“Now you’re just trying my patience. I don’t mind sparring with you a little, that’s actually what I brought Ms. Drummond here for—a little intellectual stimulation—but if all you’re going to do is insult my intelligence, I can move up Ms. Drummond’s scheduled departure.”
Alistair was at a loss. Nothing seemed to appeal to the lunatic. “What do ye want? Name it.”
“Ahh, my delusional friend. I believe we’ve passed that juncture.”
Alistair realized that once the Mountain Man tired of playing with them, he’d have no qualms about carrying out his threats. He had no intention of letting Brie live. He couldna.
“Stay, Gus,” Alistair whispered, desperate to do something before the scoundrel grew tired of his game of wits. Alistair feared that time was imminent. He had no choices left.
It took all his strength to climb the cliff face and inch his way to a spot ten or twelve feet above the cave entrance. His legs burned, and his arms quivered as he fought to keep his bulk attached to the craggy rock, where occasional brush and fledgling trees fought for survival amid the cracks and crevices. The tips of his toes and fingers were scraped raw, but if he could make it to the narrow shelf with the stunted tree growing from a fissure in the rock, he’d have something to rest against.
After that, he dinna ken what to do. The drop was straight down to the canyon floor, from there.
His fingers were bloody and nearly numb by the time he reached the small tree, it’s curved trunk reaching for sky and sunlight, as if it too, fought for survival. He dinna dare put his entire weight on it at first, but it seemed solid enough, so he leaned on it enough to ease the cramps in his muscles.
What now? He had naught but his wits, two knives and the clothes on his back. One at a time, he wiped the blood from his hands on his plaid, desperate for some miracle that offered him an alternative to sliding down this rock face and hoping he dinna just bounce off the narrow ledge in front of the cave, and plummet to the bottom.
He glanced at the blood, smeared across his kilt.His kilt!His belted plaid was sixteen feet of fine, strong Scottish wool! A miracle indeed!
’Twas a bit of a test to undo his brooch, belt and other trappings, while hanging by one arm from a sheer cliff with naught but the roots of a stunted pine keeping him from a several hundred-foot fall.
Careful not to let anything drop, to alert the man below, he tied one end of his plaid around the base of the tree trunk and secured the entire thing as tightly as possible with his belt.
With naught but his longshirt, boots and desperation, Alistair prayed to God and all the saints, the tree roots would hold. He draped the tail of his plaid, loosely over his shoulder to keep it from trailing down over the lip of the cave, hoping it would feed freely, as he descended.
After testing the thick fold of wool attached to the tree, he carefully walked backward, down the face. Staying on his feet proved much harder than he’d imagined. His body swayed, first one way then the other, threatening to tip him over. If that happened, he’d be dangling like a fish on a line, and likely just as dead.
Slowly, cautiously, he closed the distance above the cave opening. Six feet. Four. Two.
“I love ye, Brie,” he whispered to the wind, working several feet of slack into one hand while he held onto the plaid, with the other. “If I dinna make it, I pray the Gods will grant ye that certainty, in yer heart.”
On a breath and a prayer, Alistair released his hold, and jumped backward, into the air.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
The extra slack dropped Alistair several feet. The thick plaid hit the upper rim of the cave and the momentum, and his weight, swung him inside.
He dinna have time to gauge his landing or get his bearings. He let go, grateful to see solid rock beneath him as he rolled across the ragged, uneven floor of the cave, halfway to the back.
Brie’s muffled gasp and the Mountain Main’s startled curse mingled as Alistair struggled to get to his feet before Brie’s kidnapper could react.
Alistair pulled thesgian-dubh from his boot in one smooth motion, as he rose to a crouch, alert for any movement, until his eyes could adjust to the dim interior, and locate his opponent.
Enraged, Brie’s kidnapper swung away from the far edge of the cave’s entrance, raised his gun, and fired. The shot skimmed past Alistair’s ear as he dove to the side, the sound deafening inside the cavern. From the clatter of falling objects behind him, the bullet must have hit one of the many piles, stacked along the wall.
Tied and gagged near a fire, Brie emitted a stifled scream.
A victorious sneer crossed her captor’s face as he took aim at Alistair, a second time. Just as he squeezed the trigger, Gus sprang from behind, knocking him face down.
The bullet pinged off the cave wall behind Alistair, sending small shards of stone flying as it ricocheted into something with a dull thud. Alistair shot a terrified look at Brie to be sure it wasn’t her. With no time to even sigh his relief, he dove for the gun skittering across the cave floor. Both the kidnapper, and Alistair scrambled for the prize, twisting and rolling, with Gus growling and snapping as they fought. Somewhere in the struggle, one of them kicked the weapon over the ledge.
“Stop, Gus,” Alistair yelled as the dog lunged for the kidnapper’s arm. Alistair wanted the blackguard all to himself. Rage burned in his throat and powered the curled fist he plowed into the man’s face.
Amazingly agile, the Mountain Man rolled and sprang to his feet, landing a stunning kick to Alistair’s stomach. The air whooshed from his lungs forcing Alistair to stagger back a step. He swiped the sgian-dubh toward the man’s gut, catching naught but his shirt.
Alistair’s size should have given him the advantage but his opponent’s quick, agile moves, evened the odds, taking Alistair by surprise. A sudden jab to his hand, sent his knife flying.
’Twas in the throes of focused, deadly, hand-to-hand combat that parts of Alistair’s past came crashing down on him as heavily, and shockingly, as if the cave’s stone roof had fallen.
