highgate and see that wound properly cleaned.”

But though he mounted, Jon did not move to do Aidan’s bidding.

“Can you find Highgate?” Aidan asked Jon.

Jon glanced at Clarissa, as if urging her to speak. She cleared her throat, gaining Aidan’s attention.

He turned to her, and Clarissa could have wept for the trouble she’d caused. Because of her, poor Jon had been wounded by Aidan’s hand. How he’d managed to sink a dirk into the man’s shoulder was a question for another time. She had neither seen nor heard him approach—nor had she seen the dagger that had evidently flown past her head.

Clarissa shuddered.

Aidan watched her.

“Jon and I . . .” She cleared her throat again. “We were not riding north,” she said, her voice shaking, though not nearly as violently as her hands. It was all simply too much.

“We were returning to Highgate End.”