"THIS IS ALL RATHER HARD to believe," Reginald Comyn said, his eyes still riveted on the ring.
Of course the Comyns didn't know the half of it. Although Lily had shared information with regard to the ring, she had no intention of mentioning her slips through time. Especially when said slips had led her to a Macgillivray. It didn't seem likely that her newly discovered cousins were still holding to the feud, but it didn't seem worth the risk of opening herself up to what were essentially strangers.
Although that's exactly what she'd done with Elaine, Jeff and the Abernathys. And if she were being totally honest, with Bram. Still, she'd shocked the Comyns enough for one day. Better to leave them trusting her sanity.
They'd retired back to the parlor, the smaller room much more comfortable. And frankly, Lily wasn't certain she wanted to be within range of the portrait. Something in it called to her. Tugged at her memory. She shook her head, forcing herself to concentrate on the conversation at hand.
"I know it's a lot to take in," she said, her gaze encompassing both Tildy and Reginald. "But there's certainly no denying that I have the ring."
"Or that your family has been in possession of it for centuries," Mrs. Abernathy added.
"I think it's a marvelous find," Tildy exclaimed. "And it's wonderful to find you as well, my dear. There are other Comyns about of course, but none that we can directly link to the legend." She smiled and poured Lily a second cup of tea.
"So since you obviously had no idea what you were walking into, what with the portrait and the legend and all, I presume you had some other reason for wanting to see us?" Reginald sat back in his wingchair, balancing a teacup and saucer on his knee.
"Yes." Lily returned Tildy's smile and accepted the replenished tea. "I've been doing some research. More relevant to me than I'd supposed." She exchanged a glance with Mrs. Abernathy, who nodded, urging her onward. "Anyway, I'm looking for information on a fight that may have taken place here at the manor. Sometime in the fifteenth century. When the tower house still stood. Alec Comyn would have been the laird."
Reginald set his teacup down and reached for a stack of files he'd brought from his office.
"Reginald is bit of an historian himself," Tildy said, while her husband sorted through the papers in the files.
"Ah, yes. I have it here. Alec Connal Nivan Comyn. Fourth laird of Tigh an Droma. He inherited from his father."
"Is there anything about his life? Particularly a battle or skirmish with the Macgillivrays?"
"In those days I'm afraid such fighting was rather common. Especially with a Macgillivray holding nearby."
"Dunbrae. Yes, we've been there," Lily said, trying to keep her emotions in check.
"I don't see anything specific." Reginald frowned as he thumbed through the contents of one folder. "No, wait. Here it is. There was a fight. In early May of 1468. Apparently a band of Macgillivrays, led by the son of the neighboring clan, along with a group from Clan Chattan attacked the tower. There aren't any specifics unfortunately. The only reason it's recorded at all is that the tower was damaged. But there are records of Alec beyond 1468, so you can rest easy knowing he survived the attack."
"And the Macgillivrays? Is there anything about them?"
Reginald studied the paper in his hand again. "No details. Other than that the Comyns held strong. Apparently the Macgillivray's leader was killed in the fray, and with him gone, the rest of his forces withdrew."
Lily's heart sank.
"My dear, you've gone quite white," Tildy said, her voice filled with concern. "Is everything okay?"
Lily opened her mouth, but words refused to follow, tears filling her eyes. Bram. Dear God. Bram.
"She's just a bit overwhelmed." Mrs. Abernathy was quick to fill the silence, her arm coming around Lily as she pulled her to her feet. "I think after everything that's happened, it might be best if I get her home. There's just too much to process."
"Yes. Yes, of course," Reginald, too, rose to his feet. "I wasn't thinking. I confess I'd never even considered the possibility that there was any truth to the old stories. And to find out that somehow there might be a link through my line—well, as you said, it is overwhelming. And I'm not the one who is a ringer for a dead woman."
"Reggie," Tildy chided as they all walked toward the door.
"It was lovely to meet you both," Mrs. Abernathy was saying, her arm still around Lily.
"Yes," Lily echoed, her heart still twisting at the news of Bram's defeat, and what appeared to be his death. If she'd been with him, maybe he'd… She shook her head. If she'd been there most likely she would be dead as well. But then it hadn't happened yet—had it? Her heart stuttered, hope blooming. Reginald had said May. The battle was in early May. But it was still the end of April.
