by Dee Davis
"I'm fine."
Jeff shrugged. "Do you think we need to dress for dinner here?"
Katherine dropped her braid and stretched out on the bed. "Yeah, probably a little. But you don't have to break out a tux. I'll see you in half an hour."
Jeff turned to the door, still lugging his bag. He smiled at Katherine over his shoulder. "It's going to be all right. Now that we're here those dreams of yours will soon be history."
Katherine watched the door close and then turned to look out the window. Tears filled her eyes. The problem was, she didn't want the dreams to be history. She wanted the dreams to be real.
Chapter 5
"BUT YOU'VE ONLY just arrived." Sorcha shielded her eyes with one hand as she stood in the courtyard.
Iain regarded her dispassionately. She'd been hovering ever since he'd arrived. It was both touching and annoying. "I've a need to see my land, woman. We'll be gone no more than a se'nnight, probably less. Fergus will be here to see to your protection." He bent to examine Sian's forelegs and hooves.
"And who'll be protecting you, I'd like to know?" Sorcha shifted to stand with both hands fisted on her hips.
Iain looked up at her, still holding the horse's leg. "I'm no' a wee boy, Auntie Sorcha. I can take care of myself. Besides, I'll have Ranald with me. And a man couldna ask for a better companion." Iain rose, turning to check his saddle. "Dinna fash yourself. There is little chance of harm befalling us. And if it does, I've no doubt we'll o'ercome it."
He exchanged a glance with Ranald while tightening Sian's girth. "It willna be the first time we've found ourselves forced to depend on each other, aye?"
Ranald nodded and grinned. "Aye, a little excitement is just what I'm needing. Something to stir the blood and keep me from going soft."
"Humph." Sorcha eyed them both with a mixture of exasperation and concern. "Well, you'll be needing food for the journey." With a shrug, she called to a large red-faced woman coming down the entrance steps. "Flora, see what you can find from the kitchen for the Laird. And mind that it's fresh."
The woman stopped and, like Sorcha, moved her hand to shield her eyes from the sun. She bobbed in a sort of curtsy. "I'll no' be but just a moment." She hurried back the way she had come.
Sorcha tipped her head up, squinting at Iain. "You'll be taking some of the men as well?"
"Aye, a few. But I'll leave the main body here to stand in protection of Duncreag." He paused in his preparations and eyed Sorcha curiously. What was the old woman up to now? "You sound as if you expect something to happen. Are you no' telling me all you know?"
"Nay, there's naught to tell. 'Tis only that we've just gotten you home. I hate to see you gone again." Sorcha licked her thin lips nervously. "We've only just lost your puir father. The people need time to adjust to a new laird and 'tis a hard thing to do when that Laird is off gallivanting around the countryside."
"Enough, woman. I'm the Laird and I'll go as I please and no' be mollycoddled by the likes o' you." Iain swung up into the saddle.
Sorcha trotted to his side, her bony hand clutching his arm. "Be careful. That's all I'm asking." Her gaze held Iain's for a moment.
He covered her hand with his, wishing he could read the message in her dark eyes. "Have no fear for me. Auntie."
Flora appeared at Sorcha's elbow, a large sack in hand. "Here ye are. Oats fer yer parritch and some bread and cheese."
She reached up, handing the sack to Iain, her ruddy face growing even redder when he smiled at her. "God go with ye."
Iain nodded and urged Sian forward, watching as his men rode toward the tower gate. He turned once, looking behind him and was surprised to see Alasdair gripping Sorcha's arm, his usually unreadable face mottled with anger.
As he moved to ride back, his aunt jerked away, her shrill voice carrying across the courtyard. "I'll see you in hell, Alasdair Davidson, afore that happens."
Iain smiled, turning his horse back toward the gate. Sorcha obviously had things well in hand. He sighed. Hopefully, she'd keep watch over Alasdair until they returned. Truth be told, he didn't trust the man. But perhaps, in Sorcha, Alasdair had met his match.
*****
"There's a wee loch a bit ahead. I'd say 'tis as good a place as any to stay the night." Iain turned in his saddle to look back at Ranald.
