MOVING ON INSTINCT ALONE, Bram pulled his claymore and sprang to his feet, dodging to the side as his enemy's broadsword cut through the space he'd just vacated. The man, enraged at his failure, turned and swung again. But this time Bram was ready, countering his opponent's parry with his own weapon, the jarring impact sending them both backward.
Circling each other now, Bram tuned out the sounds of battle coming from the campsite, concentrating on the man in front of him. He couldn't help his cousins until he managed to rid himself of his attacker.
The man was taller than Bram and broad as a tree, but Bram was quicker, and he knew how to press his advantage. "Come on then, let's see what you've got," he taunted, breaking to the right. The man snarled and lunged. Bram danced to the left, out of reach of his attacker's blade. Pivoting on his right foot, Bram swung the claymore, satisfied when it glanced off his opponent's arm.
With a cry of rage, blood dripping, the man lunged again, his sword nicking Bram's side. Looking down, he saw a fine line of blood seeping through the linen of his shirt. Pain sliced through him, but it only served to increase his determination.
"You have the luck of the devil, but you bleed like a man," his opponent taunted.
"No more than you." Bram moved out of range as the man swung again. "Tell me who you are and I might just let you go."
"Yer assuming you have the advantage." The man thrust again and their swords hit hard, the sound ringing through the forest. "But 'twill be a cold day in hell afore a Macgillivray takes a Comyn."
There it was then. By the man's own mouth. "So yer Alec's kinsman?"
"Aye, son o' Macniven." He moved as he spoke, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
"I believe I've met yer brother."
The big man's lips curled in a feral grin. "Ach, that you have. Canna say I'm sorry that he didn't kill you, though. Seeing as how it left the task to me."
Ignoring the pain in his side, Bram lifted his sword and feinted to the left, tricking the other man into following suit, and leaping forward. Bram lowered into a crouch and swung his sword, just catching the edge of Macniven's shoulder.
The man howled in pain, his eyes narrowing as he lunged forward again, slicing his claymore through the air. Bram danced back, managing to miss the blow. Once more they circled, changing places, and then moving back again, eyes locked as each waited for the other to act.
Blood stained Macniven's shirt and he was breathing hard, but Bram knew better than to assume an advantage. Macniven's eyes narrowed and Bram swung, parrying the other man's thrust. They circled once more and then a shout from the clearing behind Bram caught Macniven's attention. Taking advantage of the mistake, Bram moved back and to the right, his weapon arcing over his head in a full-blown attack.
The claymore cut through muscle and bone, and with a satisfied grunt, Bram pulled the weapon free. Macniven's eyes rolled back as he fell to the ground, his last breath hissing from his lips.
"Take that, you bloody bastard."
Again there was a shout from the clearing. Bram pulled his bloody sword free of Macniven's body and sprinted toward the fighting, his thoughts turning to his cousins and the battle they were obviously waging. God willing, they too were winning the day.
Suddenly, off to his left, a second man came charging through the undergrowth, broadsword at the ready. Bram swung his claymore using both hands, the force knocking the other man's blade free. With a second thrust the man was down, and Bram was running again.
He burst into the clearing, blood pumping, heart pounding.
Iain fought off to his left, and Ranald off to his right. There was no sign of Frazier, and Bram's gut twisted with worry, but there was no time for further thought. Iain struck a death blow, then both he and Bram ran for Ranald, who was still engaged in the fighting. He deftly fended off one man, only to have another rush him from behind. But Iain reached Ranald in time, drawing off the new attacker.
Iain and Ranald were back to back now, their opponents circling around them, crouched and ready. Behind them, a man on horseback urged his mount closer, clearly intending to push the odds into Comyn territory. Bram jumped onto a large boulder, lifting his claymore and swinging as the man rode by. The blow glanced off his thigh, but had the intended result. He swerved away from the two circling men just as Iain made his move, lunging forward to take out the man on the right.
Almost simultaneously, Ranald rushed the other man, their swords clanging as they jockeyed for position. The first man was down, most likely dead. And the horseman—apparently the leader—seemed to realize that the battle had swung in favor of Iain's men.