Maybe there was something she could do. She squared her shoulders, determination replacing her anguish, her fingers closing around the ring. All she had to do was find her way back.
*****
"I canna see a blasted thing in this mist," Ranald groused, his face scrunched in disgust as they made their way across the rocky ground. "We might as well be blind."
"Aye," Iain agreed as they pulled their mounts to a stop at the crest of a hill. "'Tis only getting thicker. And the path here is treacherous." He nodded toward the rocky edge of the cliff, barely visible through the swirling fog.
"Best to stop here for the night, I'm thinking," Ranald offered.
Bram fought against frustration. "You sure we canna push a wee bit further?"
"Not with night falling." Iain shook his head. "There's a copse of trees just over there." He lifted a hand to indicate the shadowy outline of branches waving in the wind. "We can make camp just beyond it, at the base of the rocks." Granite thrust out of the earth like giants' fingers, the formation offering protection from the night.
"Aye, 'twould seem best," Ranald agreed.
Bram bit off an objection as he dismounted. There was no point in blaming Iain for the weather. Still, it rankled that they'd made little progress and now, thanks to the mist, were being forced to stop early for the night.
"Save your ire," Ranald said, slapping a beefy hand against Bram's shoulder, obviously recognizing his frame of mind. "There's naught to do but wait it out. And you know that's the truth of it."
"Besides," Iain added, "if we can't see then neither can our enemies. Which means that even if they're about, we should be safe enough here for now."
"You think they've sent more men, then?" Bram asked.
"Ye canna predict what a Comyn will do," Frazier said, pulling his horse to a halt next to Bram's. "Especially when angered."
"You canna predict at all to my way o' thinking." Ranald's grin loomed out of through the mist. "The only Comyn you can truly count on is a dead one."
"So we stay alert," Iain agreed. "But we still stop for the night. We dare not risk the horses. 'Tis too easy to stumble off the cliff in this mist."
Bram saw the truth in what Iain was saying, but that didn't make it any easier to stomach. He wanted it over with—the Comyns vanquished and Dunbrae restored to its rightful owner. His uncle be damned. There'd never been any love lost between Malcolm and Seamus. And clearly his uncle was not interested in reconciliation with his nephew. Otherwise he'd have quashed the rumors and called for Bram to come home.
Instead, the lies were still circulating, Bram's honor sullied by the innuendo. Anger forced his fingers into fists. He'd never felt so impotent. And leaving Lily had only made it all that much more unpalatable.
Although, in truth, had his father not been betrayed, he would never have been at the cottage and so never met her at all. Fate, it seemed, had a wicked sense of irony, the loss of his father leading to the love of his life. And now, it was possible that he'd lost her as well. For even if he did manage to vanquish Alec Comyn, there was no telling if he'd be able to find her again. And perchance that miracle were to occur, there was nothing to say that she'd forgive him for what she no doubt saw as a betrayal.
For the first time he wondered if the price of honor might not be too high.
He shook his head, banishing the thought. There was nothing more important. Were he here, his father would demand vengeance against both the Comyns and the brother who had so deftly put his son aside. And even if Bram could overlook all of that, there was the matter of his clansmen, slaughtered by the Comyns, many of them in an effort to let him slip away.
He owed them all his life, and that was a debt he intended to pay. Lily would simply have to understand. He'd make her see.
After he'd defeated Alec Comyn.
But first they had to wait out this damned weather.
With a start, Bram realized the hillside had gone quiet. While he'd stood there ruminating, his cousins and the rest of the men had disappeared into the mist. He strained into the silence, relieved when he could just make out the distant whinny of a horse. His own mount shuffled nervously, hoofs echoing against the loose rocks littering the hillside.
"Ho there," he soothed, reaching out to stroke the horse's flank. "'Tis nothing to be afraid of. Only a wee bit o' mist. Come now, and I'll find you some nice oats for your dinner."
He led the horse in the direction of the copse of trees. They moved slowly and carefully. As predicted, the mist had thickened. It would be easy to become disoriented. To the right he knew the cliff dropped away sharply. A wrong step and he'd surely fall to his death.
