"THE CUT-THROUGH TO THE pass is just beyond those rocks," Frazier said. "'Tis very narrow, ye ken."
"And you say it follows a burn?" Bram asked as they all pulled to a halt at the foot of the outcropping of rock.
"Aye, a wee wash o' water. Although with the spring thaw it'll be running higher than usual, I suppose."
"Any reason that would be a problem?" Ranald asked Frazier.
"Nay. 'Tis too small a stream to bother the horses. And toward the bottom, where the burn falls from the rocks to form pools, the pathway widens so that we willna have to cross the water. The pass dumps us right in to Alec Comyn's backyard."
"Is there anywhere to camp along the way?" asked Iain, his eyes moving from the rocky slope to the sky. "If not, then we'd best make camp here. We've only got a few hours of daylight left."
Frazier scratched his beard. "There's a copse of birch about halfway along. 'Twould be as good a place as any to camp for the night."
"And it would mean being closer to Comyn's holding at sunup." Bram couldn't keep the impatience out of his voice.
"Well, as much as I want to make the man pay for what he did to your father, I've got to be equally sure that we're not rushing into this like angry fools," Iain said.
Bram bit off his reply, clenching a fist as he tried to contain his frustration. He'd always been a man of action, and so was aching for a fight. Something to take the edge off his own guilt. About Lily, about his father, about everything. He felt as if he had no control, his life spiraling away from him without so much as a by your leave. It wasn't as if he couldn't handle the challenges, but to do so, he had to meet them head on. And all this prattle wasn't getting him any closer to his enemy.
"You're sure about this passage?" Ranald was asking, his cousin eyeing Frazier speculatively. "When was the last time you were up here?"
The older man shrugged. "'Twas last fall. Seamus and I went hunting."
"For Comyn cattle?" Ranald asked, raising his brows.
"Ach, no." Frazier shook his grizzled head. "No' to say that it wasn't tempting. But these old bones canna handle reiving. So we made do with smaller game. Pheasant and rabbits and such. Anyway, the point is the pass was clear then. As was the stand o' birch."
Bram looked to Iain and his cousin nodded.
"Best get to it then," Ranald said, urging his horse forward. "Time's a wastin'."
An hour or so later they were climbing full out, single file, following the path of the rushing burn. Water from the spring thaw sprang through gaps in the rocks, creating tiny waterfalls cascading down the craggy cliffs and swelling the stream with the runoff. Clumps of gorse clung to the rocky scree. In another few weeks, the mountains would be abloom, but for now everything was on the cusp, the predominate colors grey and green, leafy boughs of alder and birch blending in with the darker needles of the pines.
"We can make camp just around this bend," Frazier called out, swinging around to face Bram, who had been riding just behind him. And true to the old man's word, the trail widened, then disappeared as it was claimed by a grassy meadow ringed by a stand of birch.
"The trail continues o'er there." Frazier pointed to the far side of the clearing as Ranald and Iain pulled abreast of the two of them.
Bram turned his attention to the opening just beyond the trees, then urged his mare forward, crossing the meadow and pulling to a stop again just at the head of the narrowing canyon.
"Bollocks," Ranald grumbled as he reined in his horse. "We'll no' be going through that."
It looked as if half the mountain had come crashing down, the great piles of stones that now blocked the pass seeming to mock them with their impenetrability.
Bram blew out a slow, frustrated breath. "I canna see any way around it either." Both sides of the rock slide were flanked with rocky cliffs. The one on the right was covered with scree and stunted pines. The one to the left sheared off sharply, as if a mighty blacksmith had cleaved it in two.
"Looks as if it's been that way a while," Iain said as he and Frazier rode up beside them. "Look at the gorse growing amidst the rocks. And there's more growing on the cliff face."
"Must have happened this winter." Frazier frowned. "'Twas clear when I was last here. I swear it."
"No one doubts you, man," Ranald said, his tone affable.
"And whether it was here or no' doesn't change the fact that we canna go this way now." Iain and Ranald exchanged a telling look, and Bram wondered for the first time if they'd been wise to put their faith in Frazier. He was older even than Bram's father. And though he seemed spry enough, there was always the possibility that his mind wasn't as good as it had been.
A faded memory tugged at his brain. Something about Frazier. But that part of the conversation had been lost. It had been his father's next words that had stuck with Bram. The guardsman had suggested that Seamus consult with his son.
"The day I need my son's advice is the day I go to my grave," his father had scoffed. And Bram had stalked away in anger, his father's words echoing in his ears. Nothing he did was good enough for the old man. Seamus refused to accept the fact that Bram was a man grown. And a worthy one at that. Bram had more than proven it in service to both Moy and to his great uncle, Ian Ciar. But Seamus had never acknowledged any of it. And now… he never would.
"I think the best thing is to make camp," Iain was saying, the words pulling Bram's thoughts back to the present. "And rethink our strategy."
