She reacted to his order on instinct, spurring Grian into a canter, bending low over his neck to avoid the arrows that kept whizzing past. Bent down like that, it took her a moment to see them—black-clad warriors, all but hidden in the shadows.
And gaining on them. Gainingfast.
The path, which had been challenging for one or two riders, quickly became treacherous with a whole score of them. The mercenaries seemed unbothered by the risk to their mounts, though, as they crowded Eilidh and Ciaran in from both sides. Ciaran threw a knife expertly, knocking one man from his saddle, but it scarcely mattered, not when two more took his place like the Hydra from myth.
Eilidh clutched her own blade in her hand and kept her focus on expertly maneuvering Grian through the dangerous terrain. She’d never practiced throwing her blade while racing through the darkness, and she didn’t dare be parted from her weapon now.
“Go,” Ciaran urged from where he and Shadowbane raced next to her, the two horses neck and neck. “Go, go.”
It sounded like a prayer, like he believed if he said it enough, they would get away.
Only Eilidh knew better. She knew that he was hoping merely thatshewould get away.
They mounted a hill, and Eilidh clung to the fervent hope that this would let them finally escape. The mercenaries would be caught behind them in a bottleneck; she and Ciaran could use their smaller numbers to their advantage for once.
But she drew up short, Ciaran a heartbeat behind her, when she crested the hill.
There were more men below. Enough to entirely block the narrow pass that greeted them on the other side of the slope.
There was nowhere left to run.
Behind them, the pursuing mercenaries spread like wolves corralling a kill, their grins wide and vicious. Eilidh sidled Grian closer to Ciaran and Shadow as Ciaran drew his sword.
She trusted in his abilities, but even so, Eilidh looked at that sword in alarm. He couldn't mean to try to fight his way through so many, could he? He would be killed!
She didn’t think she would survive seeing him killed right before her eyes.
“Bide,” Ciaran said, his voice low, to Eilidh.
She nodded, only then realizing that she’d grabbed his free arm, the one not brandishing his sword. She kept her chin high as she faced down the leering warriors, who waited with a horrible sort of patience that made dread churn in Eilidh’s gut.
Then, at the base of the hill, the ranks of men parted, and a single figure came out. He was clearly their leader, and Eilidh supposed that he was imposing in a disgusting sort of way. He was unkept and wild, but it was the cruelty gleaming in his gaze that made Eilidh desire to shrink away from him.
He smiled. She disliked it intensely. The leader’s words, however, were not for her.
“Ah, Ciaran Gunn,” he greeted familiarly. “It seems ye have finally brought us the chit—and fulfilled the mission that Gordon’s sent ye on.”
18
Ciaran’s heart plummeted as Eilidh dropped her arm from his, jerking back as she looked at him in confusion. He could only watch her from the corner of his eye, however, he could not offer her the reassurances she deserved.
For one thing, he dared not take his gaze from Ruairidh Black.
For another, what reassurances could he offer?
“Shut yer mouth,” he growled at Black.
Black laughed as though this was a hilarious joke. He advanced, his men at his heels. Eilidh looked nervously between Ciaran and Black.
“Miss Donaghey,” Black said with a mocking politeness that set Ciaran’s teeth on edge. “It is a great pleasure to meet ye at last.”
“I cannae say the same.” Eilidh’s voice came out icier and haughtier than Ciaran had ever heard it, and he could just imagine her struggling to draw upon her sisters’ ways of being. On Ailsa’s quiet command. On Vaila’s stubborn determination. Hell, even on Davina and Mairi.
It hurt him to know her quite so well when it had all come to this.
“Och, well.” Black sketched a sardonic bow. “I am Ruairidh Black, leader of his lairdship Finlay Gordon’s army.”
“Gordon is nae a laird,” Eilidh spat. “And ye are a fool to align with him.”
