“He’ll be as worried as I am. It’s the right thing to do, Fia.”
She smiled radiantly. “Somehow I knew you’d say that.” She slipped the dirk out of her sleeve, handed it to him, and stepped aside. “Go then, save her.”
“Thank you,” he said. He bussed her cheek, then took the stairs two at a time.
* * *
The Robertsons and the Grants were as kind and polite as they could be. They were enchanted by Meggie’s wide blue eyes, and Aileen’s soft smile, and Gillian’s legendary status as a slayer of outlaws, and spent the afternoon grinning besottedly at the lovely lasses. They took turns standing guard, and argued over which clan would win the right to call Gillian their lady.
The day wore on, and Gillian was grateful that this would likely delay her hasty wedding to Davy MacKenzie, but she really did need to speak to her father and save John. She could hardly tell these men she had no desire to wed either Padraig Grant or Cormag Robertson, that there was only one man she loved, and her father was about to hang him. She knew these men had their orders, but she was in a hurry.
She glanced at Meggie, who was flirting with one of the handsome Grant clansmen, and one of the handsome Robertsons as well. Aileen was talking with another one of the Grants. Cam MacLeod had been relieved of his weapons, and he stood leaning on a tree frowning at everyone.
The shadows were growing long when Gillian caught the sleeve of the nearest Grant. “Please, if I swear that I will not marry any man until the contest has been fairly judged, will you take me back and allow me to speak to my father?”
The Grant’s face fell. “We canna do that, mistress. We have our orders.”
“Aye, Gillian, what are you thinking?” Aileen said. “We must wait until Cormag Robertson strides through those trees and claims you as his bride.”
“With all respect, mistress, it will be Laird Grant,” the Grant said.
One of the Robertsons spun on him. “She’ll beourlaird’s wife by the time the sun sets.”
The Grant warrior began to roll up his sleeves. “Perhaps we’d best be holding a contest of our own right here.”
The biggest Robertson approached, standing so close to the Grant that their noses almost touched. “Practice saying Lady Robertson.”
And with that, the argument had turned into a brawl.
Meggie grinned at Gillian. “Very clever. You’d better go.” Meggie said to Gillian as the lasses stepped out of the way of the melee.
Aileen nodded. “Go and see Papa and save your true love. We’ll mop up here.”
Gillian let out the breath she’d been holding and slipped into the trees.
* * *
They’d forgotten him. The weight of Davy MacKenzie’s fat arse had nearly crushed him, but it didn’t kill him. Rabbie had woken when they hauled the laird off him. He crawled away into the bush while they were still fighting over who was to blame. And there was Davy, unable to say a word, and no one was willing to listen to the lass. Rabbie would have laughed if he’d had the breath.
It was nearly dark now, and his arm was hanging painful and useless. The joint had been disconnected when Davy landed on it, needed to be pulled back into place. It hurt like the devil, and before he could see to it, he had to get out of Glen Iolair. But which way? “West,” he decided, looking at the sun. “Toward the sea.”
* * *
John returned to the clearing where he’d found Davy and Gillian and Rabbie Bain. The sun was low on the horizon now, and the space beneath the oak was empty, save for a few scraps of plaid. Davy and Callum were safe, and Rabbie Bain had likely been killed when Davy fell on him. Gillian had been kidnapped by a dozen clansmen, but they’d not harm her, since it was yet another matter of honor. It should be easy enough to track that many men, but harder to get her away from them. He found a scrap of Grant plaid on a bush, saw broken branches, and followed the clumsy trail.
He wondered what happened to the boar. If the garron was lucky, it had found its way home to the castle. He imagined the looks on the faces of the men on the gate when the laden beast appeared without explanation.
His injured leg ached as he climbed a low rise that led toward Benbrankie, through thick stands of pine and fir. There were scuff marks in the pine needles on the forest floor, and he bent to examine them.
He felt the unpleasant chill of a blade against the back of his neck for the second time that day and shut his eyes.
“Don’t move, or I’ll gut ye.”
He remembered that voice, rope-roughened, raw, and desperate. “Rabbie Bain,” he said, feeling fury burn in his breast. “I thought you died when Davy fell on you.”
The knife didn’t move. “So ye remember me, do ye? I remember ye as well. Ye helped the lass escape, and ye freed Davy MacKenzie today when I finally had him where he belongs.”
“There’s a dozen men in these woods,” John warned him. “They’ll hang you now if they catch you.”
