The change in her expression, from calm to a stubborn frown, did not bode well. “I can fight. Ye ken I can.”
“Ye can be grabbed up and ridden off on a horse while the rest of us fight, too, ye ken. Best ye stay out of reach. I willna need the distraction of worrying about ye.”
She pursed her lips, but finally nodded. “Aye, I will. But I’ll find that other way out, just in case.”
Framing her face in both hands, Jamie kissed her sweet lips, then went to the door and listened intently before opening it. He would not let MacGregor’s men force their way in as he slipped out. “Bar it!” he growled as he faced the scene in the croft’s yard.
His men fought bravely, but were outnumbered. Jamie waded in and evened the odds a bit, but they were in trouble. And help for the Lathans was much farther away than more MacGregors.
He and Kyle fought back-to-back, fending off attacks and ensuring no MacGregor got behind the other. In moments, the other Lathans formed up the same way, and the momentum seemed to shift. They might not be able to leave, but MacGregor’s men could not get close enough to them to take them out of the fight. If they could hold out longer than their attackers, if they could wound a few sufficiently to keep them from fighting, even kill a few, they might yet get away.
Jamie was thankful for the long hours of training Donal MacNabb had required while arms master at the Aerie. The Lathans were strong and well-schooled in hand-to-hand combat. But so were the MacGregors. Uilleam and Malcolm were well matched, too. Malcolm’s men did their part against their clansmen. They were fighting a battle of attrition.
Then Jamie heard more hoofbeats approaching. In moments, MacGregor and more men rode into the clearing and dismounted. Before long, the Lathans and their allies were prisoners.
“Where is she?” MacGregor demanded, pacing back and forth in front of the prisoners his men had forced into a ragged line, swords at their backs.
No one answered.
“I’ll give ye one more chance. Where is she? In there?” MacGregor stopped before Jamie and gestured at the croft. “Did ye command her to lock herself in?”
Jamie met MacGregor’s stare with an icy one of his own. MacGregor whirled and marched to the door, tried it, then pounded on it with the hilt of his sword. “Caitrin! Open this door.”
The only sound was the wind whistling down the glen and the snort and stamp of an impatient horse. The breeze carried the stench of sweat and blood.
His gaze drifted slowly across the line of captives. “Let me give ye a reason, then, my lady” he said, raising his voice.
A chill ran down Jamie’s gullet, but he kept his expression impassive.
“If ye dinna open the door, I will kill one of these men. Who shall it be? Jamie Lathan?” MacGregor rested a shoulder against the stout door, arms crossed as he surveyed the prisoners. “Nay, I’ll reserve him for later, in case ye need more convincing. One of the other Lathans? Nay, they mean little to ye.” He tapped the door again. “Hear me, Caitrin. Shall I kill Uilleam Fletcher next? Yer friend Malcolm? One of the other MacGregors who sought to betray me with ye?”
Jamie’s lips tightened, but he kept his gaze on MacGregor rather than turn to regard the doomed men. He could well imagine they’d be watching, stone-faced, while MacGregor played with them, like a cat with a mouse.
“Last chance, Caitrin.”
When she didn’t respond, Jamie held his breath. On the one hand, she did as he had ordered, staying inside, for the moment, at least, safe. But if MacGregor meant to do as he threatened, he expected she’d also condemned her old friend, or her new one. MacGregor would not bother to harm someone she didn’t care about. Not yet.
MacGregor shrugged and walked slowly back to the prisoners, paused before Uilleam, whose grim expression did not change, then paced down the line to Malcolm, and tipped his head. “Aye, the traitor.” Before Jamie could react, MacGregor raised his dirk, then buried it to the hilt in Malcolm’s chest.
Without a sound, Malcolm dropped to his knees, eyes wide, jaw muscles bunched.
Jamie suspected he’d known his laird would go for him first, despite MacGregor’s prattle. What kind of courage did it take to face death that way, without a whimper of protest, in what he had to believe was a futile attempt to save a woman he barely knew?
MacGregor wrenched his dirk free, then jabbed it in Malcolm’s throat. He pulled it out as the body fell forward.
Jamie swore MacGregor would pay for what he’d done, not just to Caitrin, but for Malcolm’s life, and all the others he had harmed.
For a moment, MacGregor watched the blood drip from the point of the blade into the pool forming on the ground around Malcolm’s body, and then he went back to the door and drove the dirk into the wood.
“Hear that, my dear? That blade is dripping with the blood of a traitor. Likely, ye’ll get a few drops on the sole of yer boot as ye step outside. But if ye dinna come out now, there will be more blood. And it will come from men even closer to ye.” He paused and listened to the silence. “Uilleam is next, my dear. Then the Lathans, one by one, until yer Jamie remains. I’ll save my former clansmen for last, so I can take my time with them. I’ll kill yer lover slowly for ye, if ye make me wait that long. But first, I’ll kill Uilleam slowly, too. Perhaps Uilleam’s screams will change yer mind, since poor Malcolm’s brave, silent death failed to convince ye.”
Restrained by the armed men at his back and, for the moment, helpless, Jamie wanted to close his eyes to the scene, but he dared not expose any weakness to MacGregor. They were too vulnerable. Outnumbered. Disarmed. MacGregor’s mad ranting put everyone on edge, including his own men, judging by the looks they exchanged with each other.
It would take a madman to get them out of this.
Then Jamie heard the sound he dreaded. The sound of the bar being lifted from the door, the latch released. In a moment, the door swung inward and Caitrin appeared, backlit by the glow of the hearth behind her.
“Ah, there ye are, my dear. Come to join the party.”