"From where I sit, we have only one option now," Bram replied. "We hit the Comyns head on. Attack them at Tigh an Droma."
"Aye, but by the time we manage to get there, Macniven will have surely made it back," Ranald cautioned. "Which means they'll know we're coming."
"And be more than ready for us," Iain added.
"Then we should go now," Bram said, scowling at his cousins. "Take them unaware. They'll never expect an attack at night."
"Ach, laddie, I'm afraid yer cousin is right." Frazier shook his head, his expression apologetic. "The horses are tired. We canna push them further. Best we rest and make our move with first light."
Bram opened his mouth to argue, then shut it again. Frazier was right. To attack now would be foolhardy. They needed a plan. And for that they needed time. With a curt nod to Frazier and his cousins, Bram wheeled his horse around and rode back across the clearing. It wasn't their fault. They hadn't caused the rock slide. But it seemed as if even the mountains themselves were on the Comyns' side.
Bram leapt down from his horse, handing the reins to one of Iain's men, then strode off for the solitude of the woods that ringed the clearing. They had to make plans, but first he needed time on his own. Time to fight his demons. Bram had spent the bulk of his childhood alone, a motherless child, roaming wild over the countryside, he and Robby getting into all kinds of mischief. He supposed they were lucky to have escaped without reckoning. But in truth, his father hadn't cared enough even to take him in hand.
It had only been when he'd gone to Moy and formed a friendship with his cousins that Bram had begun to believe he might have worth. Like Bram, Iain's father had never shown any feelings for his son. And Ranald, a third son, had always felt the odd man out. So the three of them had found common ground easily enough. But even then, Bram had never felt as if he truly belonged. Some part of him hungered for something more. Something that was only his.
Lily.
His heart clenched at the thought.
Lily, too, was alone in the world. And she belonged to him. Or she could have, if he hadn't walked away. Pain and guilt combined with his frustration over the rock slide, the resulting anger sending him thrashing through the trees. Why must everything be so difficult?
He pushed aside a low hanging branch and moved deeper into the woods. Quiet descended, all the noise from the men setting up camp behind him dying away. Above him he could hear the twitter of birds, but beyond that there was only the rushing of the stream and the whisper of the wind through the leaves.
He knelt beside the burn, his mind tumbling with unanswered questions. What if his uncle refused to accept that Bram wasn't a traitor? What if his father was never avenged? What if Ranald was right? What if, thanks to Macniven, the attack on Alec Comyn's holding proved to be a trap? And most importantly of all, what if he never saw Lily again?
He dipped his hand into the water, remembering the vision by the fire. Lily in the arms of another man. In his head, be believed Iain. Katherine's brother was not a threat. But in his heart? If he were honest, he'd admit to a shred of doubt. A smidgeon of fear. He'd thrown her away for the sake of his father. What if she could never forgive him for that? Or worse still, what if they were forever separated because of it? He'd chosen vengeance over love. Surely that must be a mortal sin? And yet, what choice did he have? He had nothing to offer Lily without clearing his name, and to do that he must face the Comyns.
'Twas a paradox of the very worst kind. Damned if he did—damned if he did not.
And what if his cousins were right? What if she had defied him? Come here on her own? How was he to protect her when he was here and she was God knows where? He slapped the burn with the flat of his hand, the water rippling in protest.
She was just a woman. It wasn't as if he'd never had another. Most lasses seemed to find him fair of face. Leastwise they offered themselves often enough. And he'd been more than happy to return the favor. But not a one of them had ever made him feel the way he felt about Lily. As if she'd become a part of him. In truth, without Lily his life would mean nothing. She was his heart. His soul.
She was everything.
He stared into the water, trying to conjure her image. See her face. Surely if she were here somewhere, he'd feel it. Know it.
Behind him the silence was broken. Harsh cries and the clank of metal against metal. Bram frowned, scrambling to make sense of the sounds as the reflection of something over his shoulder shifted, took form.
Not Lily.
A Comyn—claymore held high.
It seemed the choice was made, the battle at hand.
*****
"How's he doing?" Jeff asked, dropping down beside where Lily had resumed her position holding Robby's head in her lap.
"He's still breathing, which I'm going to take as a positive sign, but he hasn't regained consciousness."
It had been several hours since they'd cauterized the wound. The bleeding had stopped, although the injury was still fiery red, and from the feel of things Robby was running a fever. His head thrashed and he mumbled something too low for her to be able to make out the words.
Across the way, Fergus was tending the fire while William turned a spit holding roasting rabbit. William had snared the animal, and although a small part of Lily rejected the notion of eating Thumper, hunger and the need to survive held sway. Besides, the rabbit could be used to infuse a nice broth for Robby when he came to.
If he came to, a voice deep inside her goaded.
