Twenty-two

The woman’s scream sounded eerily in the distance. Darach reined in his mount and looked southwest, across the glen the men rode through on their way back to the castle. Unease crawled up his spine. Cloud sensed it and snorted beside Darach. He laid a calming hand on the stallion’s nose and listened, hoping to get a fix on the woman’s location.

The other lairds had heard it as well and unsheathed their swords as they spread into a defensive position. Lachlan was closest to Darach. “That couldnae be more than a mile away. Maybe by the summer field. Do you have cattle up there?”

“Not yet.” Darach spurred Loki, and the others followed. They had to proceed with caution. Darach knew it could be a trap, but his gut told him to ride like hell. What if…? Nay, Caitlin was back at the village. Safe.

He urged the stallion faster.

The field wasn’t that far away as the crow flew, but they had to traverse a mountain river that was still high and swift with the spring runoff. Finding a place to cross would add another twenty minutes to their journey. The woman, whomever it was, might be dead by then.

Not. Caitlin.

When they finally reached the summer field, a good forty minutes had passed. Darach’s stomach was cramped with worry and his lèine drenched in sweat. He couldn’t stop picturing Caitlin in the grass, her head bashed in or an arrow through her heart—horrible images that he knew weren’t true. Couldn’t be true.

They approached the field cautiously on foot, from the north, spreading out amid the trees to minimize their vulnerability should there be an attack. It would be a boon for his enemies to kill all six lairds at once—especially one as powerful as Gregor. But if there was an attack, Darach couldn’t have asked for better fighters by his side. Gregor had taught them well.

Scanning the field from his concealed position, Darach saw a woman lying on the ground near the trail that wound up from the east. Sunlight glinted off long, red hair, and the relief that rushed through him was so intense he was almost ashamed of himself. A MacKenzie woman lay injured, possibly dead, and he was overjoyed it wasn’t his wife.

He composed himself and strode quickly along the tree line toward her. She lay facedown on the blood-soaked ground. He turned her over and frowned.

“That’s the woman from yesterday. She rode in with us,” Gregor said from behind him.

“Aye. Wynda MacIntyre. Her throat’s been cut.” He reached down and closed her wide, lifeless eyes. She’d died within minutes. Even if he’d been here sooner, he couldn’t have saved her. Maybe she’d stumbled upon some of Fraser’s men who’d managed to get through the MacKenzies’ defenses.

He’d known they would come; he just hadn’t thought it would be so quick. What else hadn’t he thought of?

“Darach!” Lachlan shouted at him from down the trail.

His heart pounded in response. He could tell by Lachlan’s voice it was bad, and the fear for Caitlin rose again. His feet couldn’t move fast enough as he ran toward his foster brother. Lachlan was at the bend in the path about two hundred paces away. He held someone up.

Hope soared for an instant before crashing with heart-stopping anguish as Darach recognized Dearg, the head of Caitlin’s guard. He was hunched over, grimacing with pain, but his eyes were filled with regret as he looked at his laird.

“I’m sorry,” he said.

Darach threw back his head and howled.

* * *

Darach raced on a sleek, dappled mare along mountain streams and game trails in the moonlit night. Branches scraped his skin, but he never felt it. Beside him, Lachlan rode with twenty other MacKenzies who’d been waiting at the border with fresh horses and supplies. They’d been alerted the attack on the Frasers had begun when Darach had blown his battle horn a few hours earlier.

His first instinct had been to race after Caitlin and abandon the plan he’d set in motion years ago, the plan that would end the Frasers’ cruelty in the Highlands for good, but Gregor had made Darach see past his fear and think clearly. They couldn’t catch the Frasers before they reached their keep and locked Caitlin inside. All the MacKenzies could do was mobilize a force, led by Gregor, to hound the blackguards the entire way, so they never had time to hurt her—anymore than she’d already been hurt.

Now, troops of the six lairds were in strategic positions across the land, bracing themselves for the onslaught Fraser would unleash against Castle MacKenzie, while Darach prepared to infiltrate and conquer Castle Fraser.

