Page 19 of Highlander’s Torn Bride

Without hesitation, Alexander yanked on his reins, spinning his horse around and sending it charging down the road. There were men upon them, at least two dozen of them. As Alexander drew his blade, he pulled to a stop beside the cart where Margaret still sat in her horse, wide-eyed and frozen as she watched the attackers descend. Jonah, for his part, jumped from the cart and began racing toward the attackers as soon as Alexander drew near.

“Margaret,” he said, grabbing her chin and gently pulling her to face him rather than the chaos. “Go back to Ann and hide beneath one of the carts.”

He waited for her to nod and dig her heels into her horse before he did the same, galloping off in the opposite direction.

The Mackay brothers had only brought ten men along with them, meaning they were half the force of the aggressors. This made Alexander grin, for that meant that this would be a damn good fight, and he hadn’t had one of those in a long time.

Alexander jumped from the back of his horse once in the thick of the fighting, tucking his chin in and rolling before regaining his footing and immediately arching his short-sword through the air, slicing through the stomach of a man who had swung an axe up into the air with the intention of killing one of Alexander’s own. The man on the ground thanked him while scrambling to his feet and adjusting his armor with nervous fear.

“Donna thank me yet,” Alexander said, standing and turning himself just as a sword came flying toward him, blocking the blow with a grunt.

With a few slashes blocked and parried, Alexander quickly gained the upper hand, pressing the man back a few paces before he raised his sword and dealt a blow so strong that it knocked aside the other man’s block. Alexander let his sword descend again, and this time it cut through flesh and bone and a filthy old piece of Campbell tartan.

Alexander froze, spinning back to the last man he felled. That man was wearing Stewart tartan. A man in front of him, dressed in Sutherland tartan, was pressing into Jonah. Alexander rushed forward and thrust his sword through his back. When he pulled the sword from the man, flicking the blade down to rid it of some of the blood, he took a moment to scan the field.

None of the tartans match, he thought to himself before he began to wonder about the reason behind it. None of the tartans were in good condition, meaning they had probably been discarded by their actual owners. But why had outlaws, most of whom always acted on behalf of their Laird Gunn and dressed in appropriately styled tartan, gone through the trouble of concealing their identities?

Had Laird Gunn ordered the change so as to conceal his involvement? Or, worse, had he lost control of his own men?

Alexander debated the possibilities as he fought on, cutting back man after man until the odds tipped in the Mackays’ favor. And then, almost as soon as the fight had started, the mismatched attackers let up a yell and retreated, sprinting back to the cover of the trees.

Alexander raced after them, hoping to capture at least one for questioning. But the grass off this side of the road was tall and unruly, catching one of his feet and forcing him to stumble.

Thud, thud.

A pair of arrows landed only an inch before his toe. If he hadn’t stumbled and been slowed, they would have each been a perfect shot.

“Stop!” Alexander said, grabbing the next man who had gone running for the trees. They wouldn’t be able to cross the expanse between them and the trees under the fire of multiple archers.

But outlaws almost never left covering fire in the trees. They also never dared to attack in daylight like this, not unless it was a fight that they knew they would win with ease. They couldn’t have imagined that attacking a caravan composed of trained Mackay warriors would be any such situation, even with their superior numbers.

“That was odd,” Jonah said, in a way that Alexander thought was a particularly grave understatement.

“Aye. Tis as if they were planning on a retreat, and the attack was only a…” Alexander stopped and turned back to the caravan.

His feet carried him when his mind was too afraid. He ran to the carts, crouching as he went past them until he found Ann curled up beneath one of them.

“Where is Margaret?”

Ann looked up at him, confused. “One of your men took her.”

“No, all of my men were fighting,” Alexander replied, standing and turning quickly as he searched for any flash of copper hair. But it was to no avail. Margaret was gone.

6

“Unhand me!” Margaret cried for the hundredth time, lifting her elbow up to crack it down on the man’s back. He was wearing Mackay tartan, but that had clearly been a rouse, one she had realized too late.

“Christ, woman, knock it off,” he shouted in return before he stopped and dropped her.

“What’re ye doin’? We canna hurt her,” his partner said, though he contradicted himself by rushing forward to bind Margaret’s arms to her side with a piece of heavy rope before moving to then bind her legs together.

“Even a noble lass needs a good beating now and again,” the first said.

The man tying her, whose pockmarked face was far too close to hers, said, “We’re tryin’ to help you, donna ye ken?”

“Oh yes, this all seems like help to me,” Margaret replied. “The binding has given it away.”

“Tisn’t my feelings that matter,” the first man said, “but yer far bonnier when ye speak less.”