Page 12 of Kidnapped By a Highland Shadow

Cursing to himself, Arran stopped to build a fire. It was reckless, he knew, but he had to dry himself out before he caught his death.

He chose a small, heavily bordered clearing for his fire. It wasn’t dark enough for a fire to be noticed yet, although there was not much he could do about the smoke. He quickly set up a small fire, making it as large as he dared. Arran huddled close to its meager heat, realizing with a sinking heart that it wouldn’t be enough. Tartan took a long time to dry, even in summer.

He heard the approaching men long before he saw them.

Arran got to his feet, cursing under his breath. He’d allowed himself to doze briefly, lulled by the heat of the fire, relying on the growing dusk and his own carefully chosen hiding spot to keep himself safe.

Instinct woke him, and Arran had realized that somebody was nearby and getting closer. He kicked earth over the fire, but it was far too late for that. He considered running, but he couldn’t run without making a lot of noise and attracting attention to himself.

The men clearly fancied themselves as expert stalkers. Arran could hear the drag of heavy boots trying to step softly, the rustle of leaves underfoot and the cracking of branches. They were trying to be quiet, but dear heavens, they were loud. Arran could hear them breathing.

He only had time to withdraw his broadsword before the men burst into the little clearing. There were three of them, all around Arran’s height and much broader. They all three wielded great, two-handed claymores, and Arran suppressed a smile.

Fools. Only inexperienced men would choose such a large, heavy weapon to fight in a forest. They were no doubt strong enough to wield it, but none of the men could swing their swords without taking off one of their companion’s heads or limbs.

The three men dropped their gazes to Arran’s tartan, and their eyes widened comically.

Aye, you know that pattern well enough, he thought grimly. How could he have been such a fool as to walk right into his enemy’s territory wearing his own tartan? Why hadn’t he simply written a sign reading McTavie Warrior and hung it around his neck? It might have enraged them less.

The first man launched himself forward with a cry, swinging his sword over his head. The tip very nearly got tangled in the branches to his left, and to his right, his two companions darted sideways with a gasp, trying to avoid the razor-sharp blade.

Arran sidestepped the tremendous blow, and then he was under the reach of the clumsy sword. He slashed his own blade across the man’s stomach, and the man dropped to the ground, clutching at his wound and burbling.

The second and third men darted forward, with the third man dropping his claymore and taking out his dirk.

Clever man.

Arran was forced to lift his own sword to meet the second man’s blow, wincing at the vibrations that flew down his arm. Armed with only his broadsword, he could not match a heavy claymore like this, blow for blow. At least, not for long.

There was a spark of triumph in the second man’s eyes. Arran noted it for a split second before he twirled neatly to avoid another blow and smashed his elbow into the man’s face. There was a sickening crack as the man’s nose broke, and he stumbled back, clutching at his face and waving his sword one-handed as if to ward off an attack.

Arran dived under his guard without a second thought and put his blade neatly through the man’s chest.

It never failed to impress on Arran how easily a sword could pass through flesh. It should be harder, more weighty, and yet he’d had a harder time chopping firewood. Taking a life should not be so graceful and easy.

He collapsed to the ground, and Arran turned to the third man, banishing his maudlin thoughts about death and swords.

This man was something else. He was lithe and wiry, dark-haired, and a fraction smaller than his companions. He’d seen immediately that not all three of them could fight at once and had waited for Arran to tire himself out with the other two men. He stepped warily, long knife at the ready, and Arran realized that here was a man who would strike suddenly and without warning, like a snake’s bite.

He was correct. The man covered the distance in a split second, and Arran barely dodged the vicious, underhanded blow which would have gutted him like a fish. Arran was impressed despite himself.

As it was, the man struck a glancing blow on Arran’s arm, leaving a long, thin line of red on the forearm. When his killing stroke was unsuccessful, he slunk back, well out of arm’s reach, watching closely.

Arran ignored the pain and prepared for the second rush. The third man’s eyes raked him up and down, and Arran could almost see him cataloging in his head. Slow. Heavy. Slower than me. Longer sword. Must get under his guard.

In that instant, Arran realized that the man intended to try the same thing again.

He should have changed his plan of attack.

The man dived forward again, but this time Arran was ready. He sidestepped and neatly cut the back of the man’s legs. He crumpled to the floor with a cry, stabbing out sideways with his dirk, and Arran brought his sword down in an overhead blow, severing the man’s head from his body.

Then it was over. The fight had lasted barely a moment or two, and Arran was the only one left. He glanced about, wondering what to do next. What about the bodies and the blood? Were there more soldiers nearby? The men all wore McTavie tartan. Either way, one thing was clear: it was no longer safe there.

With a sigh, Arran mentally resigned himself to putting out his comforting fire and going on his way, twilight or not. He squeezed at his soggy cloak, still wet and likely to get him killed if he was spotted wearing it.

Better wear the mantle of the enemy, then,Arran decided. The first and second men’s tartans were ruined, splattered with blood and sheared by Arran’s sword. The third man’s tartan was relatively untouched.

Arran stripped it from him and changed out of his own wet clothes with a definite feeling of relief. He did not have time or energy to bury the bodies, so he piled them up in a ditch and covered them with leaves. That would do, presuming that nobody looked too hard to find the men.

He kicked more earth over the fire, hiding it completely and smothering any smoke and embers, and took one last glance around the clearing. Aside from a few mysterious gouges in the earth and a few sticky pools of blood—quickly absorbed by the boggy ground—there was no sign that an altercation had taken place at all.

Sighing, Arran stretched his aching limbs and set off again. His task had barely begun, and he was exhausted already. However, the altercation had taught him one important thing: Arran was thoroughly in the land of his enemy. He needed to hurry now. Find the lass, take the lass, bring her back, he thought. It was a simple enough task, but Arran just knew that a thousand things would go wrong.

He ground his teeth and carried on, resolved not to stop anymore until he had arrived at his destination.