As Gregor attacked from the outside, Darach would take a smaller force into the keep through a secret passageway Moire had shown him years ago. A dangerous route to get in and out, for sure, but one to which Fraser was oblivious…they hoped.

The passage led to Moire’s old bedchamber, which was on the third floor. He prayed Caitlin would be nearby. After she was taken to safety, the MacKenzies would overrun the keep from the inside, disable as many of Fraser’s war machines as possible, and lower the gate, letting in Gregor’s attacking army. Afterward, Darach intended to burn the entire castle.

He would show no mercy to any fighting man.

The group approached their position outside of Castle Fraser and slowed. They’d arrived before Gregor and his forces, and Darach yearned to forge ahead, but it would do Caitlin no good if they were discovered and killed. Instead, he dismounted and watched the unfolding drama from his vantage point behind the trees.

Most likely Caitlin was already inside. The gate was raised, and men ran with haste along the top of the battlements, in preparation for war. They would be scared but certain of victory—which worked in the MacKenzies’ favor. The Frasers would never expect the second attack from the inside.

Lachlan stretched out silently on the ground beside him. Moonlight illuminated his blue-painted face and braids, an homage to his Pictish ancestors that all the brothers wore during battle—had done since childhood—giving him a frighteningly grim visage. His eyes were cold and hard yet burned with ferocity. A warrior’s face.

A reflection of Darach’s own face.

“I will see my sister home,” Lachlan said.

A lump formed in Darach’s throat, but he forced it down and calmed his thoughts. He looked up at the moon. Clouds drifted toward it like leaves on the water. He had no doubt Gregor also watched the sky, waiting for the right moment to signal Darach.

When the clouds covered the moon, an owl hooted twice, then once again—a sign from Gregor that he was in position, ready to attack from the outside and draw attention away from Darach’s smaller force as they snuck into the castle.

Darach motioned to his men. He looked at Lachlan, grasped his arm. “If I die tonight—”

“You willna die.”

“Aye, but if I do…”

They stared at each other. Brothers. Friends. Warriors. Lachlan clasped Darach’s arm. “My promise to you stands. I’ll protect her always. As sister…and as wife. But it willna come to that. You will come back to us, Brother.”

* * *

“Your husband will hang in the morning. By his own choice.”

Caitlin peeked through the tangled knots of her hair and across the musty, cold bedchamber at Fraser. As usual, he was filthy. Maybe as filthy as her, for she was covered in dirt, blood, and bruises. Her uncle hovered in the background, a smile on his bloated face.

The journey here had been agony—tied and gagged, with a hood over her head, riding hard for hours on end with rough men handling her. But she’d take those circumstances any day over staring into Fraser’s soulless eyes.

“What do you mean?” she asked, voice barely above a whisper. She couldn’t quite catch her breath and her knees felt like they might fail her at any moment. To stay upright, she grasped the bedpost beside her.

Fraser tossed a piece of parchment in her direction. It landed on the dirty wooden floor. She picked it up with trembling fingers. He probably thought she couldn’t read and had given her a letter full of nonsense, but Darach’s broken seal was attached to the outside. Spreading the note, her throat tightened at seeing his familiar handwriting.

Me for her—but only if she remains untouched. I will hang at sunrise to see my wife safe.

Laird Darach Alasdair MacKenzie

Alasdair, defender of men. Caitlin sank onto the ragged quilts on the bed. He would save her again. This time with his life. The agony that ripped through her body pushed her forward over her knees. Her mind shut off, unable to take the pain, and she howled in anguish. A hand grabbed her hair and yanked upward. Her uncle sneered down at her.

“Not so high and mighty now, are you, lass? Just the daughter of a whore. That’s what you’ll be too, before we’re through. I’ll get my money for you one way or another.”

Hatred so intense filled her that she thought she might burst. She leaped at her uncle, kicking and biting and scratching like a wild animal. He screamed and tried to fight her off. Finally, he hit her with a heavy hand and sent her flying against the bedpost. She crumpled to the floor as Fraser laughed behind them.

