by Aileen Adams
“Ye dinna intend to fight, I hope, when the time comes.”
“And why not? You’ll be fighting.”
“Aye, but it isn’t the same.”
“Isn’t it, now? When your father goes on to his reward, ‘tis ye who’ll be laird of Clan Ross.”
“What there is of it,” Donnan muttered. He could all but taste the bitterness toward his brother.
“I know ye, and I know ye shall make a success of it as I did,” Padraig predicted. “Even so, ye happen to be the only son of your father who is bound to do anything for the clan.”
“That is so.” This Donnan knew to be true, for Ewan could not even deign to return home and make amends. The clan would be bound for disaster in his incapable hands.
“Perhaps ye ought not do this, then,” Padraig pointed out. “The future of your clan could be at stake.”
“Aye, and I’d vowed never to fight again.” A glance over his shoulder told him there was no danger of being overheard, as the men were busy talking among themselves. “I am weary of fighting. I’ve had enough of it to last the rest of my life.”
“Why do this, then? Surely not for Aleck Gordon. Ye saved his daughter from a terrible future; he shall make good on his part of your agreement, or I shall see to it that he does,” Padraig assured him, his voice grim with determination.
“Aye, I know ye would. It is not that, either.”
“What, then? Out with it.”
Another look over his shoulder. “It is personal for me.”
“I might have known.”
“Ye need not look so smug about it.”
“Do I look smug?” Padraig stroked several days’ growth of stubble. “The reason I grow this beard is to conceal when I looked smug.”
Donnan was not amused. “He struck her,” he growled. “Cameron. Demanded she marry him, and struck her when she refused. The bruise only just faded to where ye can barely notice it, but every day, I saw it, and it reminded me of what he did to her and how he thought he could place his hands upon her without anyone repaying him for it.”
Padraig was silent, smugness replaced with a look of anger.
He sneered at the image of Angus Cameron’s face. “I would like to bruise the side of his face and much worse for what he did to her. He locked her in a stable along with anyone else who dared oppose him. If anyone fights him face-to-face, it will be myself. I shall be certain he knows why I’m doing it and for whom.”
“I would not dare get in your way,” Padraig assured him without a hint of humor. “I’ve never had a woman of my own, but I would do the same in your place. I’m certain of it.”
“She is not my woman.”
Padraig rewarded this with a withering stare. “Come now. I didna only meet ye yesterday. From the time our fathers first met, we have been friends. I know ye well, and I know I’ve never seen ye wish to kill or even harm anyone—except for now, when it has to do with her.”
“That does not make her my woman. She is not.”
“She might as well be, if ye are willing to kill for her. And I believe that right now, were that man before us, ye would. I have no doubt.”
Neither did Donnan. He would happily have murdered Angus right then and there, and not only for Fenella, but for everyone he’d locked away. For everything he had planned to do, all the hurt he’d planned to cause.
They fell silent, the sound of hooves on the road echoing over and over until it seemed that was all there was in the world. He could not help but smile grimly to himself. He’d never thought to hear the sound of so many men riding at one time ever again.
Rodric and the rest were behind them, and the thought of them reminded Donnan once again of how Fenella wasn’t his. They had women, all of them, and all of them rode in somber silence as they did what needed to be done.
At least they knew their women waited for them, thought of them, perhaps counted the minutes until they were together again.
He knew Fenella would be furious with him. That was as far as his knowing went.
It was his fault. He might not have pushed her away. He might have welcomed her into his arms, might have kissed her again that night instead of making a damned fool of himself. Him and his pride. What good had it ever done?
When she had been so willing. So ready. So tender and kind.
He’d rewarded her, had he not?
It was a wonder she even wished to speak to him after that.
But she had. She’d done more than speak to him. She’d touched him without flinching, without wincing. As though she wanted to.
After he dealt with Angus Cameron, he would return and tell her he loved her.
And that he remembered the day he’d asked her to marry him as clearly as though it were yesterday.
“Now you’re the one who’s smiling,” Padraig muttered.
“And ye still look smug, whether or not that beard is in the way,” he retorted.
Padraig laughed and was about to respond when both their horses startled at a new sound. The pair pawed at the ground and pranced, suddenly taken with nerves.
“What is it?” Donnan asked, patting the beast’s neck while casting a look behind himself to where Quinn and Fergus had trouble controlling their mounts.
He exchanged a troubled look with Padraig, whose head moved back and forth as he surveyed the area. The woods on either side of the road were deserted—or, rather, they seemed that way, and had all the way through.
It wasn’t a noise coming from the woods which startled the animals so.
It was something behind them.
A murmur went up over the men, moving in a wave from the rear up to the front of the line. The two rows parted to allow a rider through.
The horse was in a lather, all but ready to drop on the spot, and the rider did not appear in much better shape—hair a tangled mess about her head, streaked in dust and sweat, panting so hard she could barely speak.
“Fenella?” He could hardly believe the sight of her, and that she was there before him.
She struggled to form words. “Cameron. Ye must pull back.”