He squinted into the gloom, the movement of the shadowy branches in the distance barely visible. He hoped Iain was right and that there weren't enemies about. Fighting in the mist was a dangerous endeavor. One to be avoided if at all possible.
Bram stopped, frowning into the night. Even the shadows of the trees had disappeared. Silence surrounded him, only the soft hiss of the horse's breathing filling the air. He strained for some sign of the camp ahead. But there was nothing. No firelight. No neighing from the horses. Just the heavy weight of the mist as it swirled around them.
He led the horse forward again, their movements louder now as their footsteps rang against the stones, the sound still smothered by the mist. Each step was taken slowly, Bram's eyes locked on the ground in front of him. He trusted his sense of direction, but even so, knew it was easy to lose one's way in this heavy a fog.
Behind him stones rattled, and his horse reared in fright. Bram whirled around, pulling his claymore from the sheath against his back. The mist entombed them, the clearing gone quiet again. His horse skittered nervously, but held its ground. Bram waited, listening, and then chided himself for being so jumpy.
He slid the claymore back into its sheath and then picked up the horse's reins. Best to get on with it, before Ranald and Iain came looking for him. He'd never hear the end of it if they believed he'd managed to lose himself in the mist.
He took a step forward. And then another.
Then something hit him hard from behind. He stumbled forward as the horse screamed in fear and reared again, hooves flying through the air. He tried to turn to face his attacker, but instead he felt himself teetering at the edge of the cliff. Still reeling in fear, the horse pivoted and ran, the motion sending Bram backwards, arms flailing as he tried to find purchase, something—anything—to stop him from falling.
For a moment there was nothing but air, and then he felt the solid strength of an arm, fingers closing around his wrist as he was yanked from the precipice back onto firm ground.
Iain's face swam out of the mist. "Steady on. I've got you, now."
Bram released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding. "Holy Mary, mother of God, I thought I was done for. You always did have excellent timing."
Iain grinned. "I aim to please."
"How did you find me?" Bram asked. "You can barely see your hand in front of your face."
"You've the mare to thank for that. We heard her all the way from the encampment. She sounded like a banshee. Which had to mean trouble."
"I'm afraid she ran off." Bram grimaced, turning slowly to search for the horse.
"Dinna fash yourself. Ranald and Frazier have gone to find her. And if they miss her for the mist, she'll no doubt find her way to the other horses." Iain frowned. "So what happened to spook the beast?"
"I canna say for sure. We heard rocks fall and then I'm fairly certain someone pushed me. Although it could have been the horse. You're right. She was a wee bit crazed. In truth, I had no idea we'd gotten so close to the edge."
"'Tis easy enough to lose your bearings in a fog like this." He waved at the swirling mist.
"I'm just happy that you found me in time. I dinna think I could have saved myself." His heart had settled back to its normal rhythm, but that didn't mean he wasn't aware of how close he'd come to losing it all.
"I don't know." Iain shrugged. "I've seen you pull yourself from worse predicaments."
"Aye, but no' where I had to sprout wings."
Iain sobered, squatting down to inspect something in the muddy turf.
"What do you see?" Bram asked.
Iain shifted back, pointing at the ground. "It looks like it wasn't the horse."
Bram knelt beside his cousin, his breath hitching as he recognized the shape of a footprint. One that most definitely wasn't his.
Behind them something scraped against a stone.
Both men sprang to their feet, weapons drawn.
"Hold," Ranald called as he and Frazier emerged from the mist. "We come bearing gifts."
Bram sheathed his claymore, his pulse pounding again as he examined the man struggling between Ranald and Frazier.
"And who have we here?" Iain queried as he too sheathed his weapon.
"Canna say. The man willna talk to us," Ranald said, his eyes glittering with anger. "But I'm willing to bet he's no' here to make friends."
As if to prove the point, the man made a concerted effort to break free. But he was no match for Ranald and Frazier.
"To be sure, laddie," Frazier spat out, his grip tightening on the man's arm. "He's wearing Comyn colors."
Bram studied the man for a moment, noting the worn plaid. "Aye, but his eyes are dark and his hair a reddish brown."
"Not all of them are black haired and green eyed," Frazier grumbled.
"True enough," Iain nodded, his eyes too locked on the prisoner. "But whoever he may be, I'd be willing to bet he's the one who tried to push Bram o'er the cliff."