A devil of a man, if ever there was one.

Her uncle stepped toward her, fist raised, but Fraser held him back.

“Nay, MacKenzie wants her untouched. She’ll remain so. For now.”

Outside, the sounds of battle erupted, and her stomach clenched. Was Darach with them?

Fraser’s fiendish eyes caught hers, and she shivered, making him smile. “Your clan and allies will soon be dead. Your husband, your friends, sacrifice themselves for nothing. We can withstand their onslaught for months.”

He lifted Darach’s letter. “But your husband willna wait that long.”

He laughed again, amused by her anguished sob, and walked toward the door. Her uncle followed. She saw guards in the dark corridor before the door shut and a bar scraped into place with an irrevocable bang. Her breath echoed frantically in the cold, neglected chamber.

They’d left a candle burning on the table. It shed enough light for her to see a window with one broken wooden shutter, a chair in front of the cold hearth, and a faded tapestry on the wall. Maybe the chamber had once belonged to someone special.

A daughter. A wife. Just like her.

Caitlin dropped her head to her knees and gripped her hair. She’d had to stand by and watch her parents die; she couldn’t do the same for her husband. She loved him too much, needed him to live, to protect the MacKenzies and keep his part of the Highlands safe, along with his brothers and Gregor.

A demon like Fraser could not triumph.

Her gaze traveled the room again and fell on the window. It was small, but she might fit. She rose slowly and limped toward it, heart pounding.

Pushing the shutter back, she looked out. A sharp wind carried the sounds of men at war. Shouts, horses screaming, a volley of arrows.

Returning to the bed, she ripped the linens from the mattress and fashioned a rope as best she could. Her hands shook as she knotted the covers together, tied the line to the bedpost, and tossed it out the window.

Closing her eyes, she made the sign of the cross and said a prayer, asking for strength and courage. When she finished, she dragged the chair over from the hearth, stepped onto it, and put her head and arms through the window. The ground was terrifyingly far away, but she ignored her fear and grabbed the rope, thinking to slide or climb down once she was through.

Behind her, she heard a scratching noise. Blood rushed through her veins and pulsed in her ears, blocking out further sound. She squeezed one shoulder out the window, then the other, uncaring that her clothes ripped and her hair pulled. Looking down, the ground seemed even farther away. She closed her eyes, continuing to wriggle forward past her ribs to her waist. Her hips caught and she pushed with her arms against the outside of the castle wall. One last shove, and she would be free.

Just as her hips gave, however, hands clasped her legs and pulled her back. She screamed. Darach couldn’t die tomorrow because of her. She fought fiercely, kicking and writhing, but she was dragged in past her hips and waist. An arm came underneath her and hooked around her shoulder, twisting her until she was all the way through.

Then she was squeezed against a broad chest, a pounding heart. She still couldn’t hear, but the man crushing her felt right. Like Heaven and Earth rolled into one.

Like Darach.

Maybe she’d fallen and didn’t know it. This was the afterlife.

Her arms wrapped around him. Slowly her hearing came back, and she could make out soft, frantic words.

“You will ne’er do that again. Do you hear me? You will ne’er go near a window or an ax or a river again. You will ne’er be taken from me or leave the castle again. I’ll lock you in our room if I have to. If you damn well die on me, Caitlin MacKenzie, I will ne’er forgive you.”

She sagged against him and let his words wash over her. Others moved around them, whispering to each other, but she paid them no heed, too intent on the feel, sound, and smell of her husband. Finally she tilted her chin and looked into a fierce, blue-painted devil of a face. A scream erupted from her throat before she could stop it. His calloused palm clamped over her mouth.

He shook his head, then removed his hand and pressed his lips to hers. Hard. It hurt against her bruised mouth, but she welcomed the pain. She was alive. Darach was alive. Everything would be all right.

