“Do ye now? And if I said I intended to force the Sassenach to leave this glen today, what—”
“Oh, Papa, you wouldn’t! You promised Gilly he could take part in the contest, try to be reasona—” She shut her mouth with a snap when she realized he’d fooled her.
“Trust me, do ye? Ye haven’t come to bid me good morning since ye were seven and liked to go fishing in the loch with your stepmother.”
Her lips rippled. “I came to tell you . . . well, to say . . .” She raised her chin and fixed him with a forthright blue gaze. “English John was at Carraig Brigh when I was there with Fia, before she wed Dair. He’s a good man, Papa. I just wanted to remind you of that. John rescued Dair from an English prison, brought him home. He helped Fia and me to escape, when they would have killed her.” She shuddered and bit her lip. “We wouldn’t have made it without his help. He put his life in peril for us. I hope you’ll be fair, Papa.”
Another debt he owed the man. “I am always fair,” he said sharply. “And this doesn’t concern ye, Maighread MacLeod—unless ye want to marry him yourself?”
She looked horrified. “Me? Nay. He’s Gillian’s!”
He put his hand on her back and gently moved her toward the door. “Not yet he’s not,” he said, and pushed her into the hall and shut the door before she could argue.
CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE
Rabbie Bain lay in the heather and watched the glen below him. He rubbed the thick scars on his neck, some old, some new, gotten when Davy MacKenzie’s men tried to hang him for a second time and failed.
The MacLeod lass had outwitted them and left them all to die. The wee bitch and her man must have run straight to Davy MacKenzie.
Rabbie had told Duncan they had to run, that there’d be trouble, but Duncan had insisted on waiting until his young brother breathed his last. It was probably Hugh’s moans and his cries that led the MacKenzies to them.
Davy’s men had entered the clearing with their swords drawn. They grabbed Duncan, Alan, Rabbie, and even poor, half-dead Hugh, though Duncan raged at them, fought them as they hauled his brother up, put the noose around his neck. The MacKenzies looked at the lass’s scattered, bloody clothing, at the weapons and gear they’d taken from the men on the road, and demanded answers.
But there weren’t any. The lass had fled, and they had no proof that she still lived, that they hadn’t raped her and cut her throat. Rabbie wished they had.
The MacKenzies laughed as they tied the nooses and threw them over a tree branch. They hanged Alan first, then Hugh, while Duncan cursed them. Then they’d hanged Duncan and himself, and laughed while the pair of them kicked, fighting for breath. The MacKenzies hadn’t bothered to wait for the end. They mounted up and rode out to search for the lass and get home to Kinfell in time for breakfast.
But Rabbie refused to die so easily. After the MacKenzies rode out, he’d hooked his legs around the Duncan’s corpse.
He’d managed to hold on long enough to free his hands, choking, his vision swimming with black spots. He had no doubt the thick scars from his first hanging helped. He’d lain on the ground, laughing like a loon as he stared at the bodies swinging above him. They couldn’t kill him. They’d tried twice, and he’d survived. He’d risen to his feet and vowed revenge. He blamed the woman, the wicked MacLeod bitch, as much as he blamed the Mackenzies.
Then Davy MacKenzie, had announced to his clan and anyone else who’d listen that he intended to travel to Glen Iolair and make the fearless warrior lass his wife. All Rabbie had to do was follow him to Glen Iolair, and her.
He rubbed the scars again and looked for Davy MacKenzie among the crowd of men that camped beside the clear loch before the fine MacLeod castle.
At last he’d have revenge on the damned MacKenzies, the ones who’d driven his family from their home, forced them all to outlawry. And the lass—he’d have her, too. He’d heard the lies about how she’d killed a dozen outlaws single handedly. He spit into the heather. It was a good thing Rabbie enjoyed a jest. He hoped Davy did too, especially when he killed him with his bride. “How’s that for a wedding present, Davy lad?” Rabbie touched the dirk strapped to his thigh—her dirk, the one with the ruby in the hilt. She’d beg him for mercy the next time she saw it.
But he wouldn’t give her any.
