“Tie Teine’s reins off and guide him by the bridle. If you feel yourself sliding, let go. If you pull him with you, he’s likely to crush you. Trust that he’s more sure-footed than you,” Brodie instructed. “If you feel unsteady, grab my belt. Regardless, watch where I step, then step there too. We’ll move slowly.”
“Yes, Brodie.” Laurel drew a deep breath and released it gradually. She followed Brodie’s instructions and adjusted Teine’s reins, whispering in the horse’s ear about how proud she was of him. As though he understood, his massive head nodded. He nudged her shoulder, and she was certain he was telling her to get on with their journey down the mountain. She muttered, “I hear you.”
With her first step, Laurel’s foot almost slid out from beneath her. She righted herself, but her heart raced. She swallowed and locked her gaze onto Brodie’s feet. It only took a moment to realize that he’d offered the best advice he could by telling her how to follow his lead. He moved with the ease of a mountain goat, giving Laurel confidence that they would survive.
* * *
Brodie listened to every sound around him. He listened for Laurel’s breathing, her footsteps, the horses, birds overhead, and the sheep in the corrie they walked toward. His eyes darted from the trail to his left, then back to the trail before looking up, then down, and finally to the right. He repeated the pattern over and over. He spotted the first sign of trouble before their enemy spotted them. He held up a fist, and their group came to a stop. His only indicator of what he found was looking to his left. The other three members of their party gazed in the same direction. Shadows danced along the rock face, and they moved toward them.
Brodie signaled them to move on. He’d only stopped, so they were all aware of what they couldn’t avoid. He was determined to reach flat ground before the group of ten Lamonts or before the enemy could reach them. He worried they would cut off the route Brodie planned. There was another way down nearby, but it led to a glen rather than off the mountains. They could hide there, but there was no trail. Not even an animal one. It would be pure luck to make it down, and he doubted all the horses would.
If he’d been alone, he would have risked jogging down the trail they took now. But he couldn’t with the horses in tow and people unfamiliar with their location. He settled for reaching back for Laurel. When her hand met his, he wrapped it around his belt. With her connected to him, he increased their pace. While his gaze could survey their surroundings while he moved downward, he didn’t dare look back while he moved. He had to trust that Monty and Donnan were progressing well too. They were a hundred yards from the base of the mountain when the cry went up. The shadows morphed into men who raced toward them.
Brodie predicted what would happen, but he wouldn’t risk any of the Lamonts surviving their pell-mell descent. He spun around and hefted Laurel over his shoulder. She let go of Teine because she had no choice. Once more, her hand grasped Brodie’s belt. She looked up to see Monty and Donnan had also released their horses. She glanced at the beasts and realized Brodie hadn’t exaggerated that they would be more sure-footed. Monty and Donnan glanced over at their pursuers now and again, but their attention was following the feet in front of them.
Brodie slid over the shale, bending his knees to absorb the impact as he half-ran and half-slipped the last hundred yards. Trusting Monty and Donnan would follow his lead, he glanced back to see they were only steps behind him. He tossed Laurel into the saddle and helped her arrange the reins before vaulting onto Lann. Monty and Donnan followed suit as the first screams echoed through the pass. Laurel twisted to see and watched most of the men plummet down the mountain, their horses careening down with them. She only felt bad for the animals. But a few moved more cautiously and made progress in their pursuit.
They still had nearly a day’s ride as they cut through foothills, careful not to exhaust their mounts. It wasn’t long after they set off on horseback that Campbell and Ross men materialized, riding to catch up to them. Laurel kept count, praying that more would appear. They rode in silence for nearly two hours before Brodie signaled that they would stop to rest the horses. There was no water nearby, but the animals and riders needed a break. Brodie helped Laurel off her horse and nodded when Donnan offered to escort her to a private place. Brodie and Monty met with their men.
The two leaders nodded as they learned the fate of five men. Two Rosses lost their lives falling over a precipice. One Ross and one Campbell died from arrows to the throat. The Lamonts captured the last man, a Campbell, and ran him through. But he’d given his life so both Ross and Campbell warriors could find safety. Monty and Brodie exchanged a look, both knowing they had many families to inform that their loved one wouldn’t return.
