Prologue
Thirteen February 1692 - Glencoe Scotland - Clan MacDonald’s keep
Dawn broke with blood-curdling shrieks and shouts. Gunfire fed into the chaos. Though the bitter winds of winter howled outside, scorching hot air, thick and stifling to the lungs, filled the halls of the stronghold.
Acrid smoke, heavy with the oily scent of pitch and burned flesh, hung low across every room. Tarred brands embedded deep wherever they’d landed crackled and blazed as their black oozing fuel took hold and gained strength.
Alexander MacCoinnich rose from his crouched position behind a bullet-riddled column, stealing a glance beyond its cover. Relief washed across him as he peered through the choking haze and located his brother. Graham hurried in his direction, was almost to him, in fact. Duncan and Sutherland, the youngest of the four MacCoinnich brothers, followed close behind.
Thank God he found them.A bullet cut Alexander’s thankfulness short as it burrowed bone deep into his upper thigh. He staggered back against the column, struggling to remain upright. Teeth clenched, he leveled his pistol, took aim, and downed the bastard that had shot him.
His brothers reached him. Alexander motioned toward the end of the room where the chieftain’s overturned table was consumed by fire. “Behind that table. Past the burning tapestry. A passage. We canna win this.” Another shot bored into the meat of his shoulder, almost taking him to the ground. Burning pain radiated through his body. “Move! Now! I’m feckin’ tired of getting shot!”
“Graham, carry the great hulking beast!” Duncan flinched and glanced about for the source of closer gunfire. “Sutherland and I’ll guard your backs.”
A man, wild-eyed and screaming Clan Campbell’s battle cry, plowed toward Duncan who, with the agility born of countless battles, side-stepped away from the man’s bayonet then took the intruder down with a single swipe of his claymore. Sword held at the ready, Duncan backed closer to his older brothers. “And ye ken Sutherland and I’ll be reminding the both of ye that from this day forward the youngest MacCoinnichs bested the eldest brothers, aye?”
“Aye,” Sutherland said, chiming in as he ducked under the arm of another raging swordsman and plunged his dagger deep into the man’s side. He yanked the dying man’s sword out of his hand, admired the weapon, then secured it into his own belt. “Never hear the end of it if we let Alexander die. The nagging bugger would haunt us the rest of our days, ye ken?”
“I’m no’ dead yet,” Alexander said as he shoved his pistols into his belt. Ammunition gone and pistols useless, a sense of doom tightened deep in his gut but he wouldna give it free rein.This isna the end.He drew his dagger from its sheath, wishing he had the strength to heft the weight of his claymore hanging at his side. Wishes were futile in this hell. The bullet robbing his shoulder of its strength was the reality.
His sight dimmed for an instant and the steady high-pitched ring of blood loss hummed in his ears. Palming his dagger, he blinked hard against the suffocating fog of agony threatening to overtake him. Past battles had been worse. He’d push through this and get his brothers safe and tended to afore he relented and gave in to the darkness threatening to knock him on his arse.I’ll be damned if I pass out and let Campbell and his bloody regiment take me.He staggered to one side.
Graham hitched himself up under Alexander’s arm and clenched him tight around the middle. “Ye can do this, damn ye. Dinna let them win.” Gunfire sounded close behind them. The smell of spent gunpowder followed as quick as thunder follows lightning. Graham grunted and jerked a step forward. He bowed his head and grimaced, pain evident in his scowl.
Bullet-riddled columns and upended tables provided little cover. One arm clutched around Graham's shoulders, Alexander stumbled and half-crawled the remaining few feet to the blazing chieftain's table. They made their way past it, then pushed into the shallow alcove concealed behind the flaming tapestry. Duncan and Sutherland stayed close behind, then took up guard on either side of the alcove.
Heat from the ignited tapestry threatened to sizzle his flesh and the sharp scent of burnt hair surrounded him. Alexander pushed away from the support of his brother. Roaring against the excruciating torture of his wounds, he slammed his hands against specific stones inlaid in the wall and shoved. The hidden doorway opened.Thank God.He staggered into the darkness, sagging back against the rough slab of the inner wall and pulled in a deep breath of the cool dank air. He motioned at the still open door as his brothers dashed into the tunnel with him.