* * *
When Fia Sinclair heard that John Erly had left for Glen Iolair to see her sister, she’d shoved her dirk into her sleeve, strapped her newborn daughter to her chest, and insisted on taking ship at once to her family home. “So I can kill him,” she said.
“He says he loves her,” Dair said.
“Then my father will kill him.”
Dair grinned. “Aye, probably. D’ye suppose Gillian loves John as well?”
Fia began to take clothing from trunks and wardrobes and fold it into neat piles.
“What are ye doing, Fia?” he’d asked her.
“We’re going to sail to Glen Iolair on the very next tide, Dair Sinclair.”
He gaped at her. “Why?”
She sent him a glare as sharp as her dirk. “To prevent a murder—or to attend a wedding. Whichever it is, I don’t intend to miss it.”
Before Dair could object, or even reply, a Sinclair clansman appeared in doorway. “There’s a man below to see ye, chief. An Englishman.”
* * *
Ewan escorted Gillian down to the hall the next morning, but avoided her eyes, and said nothing at all.
In the hall, John stood in the middle of the room with Keir and Tam guarding him.
Gillian glanced at her father, but his expression gave nothing away. He simply indicated a chair next to his own and waited for her to sit down.
The lairds were there with their men, and her sisters were waiting, and so were a good number of MacLeod clansmen and women. She met John’s eyes before her father rose to his feet.
“There are—several—good men who wish to marry my daughter Gillian,” he said, looking at the lairds and frowning at John. “I have decided the fairest way to decide which man she’ll wed is to hold a contest.”
“A contest?” Cormag Robertson said, rising to his feet with a scowl.
“Aye, Robertson. Can ye tell me you’re honestly better than Grant, or MacKenzie, or that they’re better than ye? It seems to me you’re all fine men of good fortune, brave and wealthy and fair-minded. Now tell me, how would ye decide, if ye were me?”
Cormag crossed his arms. “What sort of contest?”
Her father glanced at Gillian, and she looked placidly back at him. “There will be a number of tests of skill and wit, and the man who wins them will claim my daughter’s hand in marriage.”
Gillian felt every eye in the room turn to her. Once, she would have wanted to hide, to slide through a crack in the floor, but she wasn’t invisible anymore. She’d had an adventure, fallen in love, vanquished a band of outlaws, and jilted one gentleman at the altar for love of another. She kept her chin high as a murmur swept through the room. Her father held up his hand for silence.
“I have decided that the first contest in the competition will be . . .” She watched as her father cast his eye around the hall, at the lairds, surrounded by their fine complements of Highlanders, and at John, who stood alone, save for the men who guarded him. His back straight, his stance easy, his expression calm as he regarded her fearsome father.
Her father’s eyes roamed over the fine tapestries and the weapons that graced the walls of the ancient seat of the Fearsome MacLeods. Gillian held her breath and waited.
“Claymores,” he said at last. “Single combat. Laird MacKenzie will spar with Laird Robertson, and Laird Grant will spar with the—with John Erly.” He said John’s name as if it hurt to do so.
“The Sassenach?” Padraig Grant said. “Is he competing as well?”
Her father’s face remained impassive. “Aye. He has honorably asked for Gillian’s hand same as you, Padraig.”
“What are the rules?” Davy MacKenzie asked. “Are w
e to fight to the death?”
Donal MacLeod frowned. “Don’t be daft, Davy. Of course not. You’re lairds, and your clans need ye. Shall we say first blood? And I mean a scratch, not a beheading. In the fair Highland tradition of Finn McCoul, cothrom na Feinne, ye’ll fight one-on-one, honorably. Last man unbloodied wins the competition.”
“Then what?” Cormag asked.
Her father frowned. “What do ye mean?”
Cormag raised his chin. “If we’re speaking of Highland traditions, then I say the victor of the claymore competition must perform the Gillie Callum, the ancient sword dance, as it was done by Malcolm Canmore after he triumphantly slew the traitor Macbeth in combat.”
Gillian glanced at John, but his expression didn’t change. He was Dair’s captain of the guard and he could fight with a sword, trained men for battle. That part he could win, that part would be easy. Who but a Scot knew the Gillie Callum?
