Page 114 of Claimed Highland Brides

She would rather brave wild boars and rutting stags than stay with these people one minute more than she had to.

“M-may I-I have some water please?” she asked the bundle of cloth riding by her side.

Someone snorted, she could not tell who, although everyone else simply ignored her.

“This isnae an inn,” a voice growled from behind her, “and we are nae at yer service.”

“I dinnae say ye are, sir. It’s just tha’ my throat is parched an⁠—”

“Haud yer wheesht or I shall haud it for ye,” the man snapped and Jamesina fell silent again. Ten minutes later, they came upon a small burn. The man called a halt and pulled her roughly from her horse.

“Ye have two minutes tae drink.”

* * *

Aifric said that she would provide him with a guide.

“What about weapons? All I have is this knife that I grabbed from an inn kitchen as we came. I need a sword.”

Aifric sighed, reaching down to lift her gown. Delwyn looked away. He heard the swish of a knife being withdrawn from its sheath and turned back curiously to see her holding a sghian dhu out to him. “’Tis all I have. Ye shall have tae rely on stealth and speed rather than brawn tae get oot o’ this. It shallnae be easy. Are ye sure ye’re up tae the task?”

“My wife’s life is at stake! She is with child, my child. I will get her back or die with her.”

Aifric nodded with satisfaction. “It may well come tae tha’. May God go wi’ ye.”

He nodded his thanks and made out to the stables, grateful that he’d chosen a fast horse. Aifric had promised to keep an eye on Maegan while he was gone and for whatever reason, he trusted her. His guide was a stocky silent man with a full growth of beard and hair so thick he resembled more of a bear than a man.

He was already on a sorrel-colored horse and holding a wooden staff in hand. Delwyn might have been amused by him in other circumstances. In this case, however, he simply went into the stables, fetched his already saddled horse, and rode back out.

“Lead the way.” He gestured for the man to precede him. “What should I call you?”

“We wilnae be talkin’. Sound travels,” the man said softly.

“Yes, I understand. However, will you do me the courtesy of giving me a name?”

“Goraidh.”

“Thank you, Goraidh. My name is Delwyn.”

Goraidh simply grunted, spurring his horse forward to head to the outskirts of the town. Delwyn wanted to ask him how he knew where to go but he remembered what the man said about sound carrying and so he followed him quietly, eyes sharp for any movement that might signal trouble.

As they approached the border of the town, he noticed a lone man standing by a lamppost, arms folded, dressed in multiple layers of clothing. Goraidh stopped by his side and they muttered together in Gaelic.

“A band headed into Peighinn-á-bhaile. ’Tis a copse of trees in th’ bottom of a valley. We’ve long suspected tha’ the Hunters made a camp there. We mun’ find them before they reach the camp.”

Delwyn nodded calmly. “We best be on our way then.”

The cloth-covered figure extracted from his or her person a long gleaming sword, the hilt emblazoned with a ruby. Handing it to Delwyn, the person looked up at him as he hesitated to take it. “Neacel Hunter killed my father and took my mother. I have been waiting for his retribution for a long time.”

To his shock, Delwyn realized that the person was a young girl. He nodded resolutely. “I shall do my level best to give it to you.”

The girl nodded and stepped back. He and Goraidh continued on their way.