"Aye, m'Laird," Aymer said. "I can wield a blade just as easy as I can a bow; never fear."
Iain felt pride run through him; his men would fight and die at his side if he asked, though he would do his best to ensure that the latter did not happen. Though, as he gazed around them at his two able-bodied men and one wounded soldier, his heart fell. The farmers were armed with pitchforks or knives taken from their homes. Some of them looked barely old enough to wield a blade.
Iain pulled himself upon his horse, hastily cutting away the ties of the rucksack and the deerskins. They fell away with a heavy sound, and Iain saw Isla flinch.
I cannae let Duncan hurt her. I know tha' he will no' be gentle with her if he's ever able tae lay a hand on her again.
Jacob and Gamelin mounted their horses as well, and Aymer was about to follow them with only a slight struggle when Helen stopped him.
"Aymer," she said, her voice trembling. "Come back alive."
The man stammered for a second, unsure of what to say, and then nodded solemnly. He mounted his horse, settling himself as best as he was able, and his expression steeled.
"Pick them off with the bow, Aymer," Iain said. "See if ye cannae shrink their numbers from afar. I know ye tae be a good shot. Take them out one by one if ye mus'."
"Aye, m'Laird," Aymer said. "They willnae stand a chance against my eye."
With his men at his back, Iain turned the horse to face the throng of trained soldiers on horseback. Even though the men had stopped their charge, Iain’s heart did not slow its rapid pace; he could easily see that Duncan’s men were ready to battle to the death. Behind Duncan was a massive man on horseback who had stopped close behind his Laird.
Tha' mus' be his General, then. He'll be better trained than all the rest o' 'em, I'm certain. Duncan has clearly come with his best soldiers.
"Come on then, lads," Iain said, his voice rising. "It looks like the Robertson clan would have a few words with us!"
The farmers and young men from the village had crowded behind the men, brandishing their makeshift weapons. Iain was relieved to see that a few of them were at least armed with bows; those of them that were had already nocked arrows against the strings, taking aim on the approaching band of men. They would not do much good at this distance, but as Iain nudged his horse into a run, he saw that the archers followed on foot at a safe distance.
Iain crossed the moors, his men at his back, slowing as they approached Duncan and his soldiers. His enemies were still, waiting on their Laird’s word.
Iain watched the Robertson Laird assess his men; even from this distance, it was clear that Duncan thought himself above him. Iain could easily see the man's face; he looked triumphant, as though he'd already won. His bushy red brows climbed high on Duncan's forehead. Iain said nothing, waiting for him to speak first.
He steeled himself, preparing to hear the voice of the man who had taken his father's life and had hurt Isla so terribly.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The man stared at Iain as he dismounted his horse, his face the very picture of evil. Iain hated the victorious gleam the man already possessed in his eyes, and his pupils narrowed like a viper about to strike.
"Iain MacThomas," the man said, his voice dropping condescendingly. "I have been lookin' all over for ye. An' what would ye be doin' with my daughter, then? Ye captured her for what reason? I suggest ye give her up now; if ye do, I might deign tae make yer death a quick one."
Iain's brows dipped down in his fury, and his mouth was a hard frown. He heard the men shifting on their saddles behind him, waiting for his order to charge.
"I didnae have tae capture her," Iain said. "She came tae me tae flee yer clutches, ye loathsome snake. An' ye won' be takin' her back."
Duncan's laugh was a sharp bark, a harsh sound that, to Iain, was more like a roar than anything else. The man's hair blew in the wind, the fierce orange color clashing against the green, grassy moors. He narrowed his eyes at Iain, whose hand tightened on the hilt of his blade.
"Oh, aye?" Duncan asked. "Is tha' the truth? Then why did I find her bag and gown in yer dungeons? I would stop lyin' tae me, MacThomas; I'll be takin' Isla back one way or another. Ye'll save yerself an awful lot o' agony if ye hand her over right now."
Iain felt a bolt of shame hit him when he was reminded of how he had treated Isla at first. He thought of how he had railed at her, how he had called her a liar and a spy, and his guilt only grew. He swiveled his head to chance looking at her, unable to help it and saw that she had not gone into the house as he had asked her. Instead, she still stood in front of the cottage, her hands clasped together.
"Ye found her bag there because I thought she might be a spy, send by none other than the likes of ye tae infiltrate my clan," Iain said. "I know now tha' it isnae the truth, though I should have known better tae think tha' a man with rocks in his skull could think o' somethin' so crafty."
The man's face colored at Iain's insult, purpling darkly as his eyes squinted in his rage.
"Ye think tha', do ye?" the man asked, his voice quietening. "Ye could never know how intelligent a man like me is, MacThomas. Yer father certainly found out exactly where my strengths lay. Need I remind ye of what happened tae him? Oh, but I'm sure tha' ye havenae forgotten."
At the mention of his father, Iain felt fury rise up in his own heart. He tried to blink away the rage, to think with a level head, but his rage could not be quelled. He dropped down from the horse, his boots hitting the ground hard. He heard the horse shake its head, agitated, and back away a few feet.
"So ye want tae die the same way as the Laird before ye then?" Duncan asked, dismounting his own steed. "Like father, like son, I suppose. Cannae say tha' I blame ye. He died at the hand o' the greatest Laird in the highlands. My men are trained killers; they are battle-ready, and hungry tae put an end tae the MacThomas line altogether. Ye and yer little band of farmers dinnae stand a chance. I suggest if they want tae live tae see another day, tha' they drop their weapons here and now!"
Iain expected the farmers to give up, to throw down their pitchforks and bows and flee back to their homes, but they did not. In fact, the villagers advanced ever further. He could hear the breathing of some of the young men and silently commended them on their bravery. He let out a quiet breath, steadying himself.
