Page 118 of Claimed Highland Brides

“Can ye follow them?”

His tracker nodded again and they followed him in single file, weapons already drawn. He was thankful for the breeze, which made the grass sway like waves in the ocean and obscured their movement through it. No doubt Hunter and his men would have lookouts and the closer they could get before being detected, the better.

Still, it was a surprise when they almost stepped on Delwyn and his companion. They surged upwards, a sghian dhu already lashing out in Delwyn’s hand and only a quick swerve saved Daividh from losing an eye. He reached out and grabbed Delwyn’s hand, squeezing the wrist so tight he could feel the bones grind together. He stared into the man’s eyes as Delwyn blinked in surprise.

“Where did you⁠—”

Daividh’s eyes widened and he put an urgent finger to Delwyn’s lips even though the man spoke like a whisper of sound in the breeze.

He pointed towards the camp where a fire was still glowing softly. Delwyn nodded and Daividh let go of his hand.

They all squatted in the grass.

“What were ye doing?” Daividh asked softly.

“We heard you coming behind us. Or Goraidh did. We thought you were lookouts for them.” He pointed with his thumb towards the camp. Delwyn had never been so glad to see anyone as he was to see his brother-in-law. Their presence just increased their chances of getting Jamesina out alive.

“Do you have an extra sword? I am afraid all I have is this.” He held up the knife.

Daividh raised an eyebrow. “And ye were going tae attack the camp wi’ just tha’?”

“No. We were thinking of ways to sneak her away.”

“Aye weel, I dinnae have another sword but I do have a matchlock gun.” He dug into the duffel he was carrying and handed a long, slim copper gun to Delwyn. “Unless ye prefer a claymore?”

Delwyn shook his head, not really having experience with such a heavy weapon. “This and my knife is fine. Thank you. Shall we go?”

“Aye. Three approach from the north and we’ll go up tae them from the west. Await my signal.”

The men nodded before melting into the night. Daividh nodded to Goraidh. “Lead the way.”

* * *

Jamesina could not sleep. Something was telling her to stay alert. That the end of this nightmare was almost nigh. She shifted uncomfortably and realized that she had been lying on a stone, and began to burrow beneath her to get it out.

Snoring abruptly ceased from somewhere close. “What are ye doing?” the grumpy-voiced man asked.

“I am laying on a stone. Just trying tae remove it.”

He snorted, turning away, and soon the snoring resumed. Finally, her hand closed on the stone and she brought it up to her face, amazed to find that it was a sharp-pointed piece of obsidian, the shiny blackness of it visible even by the light of the stars alone.

How strange. What are ye doing here?

She turned the stone in her hand as she turned to the side and tried, once again, to get comfortable. A rustling sound in the grass made her freeze as she wondered if it was some woodland creature or someone approaching.

She raised her head slightly, listening to hear if any of the horses were agitated. She could hear them snorting and snuffling but nothing about them seemed alarmed. Slowly, she put her head back down.

Probably a rabbit then.

Her heart almost jumped out of her breast when a man leaped into the middle of the sleeping circle with a battle cry and brandishing a claymore. She screamed, sitting bolt upright and holding her belly. She wanted to call out but could not tell if it was friend or foe.

More men came pouring in and she could hear the clash of iron on iron, the occasional pained grunt as iron met flesh rather than iron. Dust blew up, creating a kaleidoscope of color above the banked fire. That was until someone stepped right in the flame with a pained cry and put it out.

She got to her feet, and began to edge backward, trying to get as far away from the fighting as possible. She had only one thought in her head.

Protect the baby.

Suddenly, a hand closed around her waist, pulling her against a strong body with an uncompromising grip. She writhed, twisted, trying to get away, but he held on tight. “Hush, it’s me, Jamesina. It’s me.”