Wheeling his horse around, he let loose a cry that resounded off the rocks.
Men scrambled to horses and melted into the trees. Retreat.
One minute the clearing was ringing with swordplay and the next it was resoundingly quiet. Bodies littered the ground. Mostly the enemy, praise God. But Bram could see that at least some of Iain's men had been injured or killed. He walked quickly through the carnage, searching for Frazier.
"Bram," a voice from the trees called. "I'm here, lad."
He hastened into the cover of the trees, following the sound of Frazier's voice. "I'm coming."
The woods were gloomy after the faded light from the meadow and he stopped a moment to get his bearings. "Frazier, can you hear me? Are you hurt?"
"Not mortally," came the reply. "But I need your help."
Bram pushed through the undergrowth, whacking at saplings and bushes with his sword. "Hang on. I'm almost there."
Ahead of him, in the distance, a shadow loomed against a large tree. It shifted, and then he caught the glint of a sword. "Frazier, have a care," he called. "You're not alone."
Running now, mindless of the undergrowth, he hurried to aid his father's man. He burst into a small clearing by the burn. Frazier was standing by the tree, his weapon in hand, blood dripping from his leg. Frantically, he looked for signs of an attacker. Frazier took a step closer, his face pinched in pain and anger.
"Where's the other man?" Bram asked.
Frazier took another step. "I dinna ken. He was here and then gone. Mayhap you scared him."
Bram nodded, still on alert as he moved over to his father's captain. "Can you walk?"
"With yer help," he said.
Bram lowered his sword and moved closer to Frazier.
"'Tis how it must be, ye ken," he whispered as Bram reached out to give him support.
"Iain, they're over here," Ranald called as he came into the clearing.
Frazier's eyes narrowed, and then he sighed, squaring his shoulders, knuckles white around the hilt of his sword.
"Are either of you hurt?" Ranald asked. Iain followed on his heels.
"I've got a cut on my side, but I dinna think it's anything to worry o'er." Bram's gaze moved to Frazier. "But Frazier's been sliced at the knee. He needs help to walk."
"Nay, lad." Frazier shook his head, pride flashing in his eyes. "I think I can manage well enough."
"No point in suffering," Ranald said, coming to Frazier's other side. "Hand me your sword."
For a moment there was silence, and then Frazier nodded, handing the claymore to Ranald. Then Iain and Bram propped up the older man, and slowly the four of them walked back toward the camp.
"Truly it isna as bad as it looks," Frazier said. "Just a flesh wound, I've no doubt."
"Still, it can't hurt to take the weight off it until we've had the chance to look and be sure."
Frazier grumbled his acquiescence. And Iain grinned at Bram over the old man's head.
"Seems odd they'd retreat the way they did." Ranald frowned. "Not that I'm sad to see the backs of their sorry hides. Still, I'd have expected them to make a better show."
"We had them outnumbered," Iain said. "Their leader could see the way of it, and made the only call he could."
"To run away?" Ranald asked. "That doesna seem like the Comyns to me."
"I'll grant you that," Bram acknowledged. "Did you recognize the man on the horse? It canna have been Alec. The man had red hair. And Alec's is black as pitch, or so I've been told."
"Aye, I've seen him." Iain nodded. "Black hair and green eyes. Definitely no' the man on the horse. Or any other I saw, for that matter."
They'd reached the clearing. Iain's men were cleaning their wounds and gathering their belongings. Together Bram and Iain lowered Frazier down onto a large rock.
"But why would Alec Comyn have bothered to set a trap, for that is surely what this was, and then not have seen to the fighting himself? It certainly doesna track with what I've heard about the man." Ranald knelt at Frazier's feet and began inspecting the gash on his knee.
"Nor I." Iain frowned. "None of this feels right. It's as if we're missing something."
"I think it's just as it appears," Frazier argued. "Alec Comyn hasn't the bollocks to take us on himself. He'd rather sacrifice his underlings." He bit out an oath as Ranald cleaned his wound.
"You were right about the knee," Ranald said, tying a bit of linen around Frazier's leg. "'Tis no' much more than a scratch."
