Chapter Twenty-Three

After securing a sword from the wall in the great hall then stopping by the kitchen to retrieve an extra dirk from one of the cooks, Isobel and Ian made their way down the winding steps to the shore. She didn’t care who saw them. She wanted Torsten’s attention on her instead of her husband.

The courtyard and grounds were eerily quiet, and she wasn’t sure if it was because an army of MacDonalds had gone to take care of the threat, or if the men who usually loitered about were inside because of the weather that was slowly clearing.

“Ye ken Grant is going to kill me if anything happens to ye,” Ian said as he pushed a small fishing vessel into the water.

“Are ye sure that thing will see us across?” She had doubts whether the boat would float, given the size and deterioration of the boards. She was also certain Ian was moving slow in order to ensure any conflict that arose would be ended before she could arrive.

“Aye. ’Twill move swift and nae leave me aching with fatigue by the time we reach the other shore.”

Ian and she spent the rest of the trip devising a plan as he filled her in on the location of all MacDonald men who had been sent to accompany Grant. Chances were all was settled already, but she had to know he was safe. The crushing weight on her chest wouldn’t go away. It was irrational, but she couldn’t trust anyone else to protect him.

Midway across the water, the drizzle ceased and the clouds parted to reveal the golden rays of the sun. Warmth spread over her skin, not from comfort but dread. She would defend Grant with her last breath if that’s what it took.

Ian used a large rope to tie off the boat then nodded in the direction of the tavern. “I’ll be right here with ye. I willnae let anything happen this time.” She guessed he’d been left behind because of his head injury, but Ian seemed to think he’d let Grant down and was attempting to make up for the incident in Edinburgh.

“He doesnae blame ye. Ye ken that?”

Ian took in a deep breath. “We’ll see what happens when he finds out I brought ye here.”

“Then stay close and I’ll let him ken how ye saved me from falling to my death from Cairntay’s walls.”

A few moments later, she caught a glimpse of the building, but just as Ian and she had discussed, she skirted around to the back where she would wait until he had determined whether Grant was safe. The MacDonald men motioned for her to back down, but she pressed forward to find a better hiding spot closer to the door. Their movements, however, were enough of a distraction that she tripped over something solid on the ground.

A body.

Three bodies. The forms didn’t look like MacDonald warriors. One man was overweight, the second was mere bones, the third was an older woman, an apron tied around her waist. It had to be the owners of the tavern.

What was going on in there?

Her chest caved in and ice formed in her veins. Was Grant in there by himself?

The sound of a woman screaming and children crying came as she scrambled to her feet, pulled up her skirts, and ran for the building. She could only hope Grant had not gone in there alone, and that he’d been prepared to fight. Her heart plummeted when the back door slammed open, and two men dragged a dazed Grant from the tavern.

Torsten emerged next, a devious smile on his lips. The smirk only intensified when he met her gaze then scanned the small clearing. Somehow, she found the courage to motion toward the woods, signaling Ian and the others to stand down. Otherwise, she wouldn’t be able to bargain with the man in front of her.

“Well, look who we have here.” Torsten stepped forward and she pulled the small sword from the sheath at her side. It was more like hers and would be easier to wield than Ian’s had been.

“Dinnae come closer.”

“Ye do look quite bonny now that yer not dressed like a man with dirt on yer face. There must be something good under that skirt. Ye should have seen the gold this fool was offering to keep ye.”

One of the men beside Grant held up a bag and smiled with a row of broken and missing teeth.

Defying her warning, Torsten took a step, his eyes darkening. “I may have to see what’s so special about ye on the way to hand ye over to my cousin.”

Grant attempted to get to his feet, a combination of pain and fear etched in his eyes. “Nae, Isobel, get out…”

One of the men punched her husband in his belly and he collapsed on the ground. A flashback of her maid Morna doing the same, just before she’d been assaulted, stabbed at her memory.

“Let him go.”