“Agreed,” her father said. “We’ll make the Gillie Callum our second contest—tonight, after supper. Go and make ready, all of ye—we shall begin in an hour.”
Gillian kept her expression carefully blank as Keir and Tam led John out of the hall. Her father looked down at her. “Are ye satisfied with that?” he asked her.
She smiled sweetly and rose to her feet. “Aye, Papa. It should be most entertaining.”
* * *
Entertaining . . . The old Gillian would have blanched or blushed, been horrified or terrified, Donal thought. He glanced at the Englishman. Donal felt a moment of surprise at the Englishman’s courage. John Erly’s face offered no hint of dismay or doubt when he should be shaking in his boots at the very thought of facing three strong Highlanders armed with claymores, even one at a time. One wee nick, a quick scratch, and he’d lose—and he would lose, Alasdair Og’s captain or not. No doubt the title was an honorary one.
Was the contest too hard? Donal frowned as his men led the prisoner out. He may have promised the Sassenach a chance to compete, but he didn’t have to hope he’d win.
* * *
It was pouring rain when the competitors arrived on the training field to fight, and the field was a morass of yellow mud.
The three lairds had removed their plaids and stood wearing only their long shirts, as they would in battle. John wore his shirt and breeches. The lairds leaned on their claymores—massive swords with blades nearly four feet long, weighing six pounds. John feinted with his own borrowed weapon, learning the sword’s particular feel, watching the rain fly off the blade in a silver arc.
The battle area was ringed with spectators, four pipers, and a healer. Donal MacLeod and his daughters, Gillian included, stood under an oiled canvas awning to watch. John noted the three lairds were glaring at him with gritty malice, but he was used to that.
He kept his attention on Padraig Grant, the man he’d fight first. If he won—when he won—he’d fight Davy MacKenzie or Cormag Robertson. He watched Padraig warm up, learning his stance, the way he wielded his claymore. He swung high and to the right, but he had a deadly way of twisting the blade as he brought it down. John shook the water out of his eyes, slicked his hair back, and waited for the signal.
When it came, Padraig ran at him, roaring the battle cry of Clan Grant, his face filled with fury. It was easy to see why the Scots were so terrifying in battle. They were fierce and fearless. He met Padraig’s first bone-shaking strike, parried it, and spun to avoid the second. The slick ground was an added opponent, and John adjusted his footing and spun again, catching Padraig’s sword from underneath, forcing it upward. He’d trained with the best swordsman his father could buy, a hulking Spaniard, until he was as good as his teacher. At Carraig Brigh, John worked with the claymore until he could wield it as well as a rapier. He used the heavy weapon like an extension of his own body, waited for an opportunity now, and when it came, he carefully, gently, elegantly drew his blade across Padraig’s forearm. It sliced through the laird’s shirt and the top layer of his skin, doing little real harm. The Grant laird bellowed an oath as he stared at his blood mixing with the rain.
He glared at John as he stalked off the field, ignoring the hand John offered.
John glanced at Gillian and saluted her with the sword before he lowered it and waited for the outcome of the match between Davy MacKenzie and Cormag Robertson.
* * *
He’d won. Gillian kept her expression flat and placid, but her hands were clasped so tightly together they ached. Her heart pounded an anxious tattoo against her ribs.
She remembered the day she’d watched John training the lads on the practice field at Carraig Brigh, and how she’d admired his skill, his strength, his grace. And now he’d bested Laird Grant easily.
Davy MacKenzie and Cormag Robertson were evenly matched, and they fought each other back and forth across the field, roaring as their blades clashed. Finally, both men slipped in the mud and fell. Davy’s blade caught Cormag’s cheek, and Cormag’s sword laid a scratch across Davy’s knee.
They turned to Donal for a decision. Donal went forward and looked at both scratches, measured the length of them with his forefinger. “Laird MacKenzie’s wound is smaller. He shall face the Englishman.”
* * *
John watched as Davy crossed the muddy ground, stalking him, his expression dangerous. “I’ll not make it easy for ye.”
He struck without warning, but John parried the blow.