He pulled back, her fierce, mighty warrior, looking like the Picts of old: bright-blue paint on half his face and body. His eyes had a frightening intensity she hadn’t seen before.

“Are you hurt?” he asked quietly, eyes and hands running over her.

She shook her head, but then winced as he squeezed her shoulder.

His gaze narrowed. “You will tell me what hurts,” he commanded, the whispered words sharp as daggers.

“My ankle. That’s the worst.”

He crouched down in front of her to examine her leg. When he wiggled her toes and rolled her foot, she bit her lip to stop from crying out.

“’Tis unbroken.” He checked her other foot. “Anywhere else?”

“My hip and shoulder, but bruises and scrapes mostly from jumping off my horse.”

He moved up her body, making sure for himself, then held her head and stared at her. “Did they touch you?”

Her heart expanded at the pain beneath his clipped words. “Nay. Your note dissuaded them.”

He pulled her into his embrace. Hands weaved through her hair, and his body trembled.

A tangle of emotions rose within her—fear, relief, pain, worry. She blinked hard to hold back tears and tried to breathe through her rising panic.

He rubbed his hand up and down her back. “I’m here, Caitlin. Everything will be all right. Take a deep breath now. Doona cry. Be brave, sweetling.”

He gazed down at her for a moment, making sure she was all right, then turned her to face the room. For the first time, she noticed it was filled to the brim with MacKenzies, all as fierce-looking as Darach. Where had they come from? And Lachlan too, though she scarcely recognized him as the lighthearted brother she loved.

“Fraser told me you were going to trade yourself for me in the morning?”

“That was only if I couldnae get to you first, aye?”

Her gaze shifted to the window through which she’d tried to climb.

His eyes darkened. “We’ll talk about that later.”

Lachlan stepped forward and Darach passed him her hand. The brothers’ eyes met. “Remember your promise.”

Slipping an arm around her waist, Lachlan nodded, then led her toward a chest near the wall she hadn’t noticed before. She looked back, but Darach had turned away from her.

“Lachlan,” she protested.

He crouched down and directed her into a dark, narrow tunnel. “Hush, Caitlin. The battle has just begun.”

* * *

Darach knocked on the door. The guards on the other side didn’t respond. He waited a moment, then knocked again. This time he could hear them talking in the corridor. How many were there—maybe three? He knocked a third time.

One of the guards yelled, “Quit your bangin’, slut, or I’ll come in there and bang you back.”

Darach’s blood surged, and he clenched his jaw. They were animals. He would slaughter every one of them for even thinking of laying their hands on his wife. He knocked a fourth time. His men were ready in the darkened room, hidden in the shadows and behind the bed. Stealth was necessary for the plan to work; otherwise, they would have to retreat.

“Please,” he whispered in as high a tone as possible. “I’ll do anything.”

The voices murmured outside. A second later, the bar grated as it slid back. Darach stepped into the shadows, dirk at the ready. The smallest of his men sat on the bed, half-hidden by the post, covered in a quilt, with his hair down, pretending to be Caitlin. He would take much teasing from his clansmen after the battle.

For now, everyone concentrated on the task at hand: exit the room undetected, overtake the battlements, and raise the portcullis. With only twenty-one men.

Darach needed to behead the snake so it wouldn’t rise again, and that meant killing Fraser and destroying his nest for good. No one in the Highlands would be safe otherwise, especially Caitlin.

The door opened and a man entered. Another came in behind him. A killing rage rose within Darach at the thought of what would have happened to Caitlin had he not been here.

The first man dropped his sword and twisted his sporran to the side as he approached the bed. “Turn over, ye wee slut.” The second man stopped about halfway into the room to watch and wait his turn. The third man appeared in the doorway, looking nervously up and down the corridor.

Their deaths happened at once, like a well-timed Highland reel. An arrow to the head killed the guard at the door, Darach slit the second guard’s throat from behind, and the third man got a surprise when he tried to turn over the “lass” on the bed. Not a sound was heard by any but the devil, who was surely waiting to lead the men to Hell.

