Page 72 of Highlanders for the Holidays
Chapter 7
Half of Hugh’smen were already gone. The other half remained at camp, packing the last of their things while Hugh took a final piss. There was no use lingering where they might be found. His men had said there was talk about interlopers and that young Malcom was already snooping around. If Malcom should happen to venture into MacLean territory he’d most certainly discover their camp.
Hugh was quite pleased with himself. It was the bonfire Eleanore had spoken of—the flame that should not die before his work was done…
Last night, after stashing all their offerings in the MacKinnon’s stable, they’d stolen MacLean cloaks and then snuck in to finish rebuilding whatever homes they could. Most were finished, and now it was time to leave—before the celebration ended and the drunkards all went stumbling home. Hugh remembered very well how stout theiruisgewas, although it wasn’t stout enough to keep those bastards from drawing their swords; it was time to go.
Hopefully his daughter Page would discover his gifts to her and then realize what all he’d done. Until then, it was quite enough to know that Eleanore knew he’d made amends—
“Hugh FitzSimon!” he heard a woman shout.
Could it be Eleanore?
Hugh froze, upon hearing his name, dropping his tunic and pulling up his trews.
The forest was dark, no sign of that strange blue aura. Whoever the woman was, she had yet to shed her mortal coil. Instinctively, although he knew not how or why, he realized it must be Page, and as though to prove his point, she called him yet again. “Papa!” she screamed this time.
Hugh felt a sudden rush of excitement.Mayhap she’d already discovered his gifts and she’d come to beg him not to leave!
Bolting through the woods, toward the sound of Page’s voice, Hugh realized as he went that it wasn’t a happy shout.
Snatching up his bow from the sling on his back, he plucked an arrow from his quiver, and then skidded to a halt once he spied the pair, his bow and arrow poised within his hands. “Afric,” he said, with no small amount of surprise.
“Hello father.”
Malcom wasn’t farinto the woods when he spotted the figure of a man—slightly luminescent, and strangely manifested.
There were folks who claimed this was a time between times, when the division between this world and the next was at its thinnest, leaving the way open for faeries and brownies to venture into the realms of men.
He’d heard stories of banshees wailing on the night, foreshadowing the dead, but this form moved silently through the trees, beckoning Malcom to follow wherever it went...
It moved swiftly, darting behind pinewood and lichen-painted oaks. Finally, they crossed a burn, onto MacLean land.
Strangely familiar though the man appeared to be, Malcom couldn’t tell exactly who it was until they stood at the fork of a wooded path.
If you went one way, the road led to Brodie land. The other way ventured toward his grandfather’s house. It was a place Malcom rarely went, for Old Man MacLean was not the most affable of men. He considered going there now, fearful of what the apparition meant, and then he spied the man’s face.
It was Dougal MacLean, though not on his deathbed.
The old man stood, staring back at Malcom, his bright blue eyes seemingly filled with words his mouth could no longer move to say.I’m sorry,he whispered into Malcom’s head. He was sorry they’d not known each other better. Sorry he’d poisoned his mother against his Da. He wished Mairi did not leave them so young. But most of all, he wanted Malcom to know he would never be far—that he would keep watch over him in death the way he never had in life—and to his point, there was something he wanted Malcom to see…
Malcom’s skin prickled, though not with fear. For the first time in his life, he felt a calm deep in his soul… until he heard the scream…
Old man Maclean pointed in the direction of his home and then dissolved into mist and Malcom automatically withdrew his sword from its scabbard, the sound a hiss in the night. Without thinking or hesitating, his feet began to move. He went stealthily through the woods, knowing his greatest vantage was the element of surprise.
Now came another scream, and it wasn’t a scream of pleasure—not by far. Malcom followed the sound, but he didn’t have to go far. He saw the outline of a man standing in the shadows and he slid behind a pine tree for cover.
His eyes were well enough adjusted to the darkness, for he’d been traipsing through the forest ever since slipping away from the celebration.
The stranger was wearing mail—English, he surmised—holding a bow and arrow, taking aim, now drawing back the string…
Malcom located his target.
It took him a full moment to realize what was happening, and then he couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d known something was amiss, and now there was proof…
Hugh FitzSimon held an arrow aimed at his daughter’s head, rearing back, ready to let it fly. The fact that she was struggling against another man didn’t immediately strike Malcom as it should. There wasn’t time to consider. All he knew was that Page was in her father’s sights, and if he didn’t intervene, right now, the odious man would finally kill her after all these years.
Without fear, he lunged after FitzSimon, his sword finding purchase in the man’s back, straight through his heart. But FitzSimon had already loosed his arrow. It happened so swiftly. Page screamed yet again, and Malcom saw only in that instant that the arrow must not have been intended for her at all. It went straight through a man’s head, felling him at his stepmother’s feet. Page gave a cry, and ran straight into her father’s arms just as he crumpled to the ground.