He was by her side in an instant, helping her from the saddle. Her breath came in great, heaving gasps which shook her from head to foot as she leaned against him. “They’re coming. To head ye off.”
“How do ye know this?” Padraig asked.
“Malcolm… was on patrol… he saw them…” Her upturned gaze met Donnan’s. “Ye must pull back. Now. They wish to cut ye off before ye reach Ben Nevis.”
Donnan saw the entire plan as Angus Cameron must have conceived it. How he knew they were on their way was not for him to say, though for all any of them knew there could be spies throughout the Highlands working on his behalf.
He looked up, found Padraig staring at him. “We canna allow them to do this,” he snarled.
Padraig’s eyes rose, looking out into the depths of the woods. “It may already be too late,” he replied, his voice flat.
For now, Donnan heard it, too. Footfalls. Hooves. Snapping twigs, rustling leaves.
They’d arrived.
Rodric and Brice sprang into action, riding down the line to instruct the men to be on their guard as the sounds from the woods grew louder.
Donnan’s heart seized as he clutched the woman to him. Would that she were not there. “Take my horse!” he shouted, pushing her toward the prancing, nervous animal. “Get far away from here! Go to the Duncans, tell them what happened!”
“Nay! I will not leave ye!” She clutched the neck of his tunic. “I cannot! Please!”
His hands found her face, smoothing back the hair from her temples before holding her face still that he might look upon her one last time.
Her wide, wild eyes searched his. He would never see them again after this day, not when they were so heavily outnumbered. There would be no other chance to tell her.
“I love ye,” he shouted over the growing commotion. “I’ve always loved ye. And I do recall asking ye to marry me, Fenella
Gordon, and my offer still stands if ye would have me.”
“I would have ye,” she breathed just before their mouths crashed together in a hard, deep kiss tinged with desperation and panic and the sense that they would never have this chance again. Everything he had to say to her, everything he had ever or would ever feel, was in that single kiss.
She clung to him as though he were the only thing keeping her alive.
He broke away, pressed his lips to her forehead one last time before propelling her upward, onto the horse’s back, then slapped the beast’s rump with a roar that sent it galloping on down the road in the direction of the Duncans.
She looked back just once, hair waving behind her in a tangled brown banner, cheeks wet with fresh tears which cut lines through the dust.
24
Fenella knew. She knew.
Donnan reminded himself of this with every breath he took as he stood, shield and sword at the ready, staring into the woods.
He would fight whatever came out of there. However many there were.
While he would not have the chance to marry her, she knew he’d wished it so. And he knew she’d ridden for hours with the chance of danger all around. What if one of the Camerons had crossed her path as she rode like the devil himself were after her?
She must have loved him, the fierce, selfless, courageous lass.
Knowing he had her love gave him added strength and a sense of calm which seemed utterly out of place in such a situation, with untold numbers of men bent upon his destruction.
Padraig stood at his side, his normally calm expression replaced by a snarl worthy of even the most brutal warrior. A surge of pride ran through Donnan at this.
“Show yourselves, then!” Padraig bellowed toward the wood, where branches now swayed near enough to be seen. The enemy closed in. “We know ye happen to be there, Angus Cameron, if ye were man enough to do your own fightin’, that is!”
Donnan knew the man’s pride would not allow him to remain concealed after such a statement. Sure enough, a familiar face soon emerged, followed by the handful of men who seemed to follow his every step.
What must it have been like for them, Donnan wondered in some clear, rational part of his mind. They did nothing without him. Did they not see him for who he truly was? How could they not?
When Angus set eyes upon Donnan, his face darkened. “I didna think you’d have the nerve to stand in my presence again after what ye did.”
“To be fair, I didna know I would see ye today,” Donnan retorted. “And if I were to avoid being in your presence, it would not be because I feared ye. I simply prefer to forget ye exist.”
Shadows of the men he’d brought with him appeared in a long line. A glimpse now and then of a face, a flash of metal as a sword was drawn. So many of them.
“I welcomed this man into my home, as a friend,” Angus shouted, turning his head to the side that his men might hear him. “How did he repay my kindness? By taking what was mine, like a thief in the night. Hurrying her away. Freeing those I held for treason.”
“Treason?” Donnan laughed bitterly. “Children? Women? They were treasonous? For I saw them with my own eyes, which are just as good as they ever were. Children ye forced to live in their own filth, clinging to their mothers, weeping softly in the night. I heard it. I saw it, ye bastard!”
“Lies!” Angus barked. “All of it!”
“Who were your men feedin’ in the stables, then?” he challenged. “I saw them going back and forth with baskets. I dinna know their names, or I would call them out right now! But ye know who ye are, whoever ye happen to be!”
He would have wagered anything that the men were in the ranks somewhere, for he heard a muttering which rose in volume until it became something close to dissension.
“Dinna think ye own this man—or Clan Cameron—anything!” Donnan bellowed. “The man has lied to ye. He has played ye for fools. He has no intention of unitin’ the clans, or else why would he have brought ye down here to stop us before there was any talk of unitin’ with Clan Anderson?”
