Page 31 of Highlander’s Wrath

Laird Barclay shook his head. “Nay, I cannae allow that. The man has a knife. This much we ken from the damage he inflicted on his victims.”

“He is far less likely to use that knife when he sees the lady who pleaded for you to spare his life, do you not agree?”

Laird Barclay could not refute this.

“Very well, but stay behind me at all times. We will ride there.” He rode Lancer forward, wanting the noise of the harness to alert the prisoner that only one horse was approaching.

It was the right course of action to take. Gregor knew he was trapped like a rat in a cage when he heard the sound of an approaching horse. It was too late to snatch up Colban and run outside to mount the post rider’s horse. Like all Highland bothies, the structure only had one doorway, low and narrow, to keep the house warm inside. He had no flint with which to kindle a fire, nor had he brought any food with him. Driven almost insane from the small boy’s incessant crying, he had ventured out that day to look for scraps of food to eat. But the harsh winter landscape had yielded nothing but ice he could melt for water. He envied the horse that stamped and champed in the snow, pushing the ice aside to eat the grass underneath.

The only way to stifle Colban’s cries was to keep the bairn as warm as he could. The fugitive and his captive were huddled together in the corner of the bothy, next to the unlit fireplace. Colban had fallen into an exhausted slumber, leaving Gregor to startle awake when he heard the jingle of a harness. It was just one horse. Maybe a farmer returning from a visit to the village?

Carefully, Gregor laid Colban down on the floor and went to peer out of the window. Under the moonlight, he saw the recognizable shape of Laird Hamish Barclay and his son’s beautiful governess. This greatly confused him. The man was a veritable demon, but the girl was a saint. What did this tell him about his prospects? Silently, Gregor picked up the carving knife he had stolen from the guard’s table four nights ago. Having no other options open for him, he lifted the small boy onto his lap and held the knife to Colban’s throat. The boy stirred but did not wake.

There was a brief tap on the door.

“I hold no weapon, so don’ go throwing yer knife at me, Gregor,” Laird Barclay said from outside the door.

The door swung open, and after waiting a brief moment to see if Gregor had his knife aimed for whoever came through the doorway, Laird Barclay stepped into the room. The maiden followed immediately after him, her eyes wide with worry.

It was she who spoke. “Please, sir, I beg of you, let the wee child go. Your quarrel is with his father.”

Scrabbling his feet against the flagstones, Gregor pushed himself further into the corner like an injured animal, Colban held to his chest like a shield.

“Stay back,” he whispered hoarsely, “or I’ll kill the boy.”

A spasm of anger crossed Laird Barclay’s face, but he suppressed it. “Gregor McKay, me faither did ye an’ yer clan wrong, and...and so did I. Let’s not let this wicked war continue between us. Let’s bury the animosity of our parents and start a new chapter of our history.”

He held his hands out toward the man as though he were trying to pacify a wild horse.

“See, Gregor, me hands are empty. I dinnae want to threaten ye with a sword. I want peace.” With these words, Laird Barclay shifted a bit closer into the room.

“Pah!” the cornered man scoffed. “Ye’re only sayin’ these lies so that ye can get yer son back! I ken well enough that the moment ye have him back in yer arms, ye’ll be back to the same auld hateful, wrathful man.”

Laird Barclay lifted his sheathed sword from behind his back and dropped it on the floor, saying, “And what am I to kill ye with now, Gregor? The lady’s hatpin? Look, I would go on me knees to beg yer forgiveness for how me faither wrecked yer family, but how can I when ye’re holding a knife to me son’s neck? Let us make good on the bargain ye made, Gregor. Take my life in exchange for Colban’s. Miss Coira here will see to it that the boy is brought up to respect the peace between our clans and teach him no’ to seek vengeance. That part of our lives must be over.”

Coira was overjoyed to see Hamish make such a show of burying the hatchet; surely, the fugitive would believe him this time. She felt her eyes prickle with tears when she heard his lairdship’s apology and readied herself to go and lift Colban out of Gregor’s arms.

The expression on Gregor’s face did not waver from its look of loathing. “Aye, Barclay, I will accept those terms.”

Gregor McKay stood up, his knife poised to bury its blade deep into his lairdship’s chest, but before Laird Barclay could step forward to accept the knife blow, Coira threw herself between the two foes.

“Stop! Can you not see he has changed? Why take his life now? It will not bring your father or grandfather back, and while Hamish lives, he can seek to redress the ills your clan has suffered. I beg of you, do not throw this chance at forgiveness and peace away!”

Gregor faltered at these words. For one instant, his life flashed before his eyes—a life poisoned with anger and thoughts of revenge for as long as he could remember. When he compared this to the selfless example of goodness the girl was displaying, he felt tarnished and evil.

Here he was, preparing to bury his knife into a defenseless man while the man’s son lay sleeping on the floor not more than a few feet away, and the woman who so clearly loved him stood in between them with her hands held out in abject supplication.

Gregor threw down the knife and collapsed onto the floor. His body and mind were overwhelmed with the momentous thing he had just done. With that one action, the blood feud between the Farquharsons and the Barclays was over.