“I tell ye, she did,” Maggie said adamantly while she rose.
“Christ!” He raked his fingers through his hair as if he meant to yank out every strand. His eyes searched toward Elgol. “When did she go?” He whirled around, dropped to one knee, and gripped his sister’s shoulders. “Maggie, think hard. How long ago did Kate leave?”
“Och, ’twas long ago, Callum. ’Twas before I fed Matilda.”
Since he had no idea when that was, he groaned, released his sister, then took off toward the stable, calling over his shoulder that she return to the castle. He was grateful to find Maggie finally doing what he asked when he flew past her on his mount.
Callum cursed on the wind that tore his hair away from his face while he thundered out of the glen. Why the hell would Kate do such a foolish thing? He snapped the reins, driving his steed faster. He was to blame. He had pushed her so hard she could not wait another day to be away from him. Driven by fear of what might become of her, he kicked his mount’s flanks harder, urging the horse to fly.
He plundered toward Elgol just as the sky tore open above him. His eyes scanned the darkened cliffs and countryside, searching. She could not have been gone from the castle for any length of time without him noticing, he told himself, trying to remain calm—to contain his rawest emotions. Surely she could not have gone far with old Ahern beneath her. Praying she had not already reached the treacherous cliffs, Callum gritted his teeth to keep from crying out the name that had somehow become more important to him than his own.
Kate reached Elgol just before the heavens darkened and poured out their wrath upon the land. She was sure it was wrath, for the rain battered her flesh, saturating her bones until the cold numbed her limbs. The torrent obscured her vision and she slowed Ahern’s pace, fearing she might lead them blindly over the cliffs. A few feet up ahead, a shadowy figure crossed her path. She pulled the old horse to a halt and swiped the rain from her eyes. The hair along her neck rose. A warning sounded in her head. Someone was watching her. She cursed herself for not bringing a sword, or at least a dagger, for protection on her journey. She heard the sound of feet pounding the muddy ground and turned, panic accelerating her heartbeat.
The man was upon her almost instantly. His fist caught her in the ribs, doubling her over. He yanked on her hair, pulling her off Ahern’s back. She was too shocked by the sudden assault and too cold to fight back while she was dragged off the path and hurled against a wall of rock that separated the minty fragrance of forest from the briny scent of the sea.
Kate reeled backward and fell hard against a large boulder, one sharp edge barely missing the back of her head. Red, searing pain flared across her shoulder and then sent a numbing tingle down her arm, to her fingertips. She gasped back the breath that was knocked out of her and pushed herself to her feet to face two men, their dark hair plastered to their satisfied faces. She clawed the rain from her eyes, trying to gain some control over her trembling fingers. The whitecaps behind her pitched and crashed hard against the rocks that lined the shore. Above her, the vast heavens deepened to charcoal gray and the rolling roar of thunder resonated through her bones.
“She’s a bonny wench, Clyde. Are ye certain she’s a MacGregor?” the first one said, sweeping his eyes over the length of her body. So lewd was his gaze, Kate almost looked away. These two would not kill her right away.
“Aye, she comes from the path to Camlochlin,” Clyde sneered. “I dinna know if m’ stomach can stand ruttin’ a MacGregor.”
Kate’s fear faded into rage. She tossed each man a glare that would have made Callum proud, had he been there to see it. “Touch me and I’ll rake your eyes out and toss them into the sea, you filthy son of a—”
Clyde took a step forward and cracked her hard across the mouth. She fell backward again, landing on her backside against the rock. “I see we’re goin’ to have to beat some courtesy into ye before we sell ye.”
“What think ye we’ll get fer her? She’s bonny, she is.” The other stared at the blood dripping over her bottom lip and licked his own mouth.
“No’ much, Ewan. The barons dinna pay much fer MacGregor women, and even less if she be wi’ child.”
“Mayhap she’s a MacLeod. Should we no’ be certain first?”
Kate listened on in horror. They spoke of her as if she was naught more than a cesspit rat. This was what it meant to be a MacGregor. No honor, no dignity. No place was safe, not even here in Callum’s own kingdom. Her life was worth nothing simply because they believed her name to be MacGregor.
“Ye’ll tell me who yer laird is before I have m’ way with ye, wench.” Clyde grabbed a fistful of her hair and dragged her forward.
How difficult would it be to tell them who her uncle was? To simply deny a name?
It wasn’t difficult at all.
It was impossible.
She was not a MacGregor, but it did not matter to her. Here was the noble fight of heroes. Would she cower to Callum’s enemies by denouncing everything he fought to keep alive?
“Will I be defilin’ m’ body by touchin’ ye?” Clyde demanded.
To do so meant more than just forgetting Callum’s bravery and Maggie’s suffering. It meant stripping away the existence of an entire clan. A clan that belonged to Scotland. And Kate was sure now that each time a MacGregor was killed or denied the right to bear his name, the very hills screamed out at the injustice of it. Yet the heather still grew in all its glory, the mists still lingered over the mountaintops, exploding into golden brilliance with the setting of the sun, as if reminding her children to never give up.
Kate lifted her gaze to her captors and wiped her mouth. “It is you who defile the name MacGregor when it falls from your loathsome lips.”
Clyde raised his hand to strike her again, but Kate ducked low, picked up a rock, and smashed it against his temple. Clyde swayed on his feet, then staggered backward. A look of astonishment animated his face at being wounded by this waif of a gel who now stood ready to fight.
His companion charged her like a wild boar and caught her square on the jaw with his fist. Kate crumbled to the ground, unconscious even before she reached her destination.
A peal of thunder bellowed its rage, quaking the earth and its foundations. But ’twas the sound that followed that caused Clyde and Ewan to turn. ’Twas the sound of death. Ewan wanted to run, but sheer terror rooted his feet to the ground. Blindly, for he could not tear his terrified gaze from the direction of the unholy wail just beyond the fog, he reached out to where Clyde stood equally still, and clutched his companion’s sleeve.
“Good God in heaven, ’tis him.” Clyde’s voice rattled with the certain knowledge of his imminent death. Many had heard of the fiend, MacGregor, but not so many had actually ever seen him. Tales were told about the laird of the mist around bonfires when the moon hung low in the sky and the wind howled like the souls of his victims. As elusive as a nimbus mist, he had been hunted for years but never caught. ’Twas whispered his was the blackest soul ever to walk the Earth. But Clyde swore by his poor mother’s grave that the Earth itself lent to the beast’s foul existence. For the heavens blackened, and out of a rising mist he rode like a demon ascending from the sooty vapors of hell.
He did not cut them down instantly, but leaped from the heaving creature snorting beneath him. For an instant he did naught but stare at the woman lying in the sand while the rain washed blood from her face into a thin rivulet beside her.
