Twenty-Seven
It was an unrelentingly hard two-day ride to Campbell territory. Rather than continue west when they reached the border, they swung south. They’d seen the charred shells of two villages and stopped to search for survivors. But they found nothing more than remains. The violence with which the attackers killed their victims made Brodie uneasy about separating Laurel from the larger group and sending her to Kilchurn with the Rosses. There were only two score of them, including Monty, Donnan, and the men who’d been at Stirling with Laurel. But neither did he relish bringing her near the inevitable battle.
Ultimately, the choice was taken from him. Before dawn on the third day, Brodie sent Graham and three men to scout from Crianlarich, or Ben More mountain. The path was steep, rising over a thousand feet in less than three miles, so the men went on foot. He was certain they would summit just as the sun rose, and they would have an unobstructed view in all directions. It was the highest point in the southern Highlands. They’d made camp at the base of the mountain, but they’d only kept a fire going long enough to cook what they’d hunted. Brodie didn’t want the plume of smoke against the clear autumn sky to signal their location. He’d held Laurel close the entire night, barely sleeping because he was unable to relax. He remained vigilant now that Laurel was back where she belonged—in his arms. Now, she huddled against him as they stood together, his broad back shielding her from the wind whipping down the mountain face.
“I see them.” Donnan pointed toward four shadowy figures moving down the path. It was only a few minutes before Graham and the others returned to camp, winded and flushed.
“It’s nay good,” Graham warned. “There’s a camp to the other side of Ben More. It looked like Lamonts, but mayhap a score or two. There’s another northwest. Lady Campbell and the Rosses would have to ride through the hills to Ben Lui to avoid them.”
Brodie shook his head. The mountain didn’t have a clear pass for riders. It had five ridges with four corries, or deep valleys, between them. Even though it was early autumn, it wasn’t unheard of for there to be snow already.
“What else?” Laurel asked quietly. She shifted nervously, not yet convinced that any of the men besides Brodie welcomed her voice. But he’d encouraged her to contribute to the conversation the night before, and it had been her idea to send scouts up Ben More.
“We saw smoke toward Inverarnan. That’s where they last attacked,” one scout added.
“Damn it,” Brodie hissed. When Laurel turned questioning eyes to him, he explained. “If we pursue them, we have to contend with the Falls of Falloch.” At Laurel’s blank gaze, he continued. “They’re a few miles from here. The land is hard for men to traverse, but it’s not ideal for horses. We face losing at least one mount or leaving them behind and approaching on foot. The latter isn’t worth considering now that the sun is rising. Without darkness to hide us, they’ll spot us before we can surprise them.” Brodie scrubbed his hands over his face. He looked at Monty, who’s grim expression matched his own. He shifted his eyes to the top of Ben More, and Monty nodded.
“Donnan, take Laurel up,” Monty instructed his partner.
Laurel looked between Brodie and Monty, then Monty and Donnan. Her eyes widened, but she nodded. She stepped forward and embraced Monty. She knew he would lead the Ross warriors while Donnan took her to safety. She didn’t relish watching her husband or her brother ride into battle. When Monty released her, she stepped in front of Brodie. His brawny arms lifted her off the ground, bringing them to eye level.
“Be careful,” Laurel choked. She still couldn’t bring herself to confess her feelings, partly because they were too raw to express. She kissed him, hoping he would understand. When his deep gray eyes looked into hers, he nodded. It was the closest either came to professing their love, but they understood one another.
“I trust Donnan. Stay with him no matter what happens.”
“I ken,mo chridhe.” My heart. Laurel kissed him once more.
“I will return to you,” Brodie stated emphatically. He cast a long, wistful look at Laurel’s upturned face. He held her chin between his finger and thumb. Brushing his lips against hers in the barest hint of a kiss, he whispered, “mo chluaran, mo ghaol.” My thistle, my love. Laurel nodded her head as she swallowed. Then he was gone. Laurel watched as his plaid swished against the back of his muscular thighs before he mounted and rode east.
“Laurel, we need to start the hike. It will be harder for you because of your skirts. I want you out of sight and out of reach before the sun casts enough light for anyone to see us.” Donnan led the way. Four Ross men surrounded Michael and prodded him up the mountain. Laurel caught herself praying there would be a reason to push him to his death.
* * *
Brodie looked back once, but he couldn’t spot Laurel or the men tasked with guarding her. He trusted Donnan, and he trusted the Ross men. Michael, he would relish punishing. But he didn’t fear Michael harming Laurel as long as he remained bound and gagged. He’d given his men quiet instructions the night before that if the traitor made any move to endanger Laurel, they were to kill him without fear of reprisal.
Facing forwards once more, Brodie led the Campbell and Ross warriors north to the encampment that barred Laurel and the Rosses from continuing to Kilchurn. He’d decided that attempting to make it to Inverarnan wasn’t a wise use of their time. There would be little he could do for the village, and the risk to the horses wasn’t worth traversing the Falls of Falloch. Whoever led the raid there would have moved on by then. So they rode toward the first impediment to getting Laurel to safety. If she remained at Ben More’s summit, he didn’t fear the Lamonts finding her.
It was an hour’s hard ride before they saw signs of the camp. Graham once more scouted, creeping through the conifers as he counted the MacDougalls who were breaking camp. He returned to Brodie, grateful that he could inform his laird that their party outnumbered the MacDougalls. With their war cry, “Cruachan!” bursting forth, the Campbells charged into the camp, catching the MacDougalls off guard. The Rosses had circled around the camp, and with their clan motto “spem successus alit”—success nourishes hope—on the breeze, they roared into their attack. Outnumbered and unprepared, the MacDougalls fell in quick succession. Brodie recognized Devlin MacDougall, the laird’s youngest brother, among the men. With a bird call, the men closest to him surrounded Devlin. By the time he was subdued, the battle was over.
“Fancy meeting you here,” Brodie said as he stalked toward Devlin. He suspected it was Devlin’s daughter with whom Michael was having an affair.
“Go to hell,” Devlin barked.
“Undoubtedly. Just not today.” Brodie walked around Devlin, as if he were considering the man from every angle. “I hear your grandbairns are half Campbell.” Brodie hit the mark when Devlin sneered but said nothing. “How fitting that you named your daughter Eve. You must have known she’d be a whore.”
“Bastard.”
“I’m not, but those grandbairns of yours are. Bastards in the laird’s own family. Tsk, tsk. And not only were they born on the wrong side of the blanket, their father is a traitor and a Campbell. Och, they shall have a fine life among your people.” Brodie antagonized the man, watching each reaction. “But then again, is Michael really a traitor? You were lured onto my land, and I’ve found you. How could that be?”
Brodie watched the doubt flash across Devlin’s face before his bravado returned. He raised his chin and glowered at Brodie. “If he were loyal to you, then why would he have told us where you rode with the first Lady Campbell? Why would he tell Nelson the route you would ride home from Stirling?”
“You’re here, aren’t you?”
“I do not believe for a moment that you sacrificed Eliza MacMillan to trick us. And from what I hear aboot you and your newest Lady Campbell, you wouldn’t risk her life for aught. Unfortunate that she’s dead.”
Brodie laughed, and his men followed. “My wife is alive and well. She was spewing curses at Michael just this morn. She has a way with words.”
“Aye, a right skilled mouth from what I hear,” Devlin taunted.