"Aye, I'm ready for a bit of a rest. 'Tis a large holding you have here. I thought perhaps you intended on my seeing it all in one day." Ranald pulled up to ride abreast of Iain. "Tell me, cousin, have you given any thought at all to the fair Ailis?"
Iain looked out over the rocky crag. "Nay, should I have?"
"Well, you're no' getting any younger and she is a comely thing. You can't marry a fantasy, you know. And I suspect there are worse fates than having that sweet young maid in your bed."
Iain studied Ranald's face. "Maybe I should be asking if you've been thinking of... what did you call her? 'Fair Ailis'?"
"Aye, well, a man would have to be blind no' to notice her. Her hair is so pale it's almost white. And you have to admit she is fair of face."
"True enough. But I'll no' marry her."
Ranald shrugged and let out a dramatic sigh. "Well, I promised Auntie Sorcha I'd speak to you of the matter. She seems to think that Ailis is the perfect lass to become mistress of Duncreag. I told her you had definite ideas about wedding and that I didna think Ailis was part of those plans."
Iain frowned, anger swelling inside him. "What else did you say to her?"
"Easy, cousin, I said naught of your passion for a dream woman. I think those feelings are best kept between us. I wouldna want your folk thinking their new Laird is no' quite right in the head."
Iain relaxed. "Since when do you jump to do our auntie's bidding?"
Ranald had the grace to look a bit embarrassed. "When she promises me some of Flora's fresh pastries."
"So, you can be bought for a bilberry tart. As little as that then?"
"Nay." Ranald tried his best to look offended. "I'll have you know I canna be bought for less than three o' the wee pies."
They laughed together and rode on in companionable silence. The late afternoon sun moved out from behind a cloud, illuminating the narrow gorge as they passed through it. The sunlight turned the leaves of a small stand of birch to a greenish gold. The wind whispered over the rocky ground, lifting Iain's hair with gentle fingers. The mountainsides were yellow with broom and gorse. Here and there the purple of rhododendron flowers peeked out of clusters of dark glossy leaves.
From somewhere off to the left a bird called. Iain caught a flash of red from the corner of his eye and turned to see a crossbill fly low into the trees. Off to the right, he could just see the silver of a tumble of water. As winter snows began to melt, spring always brought waterfalls to the Highlands. To his way of thinking, it symbolized new life, his life, a new beginning as Laird of Duncreag.
Without a conscious shift of thought, his mind turned to her. He would give years of his life to be able to show her his holding. He imagined her sitting here on Sian just in front of him, his arms holding her close. He shifted uncomfortably in his saddle as his body began reacting to his thoughts.
"I thought you told me your cattle were all in the high country." Ranald's voice was low and cautious.
Iain snapped out of his reverie. Ranald sat motionless. He pulled Sian to a stop, holding up a hand to warn the men behind them. "Aye, they are." He spoke quietly, all his attention focused on Ranald.
"Then what are those?" Ranald pointed in the direction of a group of trees seemingly growing out of the rocks.
Iain squinted into the sunlight. He could make out the dark reddish color of Highland cattle. Focusing intently on the small clearing beyond the trees, his eyes picked out at least five of the beasts, though at this distance, it was hard to be certain.
"Looks to be cattle, my cattle. But I've no explanation as to why they're here. Unless ..." Iain bit off the word and gestured to Ranald to move back into the shelter of the rocks and
trees. A group of men moved into the clearing. They were all on horseback and seemed intent upon the cattle.
"Reivers." Iain spit the word out in a whispered hiss. His hand closed automatically over the hilt of his claymore. He tightened his grip, feeling his muscles flex as he moved to unsheathe it.
"Nay." The single word cut through the silence, slicing through Iain's anger. Ranald grasped Iain's wrist. "No' yet." With the words, rational thought returned. Ranald relaxed his grip and Iain released the pommel of his sword, knowing it would be foolhardy to race into the glen without an organized assault.
With a quick gesture, Iain signaled his clansmen, and they dismounted, moving swiftly, melting into the deeper shadows of the mountain's rocky terrain. Iain and Ranald followed suit, and then carefully made their way up a steep slope to a promontory of rock that afforded a good view of the clearing below. Cattle ambled through the meadow, heading for the rocky gorge where Iain and his men waited, their shaggy red-brown coats blending with the tall grass of the meadow. Just behind them, partially hidden by the trees, Iain could make out the muted red and gray of a plaid.