“Those stones,” he said as he struggled to remain upright. “Push the two stones at the base and it will close. The bastards willna be able to follow.” He sent up a silent prayer of thanks to MacIain, Clan MacDonald’s chief, for sharing the keep’s secrets before the attack. The hidden tunnel bettered their odds of surviving.
Duncan and Sutherland shoved at the blocks Alexander had pointed out before they lost the light of the blazing tapestry. Stone ground and gritted against stone and inky blackness blotted out all light as the massive door settled back in place. Alexander slumped against the wall then fisted his hands so hard his knuckles popped. He’d failed. Failed in their mission to protect Clan MacDonald of Glencoe as hired to do so by MacIain’s kin, the Lord of the Isles himself, the chieftain of Clan Donald of Islay.
The bile of defeat burned the back of his throat. Alexander closed his eyes a scant moment, pulling in deep breaths and blowing them out.Now isna the time to wallow. Must move on.They had but one choice. Save themselves. Live to fight another day and perhaps, if God so willed it, avenge those murdered this day. For that was what this was: murder. Not battle. Not war. Not a skirmish between clans. This attack had been a calculated act of cold-blooded murder.
Alexander shifted in the darkness, a darkness that played hell with a man’s equilibrium. He turned to hitch his way forward, deeper into the tunnel. “This way.” He forced himself to sound a damn sight stronger than he felt. “MacIain said the tunnel leads to the back of the keep. If the way is clear, we can make it to the trees and then to the cave.”
“Horses?” Graham asked. His pained wheezing echoed in the dank, cool darkness.
“Do ye truly think they left the stables untouched?” Alexander couldn’t help biting out the words. His wounds were pushing him to the edge of sanity. “The bastards probably set fire to them first. Ye ken that as well as I.”
He dragged himself along, right shoulder scraping against the rough, grainy surface of the wall. Feet shuffling, he made a careful sweep of his boot before each step to avoid whatever surprise the darkness might hold. He was growing weaker, his injured leg heavier. He concentrated on breathing, remaining upright, and ignoring the burning stab of agonizing pain radiating from several places on his body. Three times he’d been shot. Four if ye counted the grazing across his ribs, and he’d lost track of how many wounds he’d earned courtesy of swords, bayonets, and daggers. Best talk of something to keep the pain at bay. “We best thank Almighty God and all the saints for revealing that cave to us on our way here to Glencoe. ’Twill give us shelter to rest,” he said to anyone willing to listen. “And tend to our wounds.”
“And then?” Duncan asked from somewhere behind him in the darkness.
“Leave ‘then’ to God,” Alexander said. “Only He kens that answer and I’m a damn sight too weary at the moment to ask Him.” One hand feeling his way, he sent up a silent prayer that his strength would hold until they reached the cave.
Alexander blinked hard at the cold sweat running into his eyes and setting them on fire. Sight was useless in the dark tomb of the tunnel. It felt as though they’d been crawling through this clammy black hell for hours. The sounds of the attack had grown quieter—at least as far as he could tell what with the roaring of his blood pounding in his ears. He didna ken if it was because they’d made their way well past the belly of the keep or if Campbell’s troops had finished their massacre of the entire clan.Damn Robert Campbell and his men straight to hell.
“I feel fresh air,” Sutherland called out. “Take care, brother. Who’s to say they’re no’ waiting for anyone trying to escape.”
“Hold fast.” Alexander stopped and leaned back against the solid wall, gulping in deep breaths to rally his waning strength. He’d emerge from the tunnels first. A winged bird. An easy target in case danger lay ahead. “The lot of ye stay here until I deem it safe and call out to ye to follow, aye?”
“Nay,” Graham argued. “I’ll go. I’ve shot left in my pistol and my wounds are no’ so bad as yours.”
“Ye will stay here.” Alexander adopted the growling tone he’d oft used to keep his brothers in line when they were lads. Aye, his wounds pained him something severe, but he wasna dead yet and as eldest, they best remember he was still verra much in charge. “I'll no' go to my grave with your death on my conscience, ye ken?”
“But ye’d burden me with your death on mine?” Graham took hold of Alexander’s arm and wrapped it around his shoulders for support. “We go together. The pups can stay behind.”
