Page 6 of Highlander’s Mercenary Lass

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The black night gave way to a black day. The morning after Laird Marcus's passing, it seemed as if the entire world was in mourning, or at least in this corner of the Highlands.

And the more Andrew Caldwell rode, the more it seemed he had to go. But the long ride suited him well. Andrew had much on his mind, and the long journey gave him time to process it.

Tugging the horse's reins, he bade the animal to go faster. The Duncan estate was a long way, and he wished to get there before sundown.

"Come on, Blackwell," he urged, nudging the chestnut horse.

Obligingly, the nut-brown stallion sped up. He was never one to shirk a challenge, and reaching the Duncan estate before sunset was certainly that.

The far-flung glen he had come from felt a million miles away. And with the wind in his hair, Andrew galloped on, anxious to return to his home.

As the clan's top warrior, he was used to being on the move. In the last few years, he'd never stayed in the same place for more than a few months. There was always some other foe to slay or some new fortification to head to.

Mostly, he liked the life. Which was just as well, as it was what he had lived, breathed, and slept for the last four years. Riding through the dull glen, Andrew let the wild autumn breeze rip through him. The gust blasted the cobwebs away, sending his shoulder-length brown hair up into the skies above.

Andrew needed this. He needed the wind and the open glen and, more than this, he needed the space to think. Everything that had gone on over the last few days rattled around in his head. Making sense of these things in the heat of battle was an impossibility.

But now, the battle had been won, although the laird had been lost. And Andrew had found himself thrust into an unexpected new role—that of the bearer of bad news.

The skies darkened, and Andrew felt cold spots of rain upon him. Despite his heavy cloak, he shivered in the winds. The woolen cloak was thoroughly soaked as a result of him plowing into a burn in the middle of some fields a short while back. The drubbing he had endured was actually worse than the scars he had suffered in battle. Well, at least it felt like that at the time.

The fact was, Andrew was a very good swordsman. There were scant few who got the better of him, and really, his only enemy was his own bad judgment. He had just been in too much of a rush, trying to cut out on a very long road. Going through the farmer's field had seemed like the answer—until he had fallen headfirst into the freezing burn!

Now head-to-toe in algae, Andrew shook himself. It would never do to present himself to the maid of the clan looking like he had imbibed half the loch. And especially not bearing such bad news.

Because this was the real battle. His ferocious eyebrows meeting in the middle of his face, Andrew wrestled the facts. Not only was he the bringer of bad news, but he had a surprise, too: to find this mysterious lass, whom, hitherto, no one had ever heard of.

Andrew bit his lip as he urged Blackwell to go faster. As the landscape sped up around him, so did his head. He had been feeling like this since setting off.

His laird was dead. He was worried about the future of the clan. And he had no idea how he was going to break the news to his family.

Andrew's recollections of the laird's children were patchy, to say the least. He had only met them a few times, and his only memories were that they were young—too young to step into their father's shoes. And Marcus had offered no clue as to their role in the clan's future. They were bound to have questions, and Andrew could only hope that this counselor, Paton Stewart, had some of the answers because he certainly did not!

But then, just as he was getting a handle on the hill, which led up to the Duncan clan, something stopped him dead.

Whoosh!

Out of nowhere, something struck him on the shoulder. Immediately, he went down, collapsing into the ditch at the bottom of the hill.

Splash!

For the second time that day, Andrew got a soaking, this time head-to-toe in mud. Writhing in pain, he battled his way out, tugging at whatever it was that had assailed him.

It was an arrow.

Still trying to see straight, Andrew assessed the situation. He was in the middle of the Kennedy lands and still deep within bandit territory. The Duncan lands were still some way off, and Andrew knew he had to be on his alert.

With monumental effort, Andrew tugged hard at the arrow until it came out. Blood gushed out all over. But fortunately, it was only a flesh wound, and right then, Andrew had other priorities...like trying to stay alive!

Emerging from the swamp, he grasped his trusty sgian-dubh and looked around. He had been so careful, and it had seemed that there wasn't a soul about for miles in the deserted glen. But clearly, he had been wrong.

However, before he could even get out of the muddy burn, a voice stopped him.

"Halt! Who are ye?"

Andrew did not turn around. A silver sword pointed at the side of his throat. He couldn't yet see the face of the man wielding it, but he could already hear his breathing, coming fast and hard behind him.