Under his skin? Hell, she was in his blood—his bones— and he didn’t know what to do about it. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to turn into just as big of a fool as his brother—acting on emotion, and not on what was best for the clan. What kind of leader would he be to dance to a woman’s whims.
It was almost dark by the time he started back down. Not concentrating as he should, he took an ill-placed step, causing his foot to slide out from under him and sending a slab of ice tumbling down the steep hillside below him, setting off a small avalanche of rock and snow. He caught his balance without difficulty but berated himself for the lapse. He’d better focus on what he was doing or he was going to end up dead.
Then he saw it.
At the base of the steep cliff below him, perhaps five hundred feet straight down, nearly buried by the snow, was the carcass of a deer. Not in the corrie as it should be if it had fallen to its death, but on a narrow ridge.
That’s how MacRuairi had done it. The mini-avalanche had uncovered his hiding place.
Tor’s blood heated with the rush of the hunter who’d finally sighted his prey. With a burst of renewed energy, he made his way swiftly down. There was just enough light to navigate.
Nearing a narrow scree ledge, he slowed his step, landing each footfall with care, all of his senses honed on his surroundings.
He was about halfway along when disaster struck.
The ground gave way beneath his foot. He slipped. His body slammed hard on the rock, face first, and he began to slide over the ledge. He fought to grab onto something, but the snow and rock fell along with him as he careened sharply toward the edge of the cliff.
He was going too fast. Wind roared in his ears. He clawed with his hands and kicked with his feet. Momentum was starting to take him backward into the air when he slammed into a jagged rock, slowing him down just enough to dig his fingers into a crack in the rock face.
He kicked at the wall, finding nothing for his feet to latch on to. Heart racing, he tried to pull himself up, but it was useless. The sheer wall of rock and ice gave no mercy.
He was dangling by his fingertips at a dead hang, his body battered by the fall and weighed down by the pack and heavy cache of weapons strapped to his back. He dare not let go his grip to attempt to release them, or to reach the rope he had tied to his side—if he moved, he was dead.
Which, unless he found a miracle, was probably how he was going to end up in a few minutes anyway.
His fingers were slipping. The leather gauntlets he wore were as slick as the skin of an eel, providing little traction.
With as little movement as possible, he turned his head in the direction he’d last seen Campbell. He shouted out in the darkness, hearing only the dull echo of his own voice reverberating in his ears.
Hell. He’d always thought he’d die on a battlefield, not dropping off a cliff.
His arms were burning, the weight of his body pulling him down. He gritted his teeth, fighting to hold on. He did not fear death, but neither would he welcome it.
All of a sudden he felt something hit his hand from above. At first he thought it was a rock, but then he realized what it was: a rope.
A disembodied voice called out from above. “Grab it, I’ll pull you up.”
MacRuairi. If the situation weren’t so dire he would laugh. Lachlan MacRuairi would sooner send him to the devil than save him. “How do I know you won’t let the rope go as soon as I grab it?”
For a moment there was only silence. “You don’t. But from where I stand, it doesn’t look like you have much choice.”
Tor swore. MacRuairi was right. It went against every instinct, every bone in his body, but he had to trust the black-hearted viper. “Are you ready?” Tor shouted.
“Aye.”
Taking a deep breath, he released one hand and grabbed for the rope.
It held.
Still expecting to be grabbing air, he released the other hand and latched his fingers around the rope. It took about a quarter of an hour, but slowly and with considerable agony, Tor was pulled up the side of the cliff. A few feet from the ridge, MacRuairi tied the rope around the rock that he’d used to lever him up and reached down his hand.
In the darkness, their eyes met. Without hesitating, Tor let go of the lifeline with his right hand and clasped him around the arm and forearm. Seconds later his feet were on solid ground.
He bent over, catching his breath and letting the blood pool back into his arms. His mind was spinning in a thousand different directions. Straightening, he met his rescuer’s gaze. Malevolent. Ruthless. With the morals of a snake. More likely to cut his throat than save his neck. They’d faced each other too many times in battle for Tor to doubt that MacRuairi wanted him dead. “Why?” he asked.
MacRuairi shrugged as if the answer wasn’t important to him. “Now we’re even.”
For sparing his life at Finlaggan. Tor nodded, but he knew it wasn’t that simple. Lachlan MacRuairi’s reasons for being here just might be more complicated than he’d realized.MacRuairimight be more complicated than he’d realized. It jarred him. He’d been seeing black for so long, the sliver of gray was a shock.
