Malcolm grinned. “Ye sound like Uncle Fergus.”
“I had a good teacher,” Arran replied, clapping Malcolm’s forearm with his hand. “Be safe.”
“Ye too,” Malcolm responded before riding off.
Arran watched his brother leave, feeling the pride build in his chest. He had raised his brothers and sometimes wondered if he had done right by them.
Today he had seen the fruits of his labor.
Taking the group that had been assigned to him, Arran made his way silently into the trees, the ground muffling the horses’ movements. Had it been later in the season, the sound of crunching leaves would be filling the air, but the trees still held their leaves.
Once he thought they were close, he held up his hand and dismounted, tying his horse to a nearby tree. The rest of the journey they would make on foot, their swords in their hand.
The sword felt heavy in Arran’s hand this time, his feet light and sure as he grew closer to his enemy and hopefully, his wife. If Ainslee was not there, they would slaughter McDougal and his warriors quickly so he could find his wife.
He was going to bring Ainslee home.
Arran saw the flicker of the fire before he saw the warriors, crouching low in the tree line so that he would not be seen. The other warriors fanned out, waiting for his signal, but Arran was only interested in one thing.
Relief flooded him as he found her tied to a nearby tree, looking no worse for wear from where he stood. He noted that she was keeping her eyes alert, likely attempting to find a way out herself.
His ma had been right. Ainslee was a Mcaiwn through and through.
Ainslee is alive!
Arran wanted to rush in and rescue her immediately, but he knew the moment he exposed himself, he was putting not only himself and Ainslee in danger, but also his clan. He had to think this through and not react to his emotions.
He could ill afford another slaughter.
Arran slid his sword back in the leather holder and watched the proceedings before him. The camp seemed relaxed, with men laughing and drinking around multiple fires in the clearing.
He did not see McDougal, but the tartan the warriors were wearing told Arran that he was there somewhere. These were the warriors that were marching toward his own keep.
And they had his wife.
“Hold on, lass,” he mouthed silently, his eyes on the woman who had pierced his heart. He would not let any harm come to her. He would die before she felt another spurt of pain from her brother.
It was his right as her husband to keep her protected.
Right now, he would have to sit back and wait for the appropriate time to save her, but when that time came, he would do all he could to get her out safely.
Motioning to the nearby warriors, he gave them the signal to stay alert and ready for when their moment would come. He had been ambushed before.
It was not going to happen again.
18
Ainslee wiggled her feet before her, feeling the pins as she did so. Her left foot had long gone to sleep, and her right was well on its way to joining her other limb.
Not only did she have to combat the fact that her limbs were failing her, but her bladder had started calling nearly an hour ago, yet she refused to ask for anything from the warriors that cast glances at her periodically.
The ale was flowing freely, and Ainslee could only hope that she would not be the evening entertainment.
Sighing, Ainslee shifted, relieving the pressure on her lower half the best she could. Her head was still pounding, her stomach growling from lack of food, yet she kept silent so as not to draw attention to herself.
The longer she did so, the longer she lived. Perhaps her brother was too occupied with attempting to take over the Mcaiwn keep that once the camp quieted down, she could somehow free herself.
What was Arran thinking? Her thoughts drifted back to her husband, as they had many times since she had found herself in this situation. He was likely upset with her, wondering why she would put herself in this sort of danger.