"I count five men on horseback." Ranald spoke barely above a whisper, his ear just inches from Iain's as they lay on their bellies watching the small clearing below.
"Nay, there is a sixth horse o'er there in the shelter of those trees."
"Ach, you're right. I can see the wee beastie's tail." Ranald slid forward a few inches in an effort to try and see more clearly. "What do you want to do then? Attack or wait?"
Iain looked down at the group of animals and men. The men were moving into the clearing now, oblivious to the fact that they had an audience. They were talking and laughing, obviously in no great hurry.
Again, he felt his anger rise. He clenched his teeth in an effort to regain control. Frowning, he counted four men in the clearing. Two were still in the woods, barely in view. "We wait. The risk is greater now. They'll have to move through the gorge. When they do, we'll attack. With luck, the narrow enclosure and the surprise of an attack will give us the advantage."
Iain felt rather than saw Ranald's nod of acceptance. With eyes glued to the meadow below, the two men quietly inched back into the heavy undergrowth.
*****
Iain sat waiting atop Sian, peering into the gathering evening shadows. The rocks loomed on either side of him, glowing eerily in the late afternoon sunlight. Although the sun was still some hours from setting, the height of the canyon walls would soon block most of its light. He fingered the claymore held tightly in his right hand. He glanced across the gorge floor to the dark shape among the rocks he knew to be Ranald. In front of him, not more than a few lengths away, young William crouched low over the neck of his mount. The beast stood perfectly still, muscles taut, ready to leap into action at the slightest touch. Behind him, Iain knew the others waited for his command as well.
The cattle began to move, breaking the silence that shrouded the canyon. The reivers flanked them on both sides—two on the left and three on the right, with the sixth man bringing up the rear. They moved slowly, almost laboriously, up into the gorge.
Iain drew in a breath, waiting, as the men drew nearer. He tensed with anticipation, completely focused on the movement of the reivers. The men moved closer, unaware of the surrounding danger. Still, he waited. He could hear them now, talking among themselves. The leader, a big man with a shock of red hair, gestured wildly, and the others laughed at whatever tale he told.
Iain again looked to Ranald. His cousin, too, was crouched low over his horse. Meeting his eyes, Iain saw the question there. He silently shook his head. The men waited in absolute silence as the reivers drew ever closer.
The first man passed close to William, who shifted only slightly, pulling farther into the rocks bordering the gorge floor. Iain drew in a breath and held it, his muscles bunching, ready to spring into action. The second man moved past William. The third was just in front of Ranald. Iain fingered the pommel of his claymore, his thumb brushing against the cross-guard. The first man passed Iain. The last was just even with William.
Iain silently raised his sword and looked across the way, making eye contact with Ranald. Suddenly without warning, a sharp sound cracked through the gorge. Iain narrowed his eyes scanning the terrain, trying to locate the source of the noise. A large bird shot screaming into the air. William's horse, startled by the clamor, skittered and slid down the slight embankment where they had been hidden. Caught by surprise, William slipped to the side of the horse, hanging on by one hand and one foot as his horse, frightened further by this strange new distribution of weight, charged forward into the gorge and the milling cattle.
Chaos irrupted. The cattle stampeded, the thunder of their hooves making them sound like ten times their number. Iain fought to maintain his mount, watching as the reivers scrambled to assess the situation, raising their claymores, and trying to evade the charging animals.
It was now or never.
With a blood-curling cry, Iain signaled his men, charging forward into the dusty whirl of men and beasts. The cattle, fear reflected in their eyes, crashed forward, oblivious to anything in their path. Through the great cloud of dust, Iain saw William, still clinging to his horse's flank, twist to avoid the point of a horn. Then, in a surge of cattle, men, and dust, he disappeared from view.
A man emerged from the fray, charging in on his horse from the left. Iain reacted swiftly, swinging his claymore in a defensive counter just as his opponent reached him. Metal clanged against metal. Using his knees to twist Sian to the right, Iain swung again and this time caught the man's upper torso in a glancing blow. Bleeding and enraged, the man screamed and swung, his weapon hissing as it sliced through the air.
