A Laird for Christmas by Gerri Russell Page B

back to life because of Jane and her brother Jacob. Only when he had befriended them and escaped the horrors of his own home had the endless twisting in his gut disappeared.
    A chill breeze teased the end of Jane’s hair against her neck, the same wind that caused his hair to ruffle against his forehead. He became acutely aware of the crisp scent of the forest they had left behind, the rhythmic soundof the wind in the grass, the bitter cold as it brushed his cheeks. The air seemed suddenly thick and hard to breathe.
    “Jane,” he said, forcing her name past the roughness in his throat. “I will make inquiries. I am well connected. Someone had to see them during the battle or after.”
    He did not say the word “dead.” He would find her something of the truth—give her some way to accept what had happened. He owed her that much, and more.
    “Thank you, Nicholas, for giving me something to hope for.”
    He smiled. “ ’Tis the season of hope. All things are possible at Christmastide.”
    She tipped her face up to greet the wind, and tendrils of hair brushed her temples and cheeks. “I keep forgetting it is the holiday season.”
    “I will see what I can do to help you remember that fact each and every day until Epiphany.”
    She smiled, a true smile this time. “I used to love this time of year.”
    “You will again,” he said, as they reached the approach to the castle.
    The drawbridge was down and the gates stood open. Why had they not closed the gates when the hunters left? Nicholas frowned. He would have to speak with the guardsmen about security. They could not afford any more vulnerability than they already had.
    They rode the rest of the distance in silence. The outer bailey was silent, eerily so. It was not until they entered the inner bailey that activity resumed. Six warriors stood next to their horses while others from the castle gathered around. As Nicholas and his party approached, all eyes turned toward them. A cry rose from the crowd and Margaret rushed toward them. Nicholas dismounted and assisted Jane, holding her close for one final moment before he set her on the ground. He kept hold of her hand as he led her from the horse toward her aunt.
    “Merciful heavens. What has happened?” Margaret asked, stopping before them. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes concerned as she studied the two of them from head to toe.
    “Jane was attacked during the hunt,” Nicholas said, releasing Jane’s hand.
    Nicholas’s gaze shifted to the unidentified warriors. Why were they not wearing their colors? Was it a mere coincidence that these men had arrived on Jane’s estate very shortly after she was attacked? Were these men responsible? He had an easier time believing these men were Jane’s attackers rather than the slip of a girl they had met in the woods. Nicholas gripped the hilt of his sword, ready to draw if necessary. The odds were against him should they attack, but he would not make their task easy.
    “We knew something was amiss when Jane’s horse returned on its own. I was preparing a party to go search just as these warriors arrived.” Margaret picked up Jane’s hands and intensely scrutinized her niece. “Are you hurt?”
    “I am well,” Jane reassured. “How is my horse?”
    Her aunt sighed. “She is in the stable with Ollie.”
    Nicholas maneuvered so that he was between the women and the men. His gaze fixed on a blond-haired man about his same age. The man’s gaze held anger, then resentment, as he studied Jane. Nicholas’s frown deepened. He tightened his grip on his sword. Was the warrior disappointed not to be among those invited to compete for Jane’s hand in marriage? Or was there something more at play here?
    Nicholas ran his gaze over the others, watching for any aggressive movement toward their swords. It was not until Nicholas sized up the oldest member of the group that recognition flared. Seamus MacGuire, one of his late father’s friends.
    The way the other men stood