John saw the clearing a dozen feet ahead, saw the rope tied over the branch of a tree, heard it creaking under the weight it bore, and looked up into Davy MacKenzie’s bulging eyes.
John pulled the bow from his back, loaded an arrow, and took aim. He silently willed Davy to be still for an instant, just long enough for the arrow to find its target. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and fired.
* * *
The cloth that bound her wrists broke at last, but Gillian’s hands were numb, her fingers slick with her own blood, and her ankles were still bound. It was too late—Davy’s grunts were becoming weaker.
A flash of movement caught her eye, and she turned, saw John, his bow drawn, an arrow aimed at Davy. Acoup de grace, perhaps? Her breath caught in her throat.
But Rabbie had also seen John, was turning toward him. He still had Davy’s sword in his hand, and he raised it again and charged. Gillian swung her bound ankles into his path, and Rabbie stumbled over them and fell.
Then John’s arrow tore through the rope, and Davy dropped like a sack, and landed on top of the outlaw.
Gillian tore the gag from her mouth. “John!”
But John was on his knees beside Davy MacKenzie, loosening the rope around his neck. Davy drew a gasping breath. John used his dirk to cut the strips of plaid that bound Davy’s wrists.
Gillian untied her ankles with shaking fingers. She crawled toward Callum and pulled his gag away. He stared at her in silent agony.
Tears streamed down her face. “Don’t talk,” she said, trying to untie the bonds that held Callum to the tree. Then John was beside her, cutting Callum free. He caught Callum as he fell forward and laid him down gently. Then John’s hands were on her shoulders, turning her to face him, his eyes scanning the bruises on her face.
“Where are you hurt?”
Her jaw throbbed with pain, her head swam, but John was here, and it was over. “Callum, and Davy, and—” She buried her face in John’s shoulder and sobbed, He pulled her into his arms and held her close, and she knew she was safe.
* * *
John saw the bruises on Gillian’s jaw, the raw marks where the gag had scraped her face, the bloody gouges on her wrists where she’d struggled to free her hands—she’d done it, too, his brave lass. She’d brought Rabbie Bain down. He glanced over her shoulder at the outlaw. He lay still under Davy’s bulk.
Gillian was shaking in his arms.
“It’s over, sweetheart. It’s—”
He felt the unmistakable chill of a sword against the back of his neck.
“Unhand my daughter, Sassenach.”
John slowly raised his hands, Donal MacLeod’s heavy hand on his collar dragged him upright, away from Gillian. Donal was looking around the clearing, taking in the sight of Davy MacKenzie lying on the ground gulping air, the still figure of Rabbie Bain, and Callum’s battered body. He stared longest at his daughter’s bruised face, her tears, her bloodstained hands. “Take care of Gillian,” the laird commanded his clansmen.
Then Donal turned and looked at John, his face mottled with rage. “Ye did this?” he demanded.
“Papa, no, he—” Gillian began.
But Donal saw the dirk in John’s hands. John heard the Fearsome MacLeod roar, saw his fist bunch, and braced for the blow. It hit him in the jaw like a battering ram. He was aware of an explosion of pain, of the force of the blow driving him backward. He tasted blood, and the breath left his lungs. Then the world went dark.
