A moment later, a mangy-looking terrier—its head no more than a foot off the ground—trotted out of the shadows toward the two warriors. It had probably been scavenging the castle for rats when it heard something and decided to come investigate.
With Gregor’s gaze fixed at the height of an average man, it took him a moment to make the adjustment down.Bloody hell. The thing was so ugly it was almost cute.
The dog scampered to a sudden stop. It was about a dozen feet from MacSorley and MacRuairi, giving Gregor such an easy mark he could shoot it with his eyes closed. But he didn’t. He looked at the pathetic excuse for a dog and hesitated.
The dog seemed to be having second thoughts about approaching the two imposing-looking warriors, proving that it was smarter than its half-starved, unfortunate appearance suggested. Appearing to lose interest, it started to turn away, when something flashed in the moonlight.
The blade from MacRuairi’s drawn dagger.
The dog darted into the shadows of the guardhouse like it had just seen a ghost, letting out a torrent of terrified yapping behind it.
God’s bones!The dog might be small, but in the quiet night air the shrill, high-pitched bark might as well have been a thunderclap. It had the same effect: disaster.
Gregor unfurled the arrow, but it was too late. The dog was lost in the shadows and the damage had been done. They might as well have rung a bell inside the towers, as soldiers poured out to investigate.
The quiet, sleeping castle had become a hornet’s nest.
With them caught in the middle.
He swore, knowing that not only had the dog cost them their chance at surprise—and the chance of taking the castle—but they were also going to have a hell of a time getting out of here without being caught.
But he’d be damned if he let his friends die because of his mistake. Drawing his sword, Gregor turned to face the onslaught of soldiers who were almost on him and shouted the words that had become feared across Christendom. The battle cry of the Highland Guard:“Airson an Leòmhann!”
For the Lion!
King Robert the Bruce sat behind the large table that dominated the small solar off the Great Hall of Dunstaffnage Castle and stared blankly at the three warriors.
Why the hell did Gregor feel like squirming? Bruce wasn’t his father—the king was only seven years his elder—but Gregor hated to fail at anything, and having to explain it to the man who was the last person he ever wanted to let down made it that much worse. There was no one he believed in more than Robert the Bruce, and Gregor would fight to his dying breath to see him claim his throne.
A claim that could have been much closer if Gregor hadn’t buggered up.
A damned dog. They’d lost the chance to take one of the most important castles in the Marches because the best archer in the Highlands had hesitated to shoot a little flea-bitten ratter.
Elite warriors didn’t miss and they sure as hell didn’t hesitate. Gregor was still furious with himself even a week later. Furious, aye, but that wasn’t the worst of it. The worst was howafterhe, MacSorley, and MacRuairi had narrowly—very narrowly—managed to escape the hornet’s nest stirred up by the damned dog at Berwick, Gregor had nearly gotten them captured a few days later in the village. Or rather, his damned face had nearly gotten them captured.
The king finally spoke. “We lost our best chance to take back one of the most important castles in the Marches from the English because of a dog?”
MacSorley winced. “Aye, well, it wasn’t much of a dog to speak of, but it could have raised the dead with that bark.”
“It was a bit of bad luck, that’s all,” MacRuairi interjected.
If Gregor needed any more proof of how badly he’d erred, the fact that a mean bastard like Lachlan MacRuairi was trying to cover for him said it all.
“I didn’t think any of you fell prey to something so human as bad luck?” the king said with a wry turn of his mouth.
“It wasn’t bad luck,” Gregor corrected. “It was my fault. I hesitated.”
Bruce lifted a brow. “To shoot a dog?”
Gregor gritted his teeth, humiliation burning inside him. He was an elite warrior, the best of the best—he wasn’t supposed to make mistakes like this. Hedidn’tmake mistakes like this. Bruce was counting on him. But he had, damn it, and it had cost them. He met the king’s gaze unflinchingly. “Aye.”
“In his defense, sire, it was kind of a cute little blighter,” MacSorley added with a grin. “And we did find out one thing that is important.”
“What’s that?” the king asked suspiciously, expecting the jest.
“The rumors are wrong: he doesn’t just break hearts, he actually has one.”
“Sod off, Hawk,” Gregor bit out under his breath. But the blasted seafarer just grinned.