The Mackenzie was a huge man, tall, broad, and strong. He swung his claymore as if it weighed no more than a twig, and John had to leap back from a hard blow that swung past his belly, barely missing. He deflected the next blow but felt the jarring shock of it run up his arms. Davy was grinning at him, his teeth white in his muddy face. Davy was left handed, and John changed the hold on his sword, matched Davy blow for blow, but the MacKenzie left no opening for John’s blade.
Then Davy kicked out his leg, and John tripped and went down in the mud. Davy raised his blade high. John had only an instant to raise his own blade as the blow descended. John let his sword touch the back of the laird’s hand as he rolled out of the way. He saw blood well on the MacKenzie’s knuckles. Davy looked at John in surprise as the cry went up. Instead of yielding, Davy swung his sword again and laid a long stinging cut along John’s upper arm, then grinned spitefully. “Ye might have won the first contest, Sassenach, but ye’ll not win the lass. I’ll see to that. Give up or I’ll cut your head off.”
John got to his feet. Donal’s daughters beamed, and Callum MacLeod nodded approvingly, though his expression remained flat. The defeated lairds stalked away with their men. Donal MacLeod’s face was a study in surprise and displeasure as John approached. “I can see why Alasdair Og Sinclair made ye his captain,” was all Donal said before he left the field.
John glanced at Gillian, read the quiet pleasure on her face, the glow of confidence, as if she’d known all along.
Callum took the sword from him. “Do ye know how to do a sword dance?” he asked.
“I haven’t a clue,” John said honestly.
“Then ye’d best come with me, and I’ll show ye a few steps.”
* * *
That evening the next contest began in the hall. John sat apart from the others, still under guard. After the meal, Donal rose. “I know ye know this, but for the bairns, and our English competitor, I’ll tell the tale of the Gillie Callum. For centuries, the steps of our Highland dances have been used to teach our warriors endurance, grace, and agility. The Gillie Callum is danced before battle. The steps must be quick and precise. If the warrior touches a sword, it is said to be a sign that man will be wounded in the upcoming battle. If he kicks a sword, it foretells death.”
“Laird Robertson, ye’ll go first.”
Each laird had his own piper, and they laid their swords in a cross with Donal’s.
Cormag Robertson was light on his feet for such a big man, his steps neat and precise. It took half an hour before he finally nudged a blade with his toe and ended his dance. He
wiped his sweating face with a cloth and grinned proudly at his opponents and at Gillian.
Padraig Grant danced for twenty minutes before he touched his sword with his heel.
John knew he was doomed from the start. He was a lithe and graceful swordsman, and he knew the steps of courtly English dances or Scottish reels, but this was infinitely more challenging, a test of skill and endurance. Though Callum had shown him the basic steps, it took only a few minutes before he touched a blade.
Davy MacKenzie laughed and slapped John hard on the back as he stepped up to take his place. He grinned and winked at Gillian and began, forming the intricate steps, his big feet flying across the swords, but his foot soon caught a blade, kicked it, and sent it spinning across the stone floor. A buzz went up in the room. “Death,” someone whispered, and Davy’s face flushed at the ill omen
Donal named Cormag Robertson the winner, and the Robertson clansmen cheered and raising their cups to Gillian, who quietly accepted their salute. She glanced at John, and he forced himself to smile at her as if nothing at all was wrong.
“May I suggest the next contest?” Davy MacKenzie asked.
“What did ye have in mind?” Donal asked.
“A drinking game.” Davy looked at John. “Of course, for Highlanders, it’s unfair to call it a game. It’s a tradition, a challenge, and a celebration among warriors.”
“He’ll need a quaich,” Padraig Grant said. “Ye don’t have one of those, do ye, Sassenach? We Scots carry our own with us.”
“The quaich is traditionally filled to welcome guests or bid them farewell,” Donal said.
“’Tis a farewell I had in mind,” Davy MacKenzie said, sneering at John. “This game is played with whisky, Sassenach. Highlanders can put down great quantities of that. We start drinking it as soon as we’re weaned off our mother’s milk, so it’s like water to us. Ye may want to cut your losses and hie yourself away south now, just like your countrymen did after Bannockburn.”
John regarded his opponents with a level look. “I’m no stranger to drinking games. What are the rules of this one?”
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