“Now why would I do that? He’s been harboring a fugitive.” Torsten’s tongue darted out, wetting his lips.

Save Grant first then the baby.

“Take me instead. Let him go, and I’ll turn myself over willingly.” Getting Grant to safety was the only thing that mattered. Ian had reluctantly agreed the life of the MacDonald heir was crucial to their clan and his well-being had to come first. Although he waited only yards behind her, she trusted him to stay back. It was the other MacDonald men who might mess up the plan.

“Nae,” Grant roared, but she couldn’t look at him.

“I think I’ll take ye both.”

“If ye kill him, the MacDonalds will never let ye live. Take me, and ye have a shot at making it home.” She had to speed this up before someone else showed. She couldn’t take all the men, but Ian was here, and she could see others flanking the area. All she had to do was take out Torsten.

“Nae, Isobel, ye cannae do this.” Grant somehow found it in his voice to make the words sound like an order, even as he struggled to win free from the men holding him.

“If ye kill him there will be a war.” She took a step toward Torsten. When he said nothing, she continued, “Ye must decide quick. There are others coming, and they willnae let ye go.”

“She’s telling the truth,” Torsten’s man holding a massive club called out. “If ye kill the MacDonald heir, we are all doomed. Take her and let’s go.”

She threw her sword down. “I willnae fight ye.”

“Do ye think me a fool, lass? ’Twill nae be yer only weapon.”

She could do this. She would sacrifice herself for Grant.

“Have yer men step away from him, and I’ll give them all up. I have to ken he is safe.”

“Isobel,” Grant fumed.

“The clan needs ye. They dinnae need me.” Tears stung the back of her eyes. She’d never told him what he meant to her. She’d never said the words, and now it would be too late. So he wouldn’t see her regret, she remained focused on Torsten.

At the nod of the Campbell in charge, his men backed away, keeping swords drawn in case Grant rose up. “Stay,” one of them ordered her husband and was met with projected fury so intense she saw the man shudder from this distance.

“Now, the rest of yer weapons.”

She reached behind her back, withdrew the dirk she’d slipped into the laces of the gown, and tossed it down in front of her.

“I ken that’s not all.”

“I’ll get rid of the last one, but ye all have to take another step away from Grant.”

Torsten nodded, moving to only a few paces away. He’d be on her before she had a chance to react if she gave it up too soon.

She pointed. “Tell them to back away.”

“Do as she says,” he ordered. “We’ll let the man go.”

Once they did, she pulled up the edge of her skirt and removed the sgian-dubh she had strapped to her stockings. “That’s all.” She tossed it into the pile.

“Untie the horses,” Torsten called over his shoulder as he grabbed her by the arm. A man holding a large sack started to work on the horses she’d seen behind the tavern. Then, he turned back to the other men. “Kill him.”

“Nae,” she screamed as her heart fell from her chest.

…

Despair overwhelmed Grant when Isobel offered herself over to the Campbell bastard. What would the Earl of Argyll do to her?

Damn, and she was with his child. He had to protect both of them. He’d spent most of his adulthood avoiding confrontation, but he would do whatever it took to keep his family safe. If he lost them, he lost everything.

He straightened his shoulders. A tug in his side confirmed he might have a broken rib, but he could fight through the pain. He just had to get his stubborn wife free. When he got her to safety, he was going to bend her over his knee, and he would skewer Ian for letting her out.

His gut twisted in knots, but he tamped it down. She needed him to keep a clear head. The men he’d brought with him were nearby, and the ones his father had sent earlier would cut off the Campbells’ escape. The MacDonalds would be on them before Torsten could get far.

The man was a shrewd arse, obviously determined to gain the admiration of the leader of the Covenanter forces. What if the bastard felt trapped and decided the next best thing to turning over the woman of the Resistance was killing her? Or just as bad, if he realized he couldn’t escape, he might try to take her down with him, just because he could.

