Amish had made her and her brother vow to never lift a weapon to the mountain men. Their raiding, he had told them, was a way of life. They did not come to kill, so long as they were not attacked. Not so the MacGregors. For over two centuries they were considered the scourge of Scotland: uncivilized barbarians with no regard for honor or a man’s family. So heinous were their crimes against the Campbells and their allies that their name had been proscribed over fifty years ago.
Amish and John never spoke ill of them, though, even after the Devil killed her father. Hatred, they told her as her father had, was poison to the soul.
Kate wiped her fist across her ear, where the stale smell of her uncle’s breath still lingered. Hatred might be poison, but if he ever touched her again he would feel the power of it when her blade sliced open his heart.
A thunderous cry from the braes above pierced her thoughts. Her face paled. Raiders! She turned, looking back at her uncle’s men already drawing their swords. Nae! She sped toward them, praying as she ran that she could reach her uncle’s men before the Highlanders did.
Callum MacGregor, clan chieftain of the MacGregors, reined in his mount atop the crest of a hill and watched the small battle taking place in the vale below. His dark brows creased over his eyes as he scanned the men engaged in the melee around the Campbell holding and those lying dead in the grass. Duncan Campbell was not among them.
“Looks like we’ve stumbled upon a raid by the McColls,” said one of the four men flanking him.
“Ye said the Earl of Argyll would be here, Graham.” The chieftain cut his gaze to his first in command.
“He’s here,” his commander assured confidently while he rotated the cap tilted jauntily atop his mane of honeyed curls to a backward position. If any man had reason to be so certain of his words, ’twas Graham Grant. After pretending to be a Campbell from Breadalbane and living in Kildun Castle for the last pair of months, Graham knew all there was to know about the Inverary Campbells and the tenth Earl of Argyll. “This was his brother Colin’s homestead. He’s come here to retrieve his niece.” Graham pointed into the vale at the soldiers. “Campbell’s men are here. Mayhap he hides in the keep. We know he lacks courage.”
“Save fer when he’s brandin’ MacGregor women,” said another man, a bit broader of shoulder than the rest. He popped the cork off a leather pouch dangling from his belt and raised it to his mouth.
“Can ye no’ go anywhere wi’oot yer poison, Angus?”
Angus took a swig, belched, and then swiped his beefy knuckles across his thick auburn beard. “Brodie, ye know I like killin’ Campbells wi’ a bit o’ auld Gillis’s brew in me.” He grinned at his cousin stationed beside him. “It fires up me innards.”
Callum refused when Angus slapped the pouch of brew against his arm, offering his laird to take part. Callum did not need whiskey to fire his innards. Hating the Campbells was enough. They had taken much from his clan. But they had taken everything from him.
“The McColls are puttin’ a quick end to the Campbells. They’ll be less fer us.”
“Dinna fret over it, Brodie,” Angus said, corking his pouch. “We killed us enough o’ the bastards already at Kildun before we got here.”
“It will never be enough,” their laird growled low in his throat.
“If Argyll is there, the McColls might get to him before we do,” Jamie Grant, Graham’s younger brother and the youngest of Callum’s men, pointed out.
“There’s a lass fightin’ among the men!”
“That’s no’ a lass, Brodie.” Angus guzzled another swig of whiskey. “’Tis a Campbell wi’ mighty long hair.”
Brodie flashed his larger cousin an incredulous scowl beneath his dark whiskers. “’Tis a lass, ye dull-witted bastard.”
Callum heard the side of Angus’s sword smack against Brodie’s head, and Brodie’s subsequent oaths before he pounded his fist into Angus’s chest. The chieftain ignored his kinsmen and observed the object of their disagreement. The mounted warrior certainly looked like a lass. He’d never seen a lass fight before, though many times he wished he had. His mother’s screams still haunted his dreams. He’d been a lad when Duncan Campbell’s father raided his village and his men raped and branded the women, though no hand had been lifted against the earl’s men.
But here was a woman who had the spirit to actually fight to save her life.
“’Tis a lass,” he said, more to himself than to his men. “Mayhap Argyll’s niece.”
“Aye.” Graham nodded, watching her lush raven mane swing around her shoulders while she whirled her horse around and deflected another mighty blow. “She tires against the McColls. I know she’s a Campbell,” he said with only a hint of regret, “but it looks like a good enough fight. Shall we aid her, Callum?”
Graham smiled at his friend’s slight nod, and then he flicked his reins and took off a moment after Callum kicked his stallion’s flanks and raced toward the melee.
The MacGregor chief cut a straight path to the lass, swiping his claymore through anyone in his way. His men fanned out around him, killing the rest. The closer he came to her, the harder he rode, his dark hair snapping behind him like a pennant. Her arms were growing weary. She was having difficulty lifting her blade to parry the flurry of strikes hammering down on her. He told himself, while he hacked at a McColl riding up behind her, that he was rushing to her defense to keep her alive so that she could tell him Duncan Campbell’s whereabouts.
She whirled on him just as he reached her, and Callum felt something in his gut jolt. Her skin was pale alabaster against a spray of soft obsidian waves, dampened by exhaustion. Her eyes were beautiful as black satin, and when she looked up at him, they told Callum she had just lost hope in surviving this day.
He did not expect her to swing at him, looking as defeated as she did. For an instant, he merely gaped in stunned disbelief at the blood soaking his thigh. Then he lifted his claymore over his head and brought it down hard on another McColl. The lass turned away from the force of his deathblow, but a moment later she returned her gaze to his. Callum responded to the great relief in her expression by wheeling his mount around and calling out to his men to guard her on every side. There, they shielded her until the only men left in the yard, besides them, were dead or wounded.
When Callum turned his mount around to face her again, her sword slipped from her fingers. He glanced at it, then lifted his eyes to hers. “Are ye injured?”
She blinked as if emerging from a daze. Her breath still came heavy enough to part her lips.
“Are ye hurt?” he demanded again.
