Page 18 of Highlander’s Haunted Past

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“Wait, Rob, take the bloody torch,” Kenna cried out, but it was no use. He was too far gone and had already decided to close his ears to her. “Damnable fool.”

“Hold on, man! Hold on!”

Kenna turned to the guard, ready to do all she could, but one look was all she needed. The wound was fatal, no matter how desperately the page boys pressed their hands against it. The growing puddle of red on the ground just kept expanding like a heavy drop of ink on dry parchment. It would be kinder to let the man die quickly under the stars than to delay the inevitable.

Will this be Rob?

Kenna felt a sickness rise through her, an acid that would burn her from the inside out.

“Lady Fraser!” A hand snatched her elbow, twisting her away from the dying guard. “Yer husband told ye to get to yer tent.”

“Go after him!” Kenna felt herself beg, her knees growing weak as she tried to shove him away from her.

“I’m to guard ye,” Murtagh replied with a grunt as he pulled her close again, infecting her nose with the scent of sweat and ale.

“He canna be alone! He canna end up like this!” Kenna felt her face grow hot as she pulled away once more.

“Look.” Murtagh shoved her again, forcing her to spin back to the forest where nearly twenty men were already disappearing, some with red Fraser tartan. “There are plenty with the lad. Now to yer tent.”

A bit of the tension in her shoulders releasing, Kenna nodded her consent and quickly dipped to snatch up Rob’s plaid, holding it close to her as Murtagh pulled her back into the camp.

Chaos had erupted, a storm of swirling kilts and torches and blades with nothing to break against. Some ran toward the forest, others toward the center of the camp and the Queen’s pavilion, others just ran aimlessly like chickens without heads. Women with pale faces twisted at their skirts. Screams already knocked against their tongues as they waited for an excuse to let them loose.

Shouts echoed through the rows of tents, calling for the Queen and demanding answers no one could give. How could they? Kenna had been there, and she hardly knew what was happening. How could anyone know?

With a shove, Murtagh forced Kenna into her tent, telling her to stay low and quiet before disappearing as the flaps fell back into place. Kenna collapsed onto the pile of blankets that Rob had tossed in there haphazardly that evening and pulled his plaid around her, breathing in the smell of pine and whiskey.

He would come back to her. He always came back to her, even when she didn’t want him to. Any second now, he would come through the flaps of the tent, and the evening would return to its usual rhythm. They would get into some silly argument over nothing. She would do her best to tempt him with little sways and dips while she undressed for bed, catching him staring out of the corner of her eye. She would tell herself that tonight would be the night he would finally cave and take what was his by right of marriage, abandoning his hope that she would be the one to falter. Though his eyes would grow dark and sulky, he wouldn’t touch her. He would just lay beside her and fall asleep while she silently fumed and wondered how long he would compete in this standoff. Yes, that was the evening they would have. Any second now.

Kenna curled herself into a ball, watching the dance of torchlight rushing this way and that through the pale canvas of the tent. It reminded her of a shadow puppet show that she had seen once when a troop of gypsies had come riding through Inverness. She remembered them like it was yesterday. The women, with big bosoms and loose-fitting blouses with bells tied to their waist and woven into their black hair, had sung them songs and danced fantastic jigs, their feet so light that Kenna had thought they would dance their way up and into the clouds. How she wished that this was all a show.

The shouts outside were muffled by the tent and the few that were loud enough for her to distinguish revealed nothing but continued confusion and fear. In a way, she was grateful for that. If they were under attack, there would be a purpose to those shouts as men were rallied and lines were formed. There would be clashes of metal and cries of pain.

It must have been the Earl of Huntly, Kenna finally allowed herself to think. Aye, only a man like that would dare to attack such a large party.

But then, what a stupid plan it was. Had they known it was her, a member of their clan and family, that was sitting along the arrow’s deadly path? Was it a mere coincidence? A poor happenstance caused by her throwing a tantrum and banishing herself to the very edge of the camp? Whether she had been recognized or not, the plan was still poor.

If the Earl of Huntly was going to bring the fury of the Queen down upon his men, why not have them fire off a volley? Why kill one guard when you could have killed a handful?

That, Kenna thought while biting down on her lip in self-inflicted punishment, is probably not the way a lady of Clan Fraser should be thinking.

But without those thoughts, her mind started to wander back to darker things: the hiss of an arrow; a dead guard collapsing on the ground; Rob, disappearing into the trees, maybe never to return. With a shiver, she returned to her condemnation of the Gordon attack strategy.

Without realizing it, her senses slipped into the sweet oblivion of sleep, her thoughts casually translating into shadowy dreams filled with flying arrows and a strange golden flash.

She was pulled back to reality with the heat of a torch. Temporarily blinded, all Kenna could see was a large figure standing at the entrance of the tent.

“Rob? No, who—”

“Lady Kenna Fraser?”

“Aye, but who—”

“Yer to come with me.”

“Why?”