Despite her abilities, Isobel was at a severe disadvantage. The Campbell man was large and while he didn’t have a weapon drawn, he carried several on him.

His gaze drifting around the group, he assessed each man, noting what his earlier mistake had been. The one who stood just a few yards away holding a hefty club had been the server. The haphazard assortment on the tray and the cold food should have been an indication something wasn’t right. He’d assumed the servant was a member of Clanranald, and he cursed himself for not recognizing the threat.

The faint call of a robin reached his ears, a sound that had become second nature, one that brought comfort and security. Then another, so low the Campbell men paid no heed. Another and then yet one more. The signal his men were in striking position and had cut off any means of escape. They wouldn’t let anything happen to Isobel.

Just as Torsten Campbell ordered his death, Ian emerged from behind a tree in perfect unison with Owen, Boyd, and Joseph. The men split the air with a battle cry, pulling attention away from him. He ignored the pain in his side and rose up to his full height.

Ian dashed forward and tossed a sword in his direction. Grant caught it by the hilt, just before the man who had punched him in his rib swung his claymore, aiming for the spot he’d kicked. Not yet having a solid grip due to the broad sword’s basket hilt, Grant swerved to avoid the blow, twirling and retreating to give himself time to adjust his fingering and gauge the confrontation.

All the Campbell men were covered, except for Torsten, who, instead of going for his weapon, struggled to keep a grip on a determined Isobel as she fought with the arse. Knowing she was safe for the moment, he focused on the man barreling toward him.

As his opponent swung, Grant noticed the slightly younger brute was skilled but impatient. He’d likely trained for several years, but had never seen real battle. He deflected the blow but nearly overcompensated with the unfamiliar sword. The sound of clashing metal rended the air, followed by the high-pitched squeal of the weapons sliding off each other.

His attacker recovered, gracefully returning to an offensive stance, ready to strike again. Grant did the same. And waited. Despite the straight posture and attention to the fight, a tremor shook his opponent’s hands. The man’s gaze darted about, likely searching for a means of escape or for reinforcements. There would be no help coming—the MacDonalds would have found and eliminated them by now.

This man appeared as if he might see reason, but unfortunately for him, time for negotiations and truces had passed.

No Campbell would ever return and threaten his wife. This ended today.

Now.

He swung. The brute raised his claymore to meet the strike, the weapons bouncing off each other with the force. Vibrations moved through his palm and up to his shoulder.

The Campbell man thrust again, lower and on the opposite side. Grant blocked it, but as he twisted to get into position, his side erupted in pain.

Pushing forward anyway, he volleyed another strike. It missed as the man danced out of reach. Another blow, this time up high, and Grant easily avoided it. One more in the same pattern was deflected, and the brute stumbled backward, winded. But Grant realized his surroundings had blurred. He had to blink to bring it back into focus, just as another assault came toward his midsection.

He blocked it, but his sword slid across the other and the man’s blade just missed his arm. Taking a deep breath, he tried to clear the numb feeling that invaded as their battle continued. It was getting worse with each movement.

He had to end this soon or risk real injury. He struck, fast and furious, swinging down with as much force as he could produce. The blow was deflected, but it had the desired effect—the man wobbled and almost lost control of his blade.

Grant didn’t give him time to recover, coming in low on the opposite side, hitting his mark then slicing into the man’s thigh. His opponent yelped then tried to catch Grant in the back, but he was prepared and already swinging down and across the man’s belly, where he connected when his sharp blade penetrated cloth then skin.

Claymore falling to the ground, the man tried to stop the red spilling from his gut, but the flow was too fast. The brute collapsed in the mud. Grant kicked him to make certain he was no longer a threat just as he heard the bastard holding Isobel scream, “Ye crazy wench.”

Icy dread impaled him when he saw crimson staining her arm and covering the front of her gown. Torsten glared at her as he jerked his hand high. The arse struck her with a closed fist and she staggered then fell to her knees while the man went for his sword.