Page 47 of A Dangerous Highland Affair

He turned his head sharply around. Now he could see them. Although the dark-haired rider seemed to have fallen by the way, there were still the others. And approaching hard on their heels was Marcas, a look of knotty displeasure etched on his brow.

“Striking a laird’s man in the course o’ duty,” he spat, making an attempt at shoving his way forwards. All Neacal could hear was the sound of hooves, thundering ever closer towards him.

He was still a short way off for the time being, but it wouldn’t be long before they were neck and neck.

Impatiently, Neacal shook the put-upon mare, urging her to go faster, but frustratingly, it wasn’t helping. She seemed to have slowed to a trot, just when he needed her to surge forwards.

“Come on, lassie!” said Neacal, urging the horse on. Teasag’s warm fingers dug in, ever tighter to his waist, almost making it impossible for him to breathe. But at that moment, Neacal didn’t care. He just wanted to make sure she was safe.

With the wind and the chase, he hardly knew what was happening. The only thing he could think of was getting her away from all this.

But as it happened, he didn’t have to worry for long, as the exhausted brown mare made the final decision.

Without warning, the little horse whinnied, stumbling from a trot into a slump. It happened so abruptly that they were nearly shaken clean from the mare’s back. It was the end of the ride.

Pulling Teasag swiftly from the center of the road, Neacal got her away from the encroaching hooves pursuing them.

“Quick! Hide in the long grass!” he urged her, shooing her along the glen side and away from the winding route.

“But,” argued Teasag. However, at a glance from him, she soon changed her mind.

As the remaining riders turned the bend, Teasag scrambled into the bushes by the side of the road, disappearing into the damp glen.

She was shortly followed by the stricken horse, which limped to the road's edge beside them. Neacal wasn’t sure what had caused her collapse, whether she had been injured or was just plain exhausted.

“So then, Neacal, it’s just ye an’ me!”

Marcas’s voice rose cockily behind him,

Gritting his teeth, Neacal squared up to the man on the horse. Now alone, in the middle of the road, there was nothing between him and the mounted rider to hold him back.

“Get awa’ from me, Marcas!” he hissed angrily, bringing his sgian dubh from its pouch and brandishing it in front of Marcas’s horse.

Immediately, the black stallion whinnied, flaring dramatically in the center of the road. This had the consequence of flipping Marcas straight from its back and depositing him in a sorry mess at the edge of the road.

“Why dinnae ye come an’ finish me off then, big man!” yelled Neacal, suddenly free of the need for restraint, now that Teasag was safely away in the field of long grass.

Just for a second, the clouds allowed a small chink of light to fall upon the fields. Immediately, the whites of Teasag’s eyes flashed out, reassuring Neacal that she was out of harm’s way.

Much to his relief that she was a good way back from the main road. Neacal briefly motioned for her to stay put, then cut back to Marcas, just beginning to stand up.

“I’m nae here to kill ye, Neacal. That I’m leaving for the laird!” barked Marcas, still picking himself up from the undignified heap. “Yer the only one wi’ blood on yer hands!”

He said this for the benefit of the men advancing at a break-neck pace behind them. Neacal hoped fervently that Teasag was too far away to hear what Marcas was saying.

Eyes glowing, Neacal spied his chance to end this. Still enjoying the spectacle of Marcas, dragging himself out of a muddy puddle, he grabbed his dagger tightly.

For a moment, he wondered about jumping him and finishing him off for good. But his eyes flashed watchfully, and Neacal realized it would be suicide.

Even if he did manage to get rid of him, there would be repercussions. Marcas had rank and status; killing him would cause more problems than it solved. And besides, the sight of him lying there, bloodied and bruised, made him pause.

“Soo, ye going to slay me like ye slew my poor Donald?” Marcas sneered, and Neacal could only hope that Teasag was out of earshot.

Immediately, Neacal’s mind cut back to that night. He would never forget the dreadful scream of poor Donald as he fell, nor the look of complete devastation on Marcas’ face as his brother died in his arms. Ever since that night, Marcas had sworn revenge.

Of course, he had not fired the shot, nor given orders to do so. He avoided using violence at all costs. It had been a horrible tragedy, but deep down, Neacal knew that he was partially responsible.

In that instant, Neacal knew that he could not attack Marcas, not unless he was threatening him. Instead, he hurried away as fast as he could from the road, hoping to dive into the long grass of the nearby lea and hide.