As if answering her thought, Robby moaned again, but his eyes remained closed.
"Do ye think you can get him to take a sip, lass?"
Lily looked up to find Fergus standing next to Jeff. "I can try," she offered. "He's still out, but he seems to be at least peripherally aware of what's going on around him."
Fergus nodded and handed Jeff a pewter tankard. "'Tis tea steeped from yarrow and some other herbs. Katherine always uses it when someone is in pain. And it's also supposed to suppress bleeding and help prevent putrification. Although I canna say that I believe wee plants can do all of that."
"Katherine did her dissertation on the use of Medieval plants. Funny how it's always the oddest pieces of information that turn out to be the most useful." Jeff shrugged. "I'm told she's turned into something of a healer."
"'Tis true," William said from across the fire. "She saved my leg and my life." His green eyes glittered with devotion. "I owe her everything."
"Well, now, lad, I think Iain might have something to say about that," Fergus said, his voice stern but kind.
William's face flushed a deep red—the color at odds with the fiery orange of his hair. "Well, I'd give my life for her, that's for sure."
"As would we," Jeff agreed as he gave the tankard to Lily.
Again she was surprised at the pang of jealousy their words brought. But then, that kind of dedication had to be earned. And Katherine had clearly surpassed the mark. Maybe someday she'd prove herself to these people as well. The thought brought her up short. It implied long term relationships, and to do that she'd have to stay. But if Bram didn't want her…
She blew out a breath and shook her head, forcing herself to concentrate on Robby. Sliding an arm beneath his shoulders, she lifted him up and pressed the rim of the tankard against his lips.
"Robby?" she crooned. "Can you hear me? I've got some tea for you. It's meant to make you better. Fergus made it." Robby was still, his eyes closed, his mouth shut.
"Come on then, lad," Fergus urged. "It's meant to help with the pain. Just one sip."
But again nothing happened.
Lily's eyes met Jeff's, telegraphing her worry. "He's got to take it. He's burning up."
Jeff leaned over Robby and cleared his throat. "Drink the tea, damn it."
Robby moaned once and obediently took a sip.
"Clearly you have the touch," Lily laughed, urging Robby to take another sip and then another. "Hopefully this will do some good." Robby groaned and she stroked his hair, trying to soothe him. "I feel so helpless."
"Naught left to do but wait," Fergus said, pushing to his feet and taking the tankard. "Might as well leave him be, and come have something to eat. Ye canna help him if ye make yourself sick."
"Fergus is right." Jeff nodded in agreement. "Robby needs to sleep and you need to eat. So settle him in and come have a bite." He too pushed to his feet, then after a last firm look, followed Fergus over to the fire and the roasting rabbit.
Lily watched as the three men talked in obvious camaraderie. The sun was almost gone, shadows lengthening with the advent of evening. The wind was cold, and she pulled her plaid closer around her, then carefully shifted Robby's head so that it rested on the makeshift pallet they'd constructed of piled leaves covered with a blanket. It wasn't much, but it was a far sight better than before they'd found him.
Robby moaned then mumbled something. Lily leaned closer to try and hear. He thrashed to the right and then seemed to settle, but his eyebrows drew together as he fought against something only he could see. "I'm sorry," he whispered.
"Shush," Lily soothed, laying her hand over his. "There's nothing to be sorry for."
"Nay," Robby shook his head again, obviously lost in a dream. "Nay. 'Tis a sorry friend I turned out to be."
"I don't believe that," Lily said, unable to stop herself.
"Traitor," he whispered, his words dying away and Lily shivered, her mind suddenly presenting her with a memory. Bram telling her about his father's death, and his friend's. Robby. Surely then this was Bram's oldest friend. And the man wasn't dead at all. But what did he mean 'traitor'? Bram had said that there must have been a traitor. Someone who helped Alec Comyn. Did Robby know who it was? Or worse still, was Robby the traitor?
She looked down at the man, discarding the thought even as she had it. When they'd first found him he'd mentioned being betrayed. Someone else was the traitor. And she'd lay odds he was responsible for Robby's injury. Anger flashed through her. Bram had lost so much. And now the fate of his oldest friend lay in her hands. And honest to God, she had no earthly idea what she was supposed to do.
But one thing was certain; she sure as hell wasn't going to give up.
The brush beneath the trees around the clearing rattled ominously. Shifting to protect Robby, she rose to her knees, watching as Fergus, William and Jeff reached for their weapons. Then suddenly, the clearing was full of men, all of them brandishing weapons. She reached for an arrow from her quiver, instinct alone helping her to lift and arm her bow. Pulling back, she centered her sights on a towering man holding a claymore.
For a moment the world narrowed to just the two of them. His green-eyed gaze met hers, his wild blue-black hair framing a face that was the masculine equivalent of her own. Air whooshed out of her lungs, but she held her position and stared defiantly into his eyes.