“Move away, my lady,” Finlay said.
Patrick and his men readied. One look at the triumphant expression on the Campbell guardsman's face was enough for him to know that they'd been compromised. But if Finlay thought he'd won, he was mistaken. They might be outnumbered, but they were MacGregors—and the Campbells were on his terrain now. If there was a fight, the only thing that worried him was ensuring that Lizzie stayed out of harm's way.
“Move away from what?” Lizzie asked, clearly confused.
“From me,” Patrick said flatly, his gaze never once leaving the guardsman.
Lizzie looked back and forth between them. “What is this about, Finlay?”
“Aye,” Patrick taunted, cocking a brow in a manner designed to get a rise out of the other man. “What is this about?”
Anger turned Finlay's already red and sweaty face scarlet. “This man is not who he says he is.”
The pronouncement was met with dead silence. Lizzie didn't gasp or make any other sound of surprise, nor did she look at him, but Patrick saw the slight stiffening of her shoulders. “Then who is he?”
Her voice sounded hollow—empty.
Finlay scowled. “I don't know. But the Laird of Tullibar-dine has never heard of Patrick Murray.”
Like a musket shot, the sound of a horse tearing through trees from the forest to the west was greeted with the steely sound of blades being drawn from scabbards.
“Wait,” Patrick said. “It's my man.” It was Tormod, the man he'd sent scouting ahead of them. “What is it, Tor-mod?”
The warrior looked around, grasping the situation. “MacGregors,” he said. “Coming fast.”
Patrick swore. Could this get any worse? Damn his brother to hell. He thought quickly and turned to Finlay. “Take the lady and make for the road to Lennox. I'll hold them off.”
Finlay scoffed. “Think you I'm an idiot? This is just a ploy for you to make your escape.”
Patrick wanted to grab him by the throat and shake him. He didn't bother to hide his rage. “This isn't a ploy, and if you don't leave right now, you'll find out soon enough that I'm telling the truth. But by then it will be too late. We can settle this later, but right now your duty is to the lady.”
The Campbell guardsman was unmoved. Instead he said, “Arrest these men.” The man at his side moved quickly to do as he commanded.
“No,” Lizzie said, stopping him. “On what charge?”
Finlay frowned. “That will be for your cousin to decide when we reach Dunoon.”
“And what if he's telling the truth? About the attack,” she added to clarify. Lizzie looked at Patrick, and for the first time he could see the hurt in her eyes. The knowledge that he'd deceived her. She knew he was not the man he claimed to be.
But he wasn't deceiving her about this. “I'm telling the truth. I swear it on the souls of my parents. These men seek you harm.”
There was so much more he wanted to say, so much he wanted to explain, but he would never get the chance. He stared deep into her eyes, saying a silent apology, begging her to forgive him, and then he broke the connection and turned back to Finlay. He would protect her with his life, but the idea of her getting caught in the middle of a battle— where he could not control the chaos—sent chills running down his spine. A stray arrow. A misfired hagbut. A wide slash of a sword.
“You bloody fool!” he shouted to Finlay. “Listen!” The unmistakable sound of horses resonated in the cold night air. “Get her out of here before it's too late.”
Finally the truth seemed to have penetrated. Finlay's confidence was shaken, and he looked at Patrick uncertainly. “Maybe you're right—”
“Just go,” Patrick said. And with one last look at Lizzie, a look that would have to hold him for a lifetime, he turned to face his brother.
But it was too late.
A hail of arrows broke through the canopy of trees and landed with deadly precision behind him. Patrick turned in time to see the stunned look on Finlay's face before he slid from his saddle and dropped like a rock to the ground, an arrow pinned right between his eyes. Two of the Campbell guardsmen he'd brought with him fell at his side.
Gregor and at least ten MacGregor warriors broke through the trees. In addition to the men with his brother yesterday, he recognized the others as some of the most dangerous, bloodthirsty, and savage of the lot—men who'd earned the MacGregors their outlaw name.
The Campbells under Patrick's command looked to him uncertainly—Finlay's pronouncement had not been without effect—wondering what to think.
Patrick was caught between two worlds—one real and one invented. He was a MacGregor, the blood enemy of Campbells. A few months ago, he would never have hesitated to lift a sword on a Campbell, but he'd lived among these Campbell guardsmen for months. Knew them. Ate with them. Drank with them.
