Bright sunlight glittered off the waters of the burn as from shards of glass, blinding Finnan’s eyes. When he and Rohre, with Danny’s mount now trailing well behind, entered the copse of trees not far north of Rowan Cottage, the sudden gloom further dampened his sight. Indeed, not until Rohre’s stride broke and the horse tossed his head did Finnan realize they were no longer alone.
A group of mounted men had ridden out of the trees onto the path, blocking Finnan’s way.
His every instinct roused in response. Ten years away from home and he had been first and foremost a warrior. Before he could curse, he had his sword in his hand, the same razor-edged blade with which he had defended his life across Scotland. Blinking fiercely, he saw his attackers all came heavily armed.
But who were they? And from whence had they come? He controlled Rohre with iron knees, leaving his hands ready to fight, and the horse snorted.
Finnan spared a thought for Danny coming behind. If things got ugly, the lad would ride right into it. He eyed the mounted men, assessing his chances. Six of them, two planted abreast at the front, four behind. Finnan sneered; he’d faced steeper odds, though usually with Geordie at his side.
“Well,” said one of the two men in front, “if it is not the MacAllister cur who considers himself laird of this place.”
Avrie. The name appeared whole in Finnan’s mind, spurred by the hate he heard in the voice, and just like that he knew his opponents. How, though? The brothers Avrie—Stuart and Trent—had been conspicuously absent from the glen since Finnan returned and killed their traitorous father. But another thought possessed his mind. “Where is my sister?” he demanded.
The man on the left—was he Stuart?—tossed his head. “Lost to you, turncoat murderer. You will never see her again.”
Rage rose to Finnan’s head. “You think I will not make you pay for your crimes, even as did your accursed sire?” He tossed his head much as Rohre had. “Get you out of my way.”
Stuart Avrie spoke again. “I think not. A coward such as you might find it easy to terrorize an old woman and a man on his own. But his sons are here now, and serving you notice we will answer you as you deserve.”
Finnan’s head jerked up further. “I am no coward.”
“Nay? Is that why you stood against our Prince at Culloden and fought on the winning side?”
Finnan said nothing. He owed explanations to no one, especially these jackals.
“The Crown pays its turncoats well,” said the second brother, who must be Trent. “And the dog came back to Glen Rowan a wealthy man. What does that tell you, Brother?”
“That he needs settling.” Stuart gestured to the men at his back. “Take him.” And the two of them rode away into the gloom beneath the trees.
Finnan understood the gesture: they would be elsewhere, with clean hands, when he was slain. But his lip curled in derision. And they called him a coward!
Still, his career and much of his future had been founded on just such strategy. Was it not why men of high renown paid mercenaries? And he liked these odds much better.
He eyed the wall of four men on horseback who faced him. Were they mercenaries as well, or just members of Avrie’s household guard? Either way they were paid men, with little invested in the cause.
He knew how liberating it was to hold no stake in the outcome of a battle. It freed a man’s emotions and let him concentrate on the matter at hand. Yet he could not, himself, be more invested.
As if to prove his point, he heard the approach of Danny from behind. He called out, “Go back, lad! Do not join me here.”
“What? Why?”
Finnan did not need to turn his head to see Danny disobeyed his order.
He called again, “Stay at my back!” And he urged Rohre forward with his knees.
The men were not mercenaries, as he learned at the first pass. A mercenary would have employed far dirtier means to spear him than did his first opponent. Finnan, nothing loath to use every trick at his disposal, feinted and got inside the man’s sword to slit his throat with the razor blade almost before the fellow could blink. He fell from his horse with a thud, and the animal blocked the others’ way, further improving Finnan’s odds.
The second man, a chancer, whirled his sword around his head and came in bellowing. Finnan ducked and barely saved himself from scalping.
He heard Danny holler from behind. While his opponent was overextended, Finnan launched himself from Rohre’s back and took the man over backwards from his mount. They both landed hard on the track; the air left his opponent’s lungs with a rush.
Rohre and the other animal danced, cutting off the two remaining riders. To Finnan’s horror, he heard Danny come wading in.
The fool! The lad was no warrior, and he carried no sword, only the dirk in his boot. Filled with alarm on Danny’s behalf, Finnan closed his hands around his opponent’s throat and bashed his head against the ground until the man passed out.
He had dropped his sword in the fall but now recovered it before scrambling to his feet, his muscles working with well-trained efficiency.
The sight that met his eyes set his blood aflame. The last two guards had Danny trapped between them, the lad already disarmed. Even as Finnan watched, one man struck. His sword took Danny in the stump where his right arm should be.