Frazier nodded and pushed to his feet. "What next?"
"We tend to my men's wounds." Iain's gaze moved over the meadow. "Bury our own and then we ride out."
"Now?" Frazier asked.
"Aye. There's still about an hour of light. We'll go back the way we came. I don't know about you, but I dinna relish making camp here amidst the carnage."
"And besides," Ranald said, moving to have a look at the gash on Bram's side, "staying here would be tantamount to waving a flag asking to be attacked. Between the landslide and the mountains, there's only one way out. And I dinna want to make it any easier for the Comyns to take another swipe at us."
"Aye, we'll find a safer place to make camp," Iain said. "And then tomorrow we'll ride on Tigh an Droma."
Bram clenched a fist as Ranald poured whisky on his wound. "If Alec Comyn willna come to us, then we'll just have to take the fight to him."
*****
"Holy Mary, mother o' God," a second dark-haired man swore, crossing himself. "She could be yer sister."
"Aye, that she could." The green-eyed man nodded, his gaze still locked on Lily's. "I'll thank you to drop the weapon, lass."
"Only if you drop yours," Lily said, lifting her chin and holding tight to the bow.
For a moment silence stretched through the clearing. Then the big man lowered his claymore. Slowly, Lily lowered the bow and dared to glance around. The rest of his men still held their weapons, as did Fergus, William and Jeff. All were staring at Lily and the green-eyed man. Their looks would be comical if the situation wasn't quite so dire.
Lily swallowed the bitter taste of fear. "You're Alec Comyn."
For a second the man's eyes widened in surprise, but just as quickly the expression was gone. "Aye. Have we met, then?"
"No." Lily shook her head. "But I've heard of you."
"And from the look on your face, I'd say 'twas nothing good." His face twitched in a sort of half smile and then he shifted his attention shifted to Fergus. "I take it you're the leader?" he asked, for the moment dismissing Lily. She fought a wave of resentment. It wasn't as if she wanted his attention, after all.
The older man's shoulders straightened, his gaze steady. "Fergus Mackintosh. I stand as captain to Iain Mackintosh of Duncreag."
"And your companions—are they Mackintoshes, too?" Alec eyed William and Jeff.
"Aye, that they are." Fergus' nod was curt but respectful.
"And what are you doing on my land?"
"We're standing escort for the lady." Fergus' heavy white brows drew together as he watched the younger man.
"I see." Alec shifted his attention back to Lily, his green eyes sparkling with some unnamed emotion. "And who exactly are you that they would be escorting you across my land?" Everyone's attention turned back to her, and she lifted her chin, her posture unconsciously regal.
"My name is Lily Chastain."
"A French name," Alec said, eyes narrowing.
"My father's, yes."
"And your mother's?"
"If you're asking if we share blood as well as a face, then yes—we do. My great-grandmother was a Macniven."
"It explains much." It seems Alec Comyn was a man of few words.
Behind her Robby shifted, trying to say something, but the words were garbled, distorted with his pain.
Alec's eyes narrowed again as he focused on the injured man. "And the man behind you? Is he why you're here, then?"
"No." Lily shook her head, lowering her guard to reach over to touch Robby's shoulder. "We found him here. He's been injured. We've tried to help him the best that we can. But the wound is bad and there's no telling how long he's been on his own out here."
"And do you know his name?"
"Yes." Lily's gaze locked with Alec's. "Robby Corley." She waited, watching for his reaction.
"From Dunbrae? And how exactly did he wind up here?"
Lily struggled to answer, wondering how much she should admit to knowing. She flickered a glance at Fergus, who lifted an eyebrow and then at Jeff, who shrugged. Great, no help from that corner. She looked back at her cousin—a hundred times removed or whatever. The man was family after all. Murderous, barbarous family—but still. Honesty it was.
"One of your men injured him. When you massacred the Macgillivrays." She sucked in a breath, watching her cousin for signs that she'd spoken rashly.
"I've massacred no one. In fact, I've no' set foot on Macgillivray lands in years." His eyes glinted with unspoken anger.
