They moved through the trees like an arrow toward its target. Going against the breeze, his senses perked for any peculiar sound or out of place scent… like wood smoke.
They were close. As they drew closer to the Menzie camp, the men’s voices picked up more clearly on the wind. He turned to Janet, held a finger to her mouth, and commanded her to not to move.
Coming around from the eastern edge of the tree line, he looked around the fire. He fastened his gaze on the chief, asleep beneath a canopy, and slipped his dagger from his belt. This was what he trained for, what he lived for. To fight. The only thing better than the victory was the fight.
He crept up, closer to their campfire, risking for the briefest of moments being seen in the firelight or in the moonlight in the clearing by the men on watch. But Darach had learned how to move in the shadows and no one saw him. As silent as a wraith in the deep of the night, he came up behind his first victim and slipped his dagger across the man’s neck. He let the man wilt down his chest and then he disappeared again into the shadows of the trees.
He found Roddie again, snoring. Poor, fat sot. Janet would make his life a living hell if he forced her to wed. Menzie should thank him for what he was doing.
Without so much as the sound of a twig breaking beneath his feet, he killed the next casualty of the battle Roddie Menzie had brought upon his kin. It didn’t matter that it was a quiet battle. Darach would win.
Finally, he came to the chief and crouched in the shadow of the tree behind him.
“Get up,” Darach whispered against his ear and ran the tip of his bloody dagger over the chief’s neck. “Go take a piss or I’ll kill ye where ye sit.”
Some men didn’t understand, or respect, mercy, and living in as hostile an environment as Scotland, one learned to fight in whatever way would keep him or her alive. “I already took doun the man two places to yer left and another four places to yer right.”
Since Menzie wasn’t facing him, Darach couldn’t tell if the chief was looking toward those spots to see empty space instead of his kin when he claimed not to believe Darach.
Darach didn’t care if he looked now or not. The truth would be revealed when the sun came up.
Roddie scratched his groin and stood to his feet. “I need a piss,” he called to the men around him, then walked into the shroud of shadows beyond the fire.
They walked to the far edge of the tree line, where Menzie’s men couldn’t hear them.
“Take yer men home, Roddie,” Darach warned him when they stopped. “If ye’re here tomorrow, I’ll return and take more of ye. Ye willna’ stop me. I’ll take ye doun one by one and saveyefer last.”
“I’ve no trouble leaving as soon as I get what was agreed upon,” Menzie said.
“No agreement was made with me”—Darach moved closer to him, clenching his dagger in his fist—“actin’ lord of Ravenglade in m’ cousin’s absence. Ferget Miss Buchanan as fast as ye ferget Ravenglade, Menzie. Or I vow ye’ll regret it.”
“Why, Grant? What do ye care about the wench? Her name and her kin make her yer enemy. Is she yers that ye so vehemently deny me?”
Hell, what was he to say to that? Janet Buchanan, his. He almost laughed at the madness of it. What man in his right mind would want to be saddled down with such a sharp-tongued viper?
“Aye, she is.”
“She is what?” Menzie asked.
“Mine.” Hell.
“When ye say she’s yers”—Menzie smirked in the moonlight—“would that mean she’s yer wife, yer betrothed, or”—he chuckled, making Darach’s teeth hurt—“if the rumors aboot ye are correct, is she simply yer cock’s current interest?”
Darach wanted to kill him, but he wanted to kill himself more when he answered, oddly unable to control his own tongue, “She’s m’ betrothed.” Damn it! What the hell was wrong with him? He had no control over his own damn mouth. Why would he say such a thing? Well, it was better than a mere common interest and certainly better than his wife. If it kept her safe from this grunting pig, he’d say it. Now that he had, he might as well make Roddie believe it.
“Ye think m’ cousin Malcolm would hand over the care of his castle to Buchanans if there wasn’t a promise between us? Ye know the Buchanans and the Grants are no’ friends. We make a union to bind relations fer the sake of Ravenglade. Dinna’ come between that or ’twill no’ go well fer ye.”
Roddie snorted. “Ye have balls to come into my camp and threaten me.”
“Yer camp. Our land,” Darach reminded him caustically. “As fer a threat? Take m’ words as ye will, but know that I’ll stand by them.”
“Just as I’ll stand by mine,” Menzie snarled in a quiet voice. “I gave my word to leave peacefully when I had Buchanan’s sister. Until yer claim to her is sworn before God, she’s free fer the taking. Only after that will I leave without her. Until then, I’ll continue to attack Ravenglade.”
What? Darach’s smile faded. What in blazes just happened? This stubborn bastard wasn’t giving in easily then. He caressed the hilt of his dagger. “Ye’re makin’ me eager to kill ye, Menzie.” How the hell was Darach going to get out of this? How badly did he want to?
“Do it,” the chief provoked, “and my kin, who are spread out as far south as Ayr all the way to the Highland mountains will avenge my death against yer kin on Skye.”
Darach closed his eyes and gritted his teeth. His kin wouldn’t mind fighting, but the Menzies did know the location of Camlochlin and could use it as leverage, and Roddie was bold enough to do it. One thing he’d give the Menzie clan, they were a fearless bunch.