* * *
The mixture of Campbells and Rosses were an hour from Kilchurn when a Ross warrior spotted horses riding toward them. Laurel already rode in the center of the pack. She strained to see past the men to her left, but it was futile. She held her breath at the sound of swords being drawn from their scabbards. They rode until, inevitably, they had to stop and face the newest threat.
“Do not leave the center, Laurel. Trust that the men will remain around you, even if gaps form. They’ll shift. They know what to do regardless of their clan,” Brodie commanded. Laurel nodded, already knowing what to do but wanting to assure Brodie that she understood. She caught the concern in his eyes before he masked it. She reached out her hand before he steered his horse away. When she grasped his, she squeezed nodding again. She wanted him to know she wasn’t Eliza. She wouldn’t make the other woman’s fatal error.
“MacFarlanes,” Graham called out. The man’s eyesight amazed her since the riders were still miles from them. The guardsmen lowered their weapons but didn’t sheath them. Laurel squinted against the late morning sun as she tried to discern who led the clan’s warriors.
“Wonderful,” Brodie said, sarcasm lacing his voice. “Andrew Mòr and Andrew Óg.” Mòr usually meant greater or larger, but when used with a name, it signified older or senior. Óg was the opposite. The laird rode with his son. Brodie wasn’t certain if he was pleased to see either of them. Brodie drew away from the circle, Graham at his side. Monty and Donnan maneuvered their mounts a few feet behind the Campbell laird and his second.
“Fine weather we’re having,” Brodie called out once the MacFarlanes were within earshot. When they drew close enough to lock eyes, he added, “A fine day to come and kiss and be friends.” Brodie laid his sword across his lap, looking as though he rested nonchalantly. But he fooled no one. He might not look like the aggressor, but he was prepared to fight.
“I understand my son will be kissing your boots several times,” Andrew Mòr grumbled. He glanced at Laurel and scowled. “And Lady Campbell’s.” The older man sent his son a withering glare. Andrew Óg wisely remained silent, his expression justly chastised but his body held proudly.
“Now you’ve come to reconcile,” Brodie surmised. “Are you prepared to fight?”
“Would I have ridden this far if I wasn’t?”
“Are you planning to remain until it’s done?”
“Will you feed us if we do?”
“No.” Brodie grinned at the banter between the other laird and him. He liked Andrew Mòr, and he tolerated Andrew Óg, but he rarely enjoyed them together. His knuckles were white as he gripped his sword and reins, glad to have something in each hand lest he rip Andrew Óg apart with his bare hands.
Andrew Mòr glanced at his son and scowled again. He nodded his head in Laurel’s direction. Andrew Óg nudged his horse forward, but Laurel didn’t move. She wasn’t sure if Brodie trusted them, and she most definitely didn’t trust the younger Andrew. Her gaze was riveted on him, watching for any signal that he might attack.
“Lady Campbell, I did you grievous harm for which you have my humblest apologies.”
“But are you sorry?” Laurel asked without hesitation.
“Your pardon?” Andrew blinked at her.
“Apologies are all fine and good. I suppose you’d like praise for admitting you did something wrong. What I wish to know is if you’re actually remorseful. I doubt you are,” Laurel’s haughtiness harkened back to her days as the Shrew of Stirling. For that she felt no contrition. He’d been a party to men willing to kill her. “You showed you were without honor. You did naught to convince the others not to murder me. Are you sorry for that? Or can you only admit you did something wrong because your da made you?”
Laurel watched Brodie’s shoulders tense for a moment, but she still didn’t feel contrite. He would negotiate with the laird, but Laurel would deal with the perpetrator. She knew accusing Andrew of being dishonorable would have wound her up in a fight to the death if she were a man. After what she endured, she couldn’t resist taunting him. She trusted that Andrew Mòr was intelligent enough not to let his son take on Brodie in her stead.
“I never heard how much my death was worth. Twenty pounds? Thirty pounds? One hundred? How much did you lose because I’m still married?”