"Maybe you weren't there in person, but I was told that it was you who gave the order." Their green-eyed gazes collided, each of them sparking anger. It was like looking into some kind of fun-house mirror.
"As I said, I've ordered no one killed and my men have been with me," he insisted. "But I've a healer with me. If you like, I can have him see to the man."
"And finish what you started?" She pulled to her feet, blocking Alec's access to Robby, raising her bow again. "I hardly think so."
"You're no' one for believin' a man, now are you?"
Lily glanced over at her friends again. Fergus tipped his head, signaling her to answer. "No. I'm not." A lifetime of being the rich man's kid had taught her to be careful.
"I canna say I fault you." Alec smiled, and the transformation was almost shocking. To say that he'd looked fierce was an understatement, and now he seemed almost to be laughing at her. Or, just maybe, laughing with her. "One thing canna be doubted," he said. "You're most definitely a Comyn. Stubborn to the core. I swear to you, lass, I mean the man no harm."
Indecision washed through her. She didn't trust her cousin as far as she could throw him, but Robby needed help.
"Have your men discard their weapons," she ordered. Alec's warriors—for there was no doubt that's what they were—had moved closer. Her pronouncement caused a ripple of amusement. Clearly they were surprised that a woman had the audacity to stand up to their laird.
Alec's lips twitched, but he held her gaze. "You first." He nodded toward Fergus, William and Jeff.
"How about we do it at the same time?" Lily fought against a grin. Who the hell would have thought she'd be orchestrating a cease fire in the middle of the fifteenth century? She was from Fairfield county, for God's sake.
Alec nodded, sheathing his weapon.
Lily laid down her bow, praying she was making the right decision, but something about Alec made her believe him. Although the idea of that left so many unanswered questions she didn't even know where to begin.
Fergus released a gusty sigh and sheathed his claymore. The huge man beside Alec did the same. And the rest of the men, including William and Jeff, followed suit.
Alec motioned to a smaller man at the back of the crowd. "Come, see to him."
Lily stepped aside, but stood close as the man knelt beside Robby.
"I've promised you I'll no' let him come to harm. And I'm a man o' my word." Alec's voice came from close to her ear and she jumped. "Now tell, me, Lily, why are you truly here?"
Again she wondered at how much truth she should share. So much of it was overwhelming. Still she'd already admitted that she thought he was a killer—and he'd done no more than deny it. Maybe it was best to stick with as much truth as she could manage.
"I'm here for Bram Macgillivray."
This time the ripple in the crowd was anger, but Alec held up a hand, quieting his men. "And why would you be looking for him?"
Lily's chin lifted again. "Because I love him." Her gaze collided with Alec's. "And because the two of you are on a path of destruction that has to be stopped before one or both of you wind up dead."
"But I told you I dinna kill the man's father."
"Ah, but you're aware of the fact. I certainly didn't mention it." She was glaring at him now, feeling heat wash across her face.
"Blast it, woman, everyone knows about it. 'Tis no' a secret. And admitting that I know is no' the same as admitting my guilt." They squared off. "And while we're talking o' guilt, what does your mother think of her daughter conspiring with the enemy?"
"My mother is dead." The words fell into the clearing with the power of a broadsword, silence holding as the big man next to Alec crossed himself again.
"I'm sorry." Alec's voice was gruff with emotion. "And your father?"
"Dead as well. But don't go getting ideas that I'm suddenly under your wardship or something."
This last brought a smile. "I can see you're a woman with her own mind. But still—a Macgillivray?"
There was no reasoning with a Scot, clearly. They all seemed to come with the same thick head. "You and Bram are not as different as you might think. And besides, you can't help who you love. It just happens." Even when said person is from another century.
"And Bram Macgillivray—he loves you, too?"
The flush across her cheeks burned brighter. "I believe so."
"I'm not saying I doubt you. But you ken the last time a Macgillivray and a Comyn were together it dinna end so well."
Lily pulled the silver chain from beneath her shirt and plaid, lifting the ring for everyone to see. "Yes, Alec, I ken it well."