Drew led the charge, two dozen men at his back. His cousin rode just to his right, Clyde to his left.

This would be satisfying. He could all but taste Malcolm Stuart’s blood.

A pity Anne would not be witness to what was to come, but it was for the best. He would take great pleasure in telling her and Liam about it in the days to come.

The magistrate rode behind along with the men they’d rounded up in the village. As soon as they’d made the announcement of a name and a location, men from all around were running to saddle their horses and gather their weapons. The Stuarts, it seemed, had been a plague on the Highlands for far too long.

The house was still lit inside, candles and fires burning away. Did they ever sleep? Perhaps they were celebrating. All the better. He did detest the notion of disturbing a man’s slumber. It would hardly seem a fair fight if that were the case.

“Steady, now,” Rufus advised as they slowed the horses to a trot. “Dinna lose your head.”

“When have ye ever known me to lose my head?” Drew grinned.

Clyde snorted.

“’Tis afraid I am that we dinna have the time to go into it,” Rufus retorted. “Dinna rush in before ye know the full measure of what we have found here. There could be many dozens of men all over the land, camping out, standing guard.”

In his heart of hearts, Drew wished that were the case. He longed to smash bones, to bury his fist in the face of one man after another. With every blow, he would think of Anne. Of Liam. Of their suffering.

The door opened, and out poured a dozen men. The brandished dirks, swords, even a pistol or two. Drew’s heart clenched, yet he withdrew a pistol nonetheless.

He preferred fist-to-fist combat, but was not such a fool as to leave himself unarmed if the need arose.

It did not appear as though the need would arise after all, for not a single one of the men who’d left the house could walk a straight line. They stumbled about, knocking into each other. Drew winced as one of them barely managed to avoid sinking his dirk into another man’s stomach.

“What goes on here?” he cried out as men surrounded him, men prepared to fight these scoundrels and drag them to Avoch where they would be tried for their crimes. Yet none of them were in fighting shape.

One of them ran toward Drew, shouting obscenities and prepared for battle, yet he only managed to make ten paces before he doubled over and released the contents of his stomach onto the ground in a mighty splash.

“They’re intoxicated down to the last one,” the magistrate laughed. “It isn’t often our task is so simple.” He shouted orders to several of the nearby men, who set about subduing those about to have their wrists bound and their weapons removed.

This was not satisfying. Not at all. He needed Malcolm. He needed to take a pound of the man’s flesh. “Inside,” he snarled, marching toward the open door.

Rufus and Clyde were quick to join him.

The main room of the house was covered in refuse, empty cups, empty casks. Stains and spills, rotting food. “How do they live?” he grunted, resisting the impulse to cover his nose and mouth.

“Drew.” Rufus clasped his arm, pointing to the blazing hearth.

A tall, red-haired man with a thick beard held the arm of a squirming, twisting lass.

“Anne!” Drew cried out, stunned to the point of freezing in place.

“Forgive me,” she grunted before squealing as the man’s hand tightened around her thin arm.

It could only be Malcolm, naturally. Only he would be so cruel.

“Welcome to my home,” he announced, confirming himself to be the owner. The one Drew had come for. “What brings ye here on such a cold evening, and at such a late hour, at that?”

He was not in the same condition as the men who’d come on their terrible excuse for an attack. He had his wits about him and even seemed to be enjoying this, though he was hopelessly outnumbered.

Drew need only see the pain in Anne’s eyes to seethe in renewed fury. How and why she was there, he could not say. It mattered not. What mattered was freeing her and paying Malcolm Stuart back for every evil he’d ever done.

“We’ve come here to see ye receive justice for your many misdeeds,” Drew smiled. A stranger might mistake his smile as one of good humor. He’d lulled many a man into thinking he was no threat with that very smile.

Only those who knew him and had seen what he was capable of knew his smile was the kiss of death.

“And who are ye to serve justice?” Malcolm asked, looking from one of them to the other. “Who are ye to charge me with misdeeds? I dinna know ye, any of ye, and ye trespass on my land.”

