He felt the stool quiver under his feet and rebalanced himself. The room shimmered before his eyes, and he held on. His precarious perch tipped onto two legs, and John hopped to right it. When it settled back to earth, John whirled his arms to regain his balance.
Davy threw his head back to laugh, and as he did, his own stool shot out from under him. The MacKenzie’s cocky grin faded as he pitched to the ground, his kilt flying over his head to reveal his hairy arse once again. Meggie giggled until her father cast a quelling scowl at her.
“The Sassenach wins,” Donal said. He didn’t bother to congratulate him. He looked at the clansmen frowning at him in dismay, but there was naught for it—the Sassenach had won. He couldn’t change that. “I’ll set tomorrow’s challenge now. We’ll have a hunt. Best catch wins. I’ll trust you’ll all see to it that your laird is up with the dawn and ready to go, sick with drink or no.” He frowned at John. “My men will let ye out of your cell at first light.” He glanced at Gillian. “And ye’ll be locked in your room until he returns. He hasn’t won yet.”
* * *
Davy MacKenzie staggered outside, his head spinning with whisky. “Bloody Sassenach,” he grumbled as he skirted the wall, moving into the shadows. “Thinks he can best me, does he? Ha! Fair Gillian deserves better than him. She deserves—” He hoisted his kilt and let out a stream of urine. “Me!” he said gleefully, swaying on his feet. “Och, a pint in, a gallon out.” Tomorrow, it would be easy enough to see that the damned Sassenach had an accident—a fall from a cliff, an arrow betwixt his eyes. Davy put his fingertip against his forehead and grinned. “He can’t say I didn’t warn him.”
The cold, sharp point of a dirk against the back of his neck sobered him instantly.
“Hello, Davy lad. Remember me?” someone growled in his ear. He smelled grease, smoke, and sweat.
Davy froze. He’d discarded his weapons so Cormag could carry him. He was entirely unarmed. “Nay, I dinna know ye. Who are ye?”
“It’s me, Rabbie Bain. Are ye surprised?” The dirk dug deeper, and Davy felt the sting as the blade bit him.But they’d hanged Rabbie Bain—his men had sworn to him they had.Surely he was dreaming, still drunk, imagining things. But the trickle of blood down his neck felt real enough. He tried to shake his head to clear it, but the knife twisted again—not deep enough to kill, just to hurt.“Ye killed my brothers and declared me an outlaw, and your men hanged my friends—but they couldn’t kill me. Now it’s your turn, Davy. I’ve come for ye.”
Davy opened his mouth to yell for help, but Rabbie hit him across the side of the head. Davy saw stars flash, and then he saw nothing at all.
