Something in Reid’s expression must have warned him, because Domnall suddenly snorted a laugh. “Aye,my lord.”
He put a slight mocking stress on those last two words. Everyone knew Reid was no lord, although he had once been. He’d lost the right to the title along with everything else.
Domnall turned his horse away and followed the rest of the men as they left the road and entered the trees that blanketed it on either side. Reid jumped down from his own mount, tied her to a branch behind the cover of some bushes and, whistling to the hounds, disappeared into the woods.
It was a cloudy, cold day. Summer was coming to an end and there was a hint of autumn in the breeze that stirred the branches and swirled the ends of his blond hair around his head. Even so, it was good to be alone, just himself, his hounds, and the silence of the Highlands around him.
Bo and Whitefoot ranged ahead, noses to the ground, and he knew they would warn him of any danger, although he didn’t expect to find any. They were still far enough away from Kalmack that he shouldn’t encounter scouts or pickets.
But he moved with caution anyway, slipping through the woods as silently as any hunter, leaving not a branch nor a leaf out of place to tell of his presence. He strained his ears, all his senses alert as he inched up a wooded incline, where he called the hounds to heel and slowed to a crawl as he neared the top. Once at the summit, he crouched low so he wouldn’t be visible on the hilltop, and peered out between the scraggly branches of a hawthorn bush.
Kalmack Castle sat amongst a patchwork of fields below, perched like an ugly toad at the crossroads of three major roads. The castle itself was a drafty, inhospitable hole of a place, but its strategic position guarding the crossroads was what made it so important and also what had made it change hands so many times over the years of strife between Muir and Campbell.
Right now, the castle gates were barred shut and the walls were being patrolled by the Muir army.
Although the term ‘army’ could only be applied loosely to the rag-tag force that had managed to retake this castle from Reid’s own men. Reid guessed there were probably only a few hundred men inside. He felt a strange mix of satisfaction and regret at that. Satisfaction that his campaigns had stretched the Muir forces so thin that they could only afford to send a token force to retake this castle, regret that it had ever needed to come to this in the first place.
He growled under his breath, annoyed with himself. What was it to him if the Muirs were suffering? Why did he care? After what they’d done to him, they deserved everything they got.
And besides, it might be a token force holding the castle, but it was still more than enough to keep Reid’s men trapped in the dungeon where the Muirs had thrown them. Freeing his men would be a bloody affair. Many lives would be lost. Every warrior under Reid’s command—even bastards like Domnall Maguire—were too precious to lose. He’d brought his men here—against his lord’s orders—in order to free those trapped inside the castle. He would not leave them to be hanged. He couldn’t back out now, no matter the cost. But the thought of his men fighting and dying, and, if truth be told, the thought of the Muir warriors fighting and dying, made his stomach tighten with dread.
He might be a killer, he might be an evil bastard who’d put God-alone-knew how many men in the ground, but that didn’t mean he had to like it.
His eyes swept the landscape, assessing the deployment of the Muir forces and likely avenues of attack and retreat. There was little cover around the castle itself. In the fields, the harvest had already been taken in and tall bales of hay were stacked, ready to be taken to the castle’s barns.
Reid’s eyes narrowed. A glimmer of an idea came to him.
Suddenly, Bo and Whitefoot’s heads came up, their ears standing erect as they both turned to stare at the thicket of trees behind Reid. Low growls echoed from their throats.
Reid was alert in an instant. Pushing back from the ridge, he drew his sword and clutched it in a double-handed grip. He went very still and scanned the shadows between the trees.
The undergrowth rustled and Reid tensed, ready to defend himself from the enemy. But he blinked in surprise as a figure stepped out from the undergrowth and stood peering up at him. This was no Muir warrior screaming for his blood. This was no mighty swordsman eager to prove his worth by taking Reid’s head.
It was an old woman.
She was tiny, no taller than Reid’s chest, and portly, almost as wide around as she was tall. She wore a plaid he didn’t recognize—certainly neither Muir nor Campbell—which was pinned to her shoulder with a deer-shaped brooch. Her hair was a stormy gray, and she watched Reid with eyes as dark and stormy as her hair.
Neither said anything for a moment, Reid staring at her in surprise. Then he realized he was still holding his sword and he slid it back into its scabbard.
“Ah!” said the old woman. “That’s better. I do so hate the presence of iron. It makes me itch. I would thank ye to keep that sword of yers tucked away whilst we speak, young man.”
Reid suddenly felt like a naughty schoolboy being told off by one of his tutors. He frowned, not liking the feeling. Who was this old woman? And where had she come from?
He was just about to speak when the old woman’s gaze swept over Bo and Whitefoot. “Greetings, my beauties!” she crooned. “My, but aren’t ye the handsome pair?”
To Reid’s surprise, the hounds yipped excitedly and ran over to the old woman, waggling their back ends like excited puppies. They rolled on their backs and groveled as the old woman leaned over to scratch their bellies.
What the—? Bo and Whitefoot were trained war hounds. They normally hated strangers. He clenched his teeth. He would be damned if he would lower himself to calling them back. Traitorous beasts.
“Lady,” he said. “I dinna ken where ye might have come from, but this isnae a safe place for ye. Ye must get away now and return to yer village.”
The old woman straightened and fixed him with that piercing gaze of hers. It was all Reid could do to force himself not to take a step back.
“Must I? What if right here is exactly where I need to be?”
Reid scowled. He didn’t have time for this. “See that keep down there?” he snapped. “It’s crawling with soldiers—soldiers that will soon be fighting for each other’s blood. Do ye wish to be caught up in that? No? Then I suggest ye leave. Now.”
With that, he turned and began to walk away, but the old woman’s arm snapped out and caught his wrist. He’d not even seen her move. Damn it, she had a grip like steel.