Padraig raised his voice as Donnan did. “Never did anyone come to me with talk of this! The first I heard of it was from this man!”
“Dinna fight his battle for him! He does not wish to unite us! He wishes to rule us!” Donnan screamed.
“Enough!” Angus rushed him without warning, barreling into him headfirst. He struck Donnan’s midsection, driving the wind from his lungs and knocking him to the ground.
Padraig continued shouting. “Dinna be a fool for this man or his clan! Dinna fight his war for him! He merely wishes to rule us, not to allow us to work together!”
Several of the men who’d stood behind Angus rushed forward, soon met by Rodric and the rest. Metal on metal, that familiar sound as swords clashed.
Donnan cared nothing for them. Only for the man standing over him, who drew back his leg to deliver a kick to Donnan’s ribs.
He rolled away in time, Angus’s forward motion knocking him off balance. Donnan landed a sharp kick to the back of the man’s knee and set him sprawling.
He took advantage of this, throwing himself on his back, slamming a knee into it before turning him over that they might be face-to-face.
Angus glared at him, his eyes wide and burning with hatred. Donnan struck him with a backhanded blow, fist closed, snapping Angus’s head to the side with the force of it.
It was not enough. It would never be enough.
Angus spat out a mouthful of blood, then laughed. “Ye think ye can make me look as hideous as yourself?” he asked, laughing again.
No. But he could try.
Donnan took a handful of the man’s tunic and pulled him upward, then drove a fist into his face. Again. Again. Splitting the lip, breaking the nose, blackening the eye.
All the while, Angus attempted to buck him off, but Donnan was just as large and threw his weight behind him, pinning him down before breaking the bones of his cheek.
“Coward!” he bellowed, landing another blow. Then another. “Liar! Thief!”
He pulled Angus closer, screaming into his bloodied face. “She will never be yours! She could never love ye!”
To his surprise, Angus smiled, his split lips opening to reveal bloodstained teeth. “I never said a thing about love.”
Padraig cried out, shouting, “Donnan! His dirk!”
The warning came a moment too late, as no sooner did the meaning of Padraig’s words become clear than a pain shot through Donnan’s side and around his back.
He snarled through it, reaching around to take hold of Angus’s wrist. He grasped it before the man could strike again, roaring with the effort of bringing his arm up and around.
Angus reached up, taking Donnan’s hair in one fist, holding his head still as the two of them fought for control of the dirk. The blade angled in, toward Donnan’s throat.
Donnan snarled, teeth gritted, the muscles of his arm straining as he fought to hold Angus’s arm back and with it the blade of the dirk. The blood-covered metal—his blood—moved closer, a bit at a time.
His arm was growing weak. His muscles twitched and ached from the effort.
He would die. He might already be dying, blood oozing down his back.
Fenella’s face flashed across his vision.
With another mighty roar, Donnan used his free hand to strike at Angus’s face. That one moment of surprise left him vulnerable, his grip on Donnan’s hair weakening enough that Donnan was able to pull away and slam his fist into the wrist beneath the dirk.
Angus released the weapon with an agonized scream, the dirk falling to the ground near Donnan’s knee. Donnan picked it up, still stained with his blood, and added Angus Cameron’s to it by plunging it into his chest.
Eyes as blue as the sky went wide, bulging from their sockets.
Then, there was blankness in those eyes.
Donnan rolled away from his foe, the pain now evident with every move he made. He reached back to touch tentative fingers
to the place where the pain began and stared at the blood which coated the tips, dripping onto his already stained tunic.
He was dying. Truly, this time. He would die.
All around him, the fighting continued, though not nearly as many of Angus’s men seemed to be involved as they had feared. Perhaps they had run away, knowing in their hearts that their cause was a lost one. That they had been lied to.
The very ground rumbled beneath his bleeding body as he sat with his back to the trunk of a tree, and Angus’s body on its back beside him. The tree shook as well, leading Donnan to question whether the very soil would split and swallow all of them.
He turned his head to the side, looking down the road.
He must have been dreaming—or half out of his mind as the life ran out of him.
For there were dozens of horses coming toward them at full gallop—fine, proud beasts ridden by proud men whose heads were held high.
And with them, a woman. The snarled mass of brown hair waved behind her, bouncing as she rode.
It could not have been true.
The Duncans were too far from where they fought. There was no chance of them arriving so quickly.
He knew in some clear part of his mind—the part that was still clear—that he merely saw what he wished was so. That his soul merely wished for him to see her one last time.
She was the last thing he saw before his eyes slid shut.
25
Fenella searched the scene of the battle, the road littered with broken, wounded men. She had never seen such bloodshed, and what was it for? Nothing. It accomplished nothing.
Where was he?
“Donnan!” she called out, as Jake Duncan and his men continued charging toward the battle.
“Enough of this!” he roared, as his men continued to ride through the fighting, cutting like a hot knife through tallow. “There will be no more fighting under the order of Phillip Duncan, Laird of Clan Duncan, unless ye wish for the full force of Clan Duncan to become involved!”
Fenella, meanwhile, dismounted and dashed into the fray.
