Page 43 of Her Highlander's Darkest Temptation
“Happenstance.” Laird Ranald shrugged nonchalantly, but the back of his neck and his ears were red. “’Twas a bit o’ amusing clumsiness on me part.”
Lydia flushed, remembering that she’d been the one to drop the apple. To distract herself, she went to the hearth and measured out some oats and water for the porridge, making sure she had enough to serve both men.
The two lairds settled at the table, chatting together in low voices. Lydia was tempted to try and listen in, but she feared that might be too noticeable. She had no desire to draw more of the laird’s attention, or worse, his suspicions.
The oats had softened, and Lydia was just preparing to start adding the fruit and honey, and contemplating a bit of cream, when the door to the kitchen burst open and Ewan staggered in, his face flushed from running and his expression grim. “Me laird!”
“What is it?” All of Laird Ranald’s relaxation vanished at once. He stood up quickly. “Attack?”
“Aye.” Ewan’s expression was dark, twisted with fury and grief. “Men attacked the south-eastern border guard station in the night. The guards are slain or too wounded to fight, and the tower is burning. A boy came bearing the message not moments ago, but ye can see the smoke even from the wall-top, me laird.”
Any amusement Lydia had felt disappeared like water droplets flicked on a fire.
Laird Ranald’s expression was like stone, but there was rage burning in his eyes. “Alex, I’ll ask ye tae remain behind an’ guard the keep. Ewan, gather a troop o’ men, fully armed, along with horses. We’re ridin’ within the quarter candle-mark.”
CHAPTER TWENTY
Ewan scowled and pulled the reins to slow his horse as they approached the border station. This close, the smell of smoke was thick in the air, almost choking, and the smell of blood was little better. The worst part, however, was that they’d found the bodies of the border guards laid out on the road in clear challenge.
The men hadn’t died there. They’d been dragged there, laid out as a declaration of power and strength - an unspoken statement that the attackers considered Clan Ranald too weak to retaliate or avenge their fallen warriors.
It was a blatant insult, to the clan as a whole and Donall in particular. They thought him too cowed or weakened to respond to such unprovoked slaughter.
Donall had every intention of proving them wrong. But first, however…
His gaze sharpened as he studied the wooded area close to the road. They would be passing it within moments, but there was something about it that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up.
Donall pulled his horse to a stop, waving for the ten men who’d accompanied him and Ewan to do the same, then gestured for Ewan to join him. “What dae ye think?”
“I think ‘tis an excellent place fer an ambush. An’ so soon after that declaration on the road… they’ll be expectin’ a bunch o’ furious warriors tae charge past without thinkin’, set on vengeance.”
Donall nodded. “Tis what I’d dae if I wanted tae wreak havoc, panic an’ as much bloodshed as possible.”
“Kennin’ that... how best tae proceed? Fire a warnin’ shot, or walk intae their clutches an’ turn their trap back on them?” The hand clenched on the hilt of his sword told Donall clearer than any words what his second-in-command would prefer.
For that matter, Donall was inclined to take the bait himself. He was angry enough to relish the thought of a good fight, and a battle meant there was a chance of taking prisoners. If he fired a warning shot, the waiting ambushers - and he was certain there were ambushers hiding in the trees - might decide that safety was the better part of valor and retreat.
I’m tired o’ playin’ all these games. I’m tired o’ bein’ attacked without explanation. One way or another, I will be gettin’ answers.
Donall waved a signal to Ewan, gesturing for his second in command to fall back and order their warriors to draw weapons. The rattle of blades and sheathes told him he’d been obeyed, and Donall nudged his horse into a canter, allowing his anger to show clearly on his face.
Whoever might lay in wait for them, he hoped they’d take the hesitation as a momentary check, and believe that he’d then decided to waive caution in favor of his outrage. Or that the pause had been caused by a question on Ewan’s part, or a short delay to give orders for their arrival at the remains of the watch post.
Donall passed the first line of trees, reins loose in his grasp and one hand drifting toward his sword hilt in a deceptively lazy gesture. No one who hadn’t sparred him would know how fast he could go from that position to armed and fighting
Nothing happened, and for a few seconds, he thought he might have been wrong, that his instincts were leading him astray.
Then twigs cracked, something twanged softly - more than one, in fact - and he was just fast enough to avoid the arrows that zipped out of the shadows. He batted two aside with his arm, grateful for the leather vambraces he’d donned, then wrenched his sword from his sheath as men came charging out of the trees.
Enemy soldiers crashed in among his own, the shadows and the closeness of the combat space making it difficult to tell how many there were. Not more than a dozen, by Donall’s estimate, and all wearing Cameron colors. That answered one question - apparently Laird Rory Cameron was finished pretending to be subtle.
Then the first blade crashed against his own, and there was no more time for thinking, or considering. There was only the heat of battle, the ringing of steel and the thud of weapons against each other, against leather, against flesh.
The first attacker to come after him attacked with a high downward chop that Donall easily parried, then tried to unhorse him before attacking with a sideways slash. Donall kept his seat, avoided his attack, then came back with a feint with his sword before drawing his back dirk and burying it to the hilt in the man’s gut. The attacker gave a choked cry and dropped his blade to clutch at the wound, and Donall kicked him from the saddle and slapped the horse on the rump to send it out of combat.
A sudden shout made Donall turn, just in time to see one of his own men go toppling from the saddle, clutching his arm with blood pouring through a rent in his clothing. Donall spun his horse, then cursed as he realized there was no chance he’d be able to reach his downed companion in time, at least not on horseback.
Donall dove out of the saddle, dodged a set of flailing hooves and an aborted attack, and drove toward the fallen Ranald warrior. Halfway there, his way was momentarily blocked, before Ewanarrived to shove a path open for him with a ringing clangor of steel.