Iain whirled to the left, barely avoiding the blade. The motion saved his life, but caused him to lose his balance and fall from Sian. Hitting the ground shoulder-first, he quickly rolled to an upright crouch, his weapon ready. His opponent tried to maneuver his horse and strike a blow. Iain tensed and sprang, his claymore raised high, slashing. The motion was enough to spook the horse and unseat the man. He, too, recovered quickly, and rose to stand a few feet from Iain.
They circled each other warily, and then the man lunged. He was so close Iain could see the feral gleam in his eyes. Iain stepped to the side and spun into the man, thrusting quickly upward, catching him full in the chest. Without waiting to see the man fall, he turned to the sound of fighting behind him.
Ranald was standing on a rock, defending himself handily against two of the reivers. Satisfied that his cousin was holding his own, Iain grabbed Sian's reins and pulled himself into the saddle, his claymore ready.
A scream echoed through the gorge. Iain reacted immediately, urging Sian toward the center of the canyon. Searching for the source of the cry, he spotted William on the ground, scrambling for cover. Behind the boy, a reiver raised his weapon, his face contorted with blood-lust.
Iain's heart pounded as he rode forward, trying to gauge the distance. There was no time. William froze, terror etched on his face as he watched the claymore descend. Iain yelled in frustration, as he pushed forward toward the boy and his attacker.
The reiver, distracted, turned to the noise. William, suddenly free of his fear induced paralysis, scrambled away from the still falling blade. The edge caught his leg, but he managed to roll free. The reiver turned his attention back to the now injured boy. Smiling with anticipation, he again raised his great sword.
This time Iain knew he had the advantage. He rose in his saddle and with a hefty swing, felt the blade slide deep into the reiver's back. The man stopped instantly, then teetered for a moment and fell to the ground, his now useless claymore clattering beside him. Iain felt a rush of satisfaction. That would teach the blackguard to threaten an innocent boy. His battle-lust faded and he reined in Sian, sheathing his bloody sword.
Sliding from the horse, he ran to William's side, just as a grim, blood-smeared Ranald knelt beside the boy. Iain stood guard over them,
warily eyeing the shadows of the gorge, searching for other signs of life. Everything was eerily silent, save for the lowing of a cow in the distance.
He could see the bodies of two of the reivers. And he knew one other lay by the rocks, dead by his own hand. That left three unaccounted for, as well as two of his own men. A movement to the left drew his attention. Roger Macbean, one of Iain's best warriors, emerged from the quickly settling dust.
Iain raised a hand in recognition. "You are unhurt?"
"Aye, which is more than I can say about the wee mon I ran through. He'll no doubt be dancing with the devil tonight."
Iain nodded. Four accounted for then. "And Andrew? Have you seen him?"
A dark shadow passed over the man's face as he nodded. "Dead."
"You'll see to his body then?" Iain asked, his throat tight with anger and grief.
Roger ran a hand through his hair, his face drawn with pain. "Aye, I'll wrap him in his plaid and secure him to his horse. 'Tis sure to be a mournful homecoming. Mari will no doubt be torn with grief."
Iain thought of the lovely young Mari. She and Andrew were newly wed. And now she was a widow. He arched his shoulders, rubbing the back of his neck as Roger turned and disappeared behind a small outcropping of rocks. Iain put the image of Mari and Andrew out of his mind. He would need to deal with it, but now was not the time.
He called to Ranald. "How is he?"
"He could be better. His leg is still bleeding something fierce and I'm certainly no healer."
"Aye, well, you're a fine sight better than me. So do what you can."
Iain turned back to scan the rocks and shadows. Finally satisfied that there was no further threat, he knelt next to Ranald at the boy's side. William lay still and pale, his leg deeply gashed. Bloodstained, the dirt around him a deep brownish red. Ranald worked to staunch the bleeding. Iain knew from his own experiences with battle injuries that William's situation was a serious one. They were a long way from Duncreag and the boy needed a healer. Even then, Iain knew that if fever set in there was little hope.
