by Dee Davis
"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 y
ou 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.
CHAPTER 24
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 i
njured 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."
