As the afternoon had worn on, a haze had moved in from the water, as it so often did. Ewan squinted into the failing light, searching for the approaching strangers.
And then, riding out of the mist, there they were.
Four of them, riding as though their lives depended on it. As they got a bit closer, he realized they were women, hair streaming behind them, skirts flapping in the wind. And they were indeed riding for their lives, for mere moments after the women became visible, more riders appeared behind them. Men, all.
Dressed for battle.
“I know those horses,” Phileas murmured to himself, low enough that only Ewan could hear. Then, he raised his voice to address his men. “Protect the lasses! Stop the riders behind them!”
The soldiers, trained Buchanan warriors all, fanned out, stringing their bows even as they guided their horses with their knees. Ewan kept his eyes fixed ahead, trusting his men to act as they ought, though his hand did drift to the short sword he wore at his waist.
He doubted he’d need to use it, not with his men at his back, but he did know how.
James McGregor, the Captain of the Guard and Ewan’s closest friend, rode up beside him. Now, Ewanknewhe wouldn’t need his own sword.
Not just because James was good at his job—though he certainly was—but because he was an almighty pain in the arse wholovedto heckle Ewan about being the soft laird’s heir who needed to be protected. He wouldn’t pass up a chance to defend Ewan, if only to give him shite about it.
For once, though, Ewan wasn’t focused on James.
He watched the lasses’ horses as they loomed closer, trying to figure out what had triggered his father’s memory. The rider in the lead was lithe and, even from this distance, looked strong. She was bent low over her horse’s neck, every inch of her posture that of an accomplished horsewoman. Dark hair had pulled freefrom her braid, its color not far off from the dark hue of the horse beneath her, its coat dappled with small patches of tan and white.
The next rider had a wearier aspect, though she was holding her own atop her golden mount with its white streaks. The woman herself was petite, smaller than the woman at the fore, hair a bright auburn against the misty afternoon. At her side was a third girl—this one clearly young enough to still be considered a girl—fair haired on a richly colored brown horse. The youngest girl was struggling, that much was clear. She was seated properly, though her seat wavered periodically before she caught herself again.
Whowerethese women? Where in Christ’s name had they come from?
And then the fourth, the one guarding the rear, turned her head away from the pursuing riders, and Ewan had his answer.
He’d recognize Ailsa Donaghey anywhere, from any distance.
She was, after all, supposed to be his wife.
As soon as he recognized her, he grabbed his sword from his belt and surged forward, the protection of his men be damned. And yet, he was still too far away to do anything, as one of the pursuers raised a bow and loosened an arrow. Ewan’s heart leapt to his throat. He could practically hear it whistle through the air as he raced toward the assailants.
The arrow missed the riders—they had to be Ailsa’s sisters, if they were with her like this, they had to be—and he watched, impressed, as the sister in the lead, the dark-haired one, turned and threw a dagger, which landed in the chest of one of her pursuers, knocking him from his mount.
She did all this without losing stride on her horse, without even once losing her perfect posture as she rode. Ewan would have been impressed if not for his fear.
“Protect them!” he roared to his men, who had begun galloping at his side the moment that he had spurred his horse into motion. He caught a flash of James’ grim expression, saw the soldiers reaching for their weapons.
The pursuers drew up behind the women, halted by their leader’s raised fist. Their calculation was brief; they fled, leaving their fallen companion on the ground behind them.
Ewan locked his eyes on Ailsa. She whipped her head around one more time, her braid nothing more than a suggestion, her dark strands whipping with the movement. He saw the flash of relief in her expression when she realized they were no longer being chased, could practically hear the weariness in her voice as she called the news up to her sisters.
It was astonishing, he thought as the Buchanans and Donagheys rode toward one another, that he could still read her expressions after all this time—and yet, it felt right. He would have to be dead in the ground before he failed to recognize her.
Their eyes locked, just for an instant, before she looked away, her attention fixed firmly on his father.
The knife-throwing sister arrived first, though she made no move to speak. Instead, she guided her mount to turn until it was clear that she was awaiting Ailsa’s arrival to manage things.
Despite himself, he felt a surge of pride on her behalf. Ailsa was a leader.
The remaining three sisters arrived together, Ailsa between the younger two. The knife-throwing sister dismounted nimbly and caught the red-haired sister as she slipped unsteadily from her mount, stumbling when she hit the ground. The fair sister, the young one, looked as though she lost the final slip of her energy as she reached safety. One of the Buchanan soldiers helped her to the ground, then held her when her feet did not hold her properly.
Only Ailsa stayed atop her horse, her back straight, her posture proud.
“Laird Buchanan,” she said, her voice raspy but sure. “I come to you seeking sanctuary for myself and my sisters. My parents have been killed.” A whimper came from the fair-haired sister. “And my father bade me, in the case of peril, to come to you and request aid, in recognition of the longstanding alliance between our families. Will you offer us safety?”
Maybe Ewan had signaled to his mount, or maybe the horse had just been with him so long that it could practically sense his thoughts. The horse moved forward before he pulled on the reins to stop it.