“We know what you’ve done. And we are here to stop ye from doing it ever again. First, I intend to pay ye back for the cruelty ye showed yer niece.” Drew handed his pistol and dirk to Clyde. “If ye are man enough to fight with your fists—unless ye need other men to do the fightin’ for ye.”

“I ought to have known.” Malcolm spat at Anne, who recoiled before kicking him in the knee. He howled before throwing her to the floor, where she landed in a heap.

Drew had seen enough. He launched himself at the much larger man, using surprise to throw him off-balance. They collided, with Malcolm turning just in time to avoid landing in the blazing fire.

He threw Drew against a long table laden with cups, mugs, flagons of ale. Much of it tumbled to the floor, while Drew pulled his legs in and shot them out when Malcolm bore down on him, catching him in the abdomen and knocking the wind from his lungs.

He jumped to the floor, taking advantage of Malcolm doubling over to gasp for breath. Hands on his shoulders, pushing him further down, he jerked one of his knees upward and let out a satisfied grunt when the crunch of bone sounded.

Blood spurted from the man’s broken nose. He staggered backward, but was not finished yet.

He swung one large fist, his long arms covering a considerable distance, and Drew was not able to duck the swing quickly enough. Malcolm’s fist connected with the side of his head, making his ears ring and his vision double. He blinked hard, shaking off the daze, and did manage to duck a second blow.

From his crouched position, he delivered several sharp upward blows into Malcolm’s ribs. The man whirled about, arms swinging wildly now, and Drew leaped onto his back.

“Drew!” Anne cried out, but there was no paying heed as he hooked an arm about the man’s neck and with his other fist delivered one blow after another to the side of his head, his face, anything he could reach. Malcolm attempted to claw at his eyes, but he caught one of the man’s fingers between his teeth, making him howl.

An instant later, Malcolm flung himself back against the wall, driving Drew into the unforgiving stones. He gasped as the breath left his body and several ribs cracked, yet managed to hang on rather than slide down the wall onto the floor.

“Off with ye, ye demon!” Malcolm roared, swearing up a storm as he did what he could to shake Drew off.

Drew was a man possessed now, driven by pain and rage. He sank his teeth into Malcolm’s ear this time, and his scream resounded through the room as he clawed and writhed in agony. The harder he fought, the harder Drew bit down, until blood flowed between his lips. He turned his head and spat out what he’d bitten off before driving his fist against the wounded, bloody ear again and again.

Malcolm fell to his knees, with Drew still attached to his back. He slid off, kicking Malcolm in the kidneys and causing him to fall forward until he was on all fours.

“Now, then.” Drew crouched in front of him, taking handfuls of red hair and raising the man’s head until they were eye-to-eye. “It seems ye are not much on yer own, Malcolm Stuart. Little wonder ye live surrounded by others who do yer work for ye.”

“Ye devil,” Malcolm rasped, sweat and blood running down his face, bruises already forming along his cheek and jaw, his nose a ruined pulp.

“Nay. Ye are the devil here.” He released the man’s head before standing, then drove one foot into his back and forced him to the floor. He remained there, whimpering and bleeding, until the magistrate entered the house to collect him.

Drew sank onto one of the wooden benches beside the table, both exhausted and exhilarated. His ribs hurt something terrible, the side of his head throbbed, yet he was the victor. It was a thrill he had not experienced in too long.

“Drew!” Anne flew to his side, throwing her arms about his neck. “Ye fool! I was so frightened!” She laughed and wept all at once.

He stiffened, taking pains to remove her from him without saying a word.

The joy shining from her eyes dulled, then went dark. “What—what is this?” she whispered. “What is wrong?”

He could barely look at her. “What is wrong?” Turning his head, he spat Malcolm Stuart’s blood upon the floor. One more stain, he supposed.

“Aye. Why will ye—why won’t ye—” She gaped at him, open-mouthed and breathless.

His heart hardened further the longer he looked at her. “What were ye doin’ here? Was it your intention to warn him of our arrival?”