The MacKenzies then exited in pairs, quickly moving to the end of each passageway as Darach led them to the battlements. It had been over eight years since he’d been in the castle, walked the walls with Moire on a starry night, tupped with youthful enthusiasm in her bed. Eight years since he’d crouched, hidden, and listened to her betrayal, then raced to find Oslow sick and injured, and brought him home.

Darach had become a man that night, recognized evil for the first time. It had eaten at him from the inside until Caitlin had healed him, showed him how to love again. He would do everything in his power to return to her, but if not, he would die knowing she was safe with Lachlan, maybe able to be happy with him one day.

Reaching the door at the top of the stairs that led to the battlements, Darach opened it slowly and peered out. Warriors manned the walls, but not many. Most were on the other side of the castle, where Gregor’s forces had amassed. Darach exited with seven men and moved behind the Frasers. They died quickly and quietly.

The rest of the MacKenzies joined Darach and the others in the cool night. The moon had stayed covered, so only the stars in the sky and torches every hundred paces lit the darkness.

“Lock the door,” he said.

Someone found a heavy bar leaning against the wall and slid it through the iron loops, stopping any Frasers from coming up behind them. Then they piled the dead bodies against it for good measure.

His men gathered around. Darach looked each one in the eye. “God’s strength and courage to you all.”

The men quietly responded, then spread out, ten led by Darach in one direction, around the battlement; ten in the other. They were all smart, strong fighters and knew what to do. The Frasers were caught unaware each time and went down easily. Any weapons of war the MacKenzies came across were disabled: burning sand and pitch tossed safely over the side, the boulders intended to crush the invaders used to seal additional entrances to the battlement.

When they neared the front of the castle, the enemy multiplied. Stealth and surprise were keys to the MacKenzies’ success. The unexpected attack of an invading force from inside the keep confused the Frasers as Darach’s men moved with deadly skill toward the portcullis. All would be for naught if the iron grill wasn’t raised and Gregor’s army allowed inside.

Covered now in blood and sweat, Darach knifed an archer who peered through an arrow slit, weapon at the ready. A Fraser killed meant one more of Gregor’s men alive.

They were in the thick of it now, and when one of his men went to his knees after a heavy blow, Darach tossed his dirk into the man’s attacker.

From behind, a sword whistled past his ear. He rolled just in time, so the blade glanced off his shoulder. He swept out his foot with a grunt, knocking the enemy to the ground and stabbing him in the side. A second man kicked Darach in the stomach. He rolled against the far wall, losing his sword. The Fraser came at him but stopped suddenly and fell to the ground.

The MacKenzie warrior Darach had just saved pulled Darach’s dirk from the dead man’s back. He tossed it to his laird with a grin. “Couldnae let the bastard scar your bonny face now, could I?”

Darach caught the dirk and grinned back. “My wife will thank you for it later.”

“Aye, women do like a pretty lad.”

The exchange invigorated Darach, and he fought fiercely toward the stairs that led to the portcullis. Behind him, his men were using the Frasers’ own weapons against them, hurling rocks and heated pitch and sand down through the murder holes. Screams rose up to greet him.

Gregor’s men began to climb over the unmanned walls using rope and grappling hooks, adding to Darach’s force one by one. The battle was in their favor, but if they couldn’t raise the portcullis, they would be trapped as the Frasers eventually forced their way onto the wall through one of the blocked entrances. The MacKenzies had to move quickly, while they still had the advantage.

Fighting his way down the stairs, he yelled a warning and raised his shield just in time as a volley of arrows shot upward from below. Both MacKenzies and Frasers were hit, and Darach wondered at the stupidity of the archers. Waiting with his dirk raised for another archer to show himself, Darach hurled it at the unprotected man when he did. The archer fell without loosing his weapon, but more bowmen appeared behind him. As a battle tactic, it was disastrous for the Frasers. They had their backs to the archers and didn’t know when to get out of the way, acting as shields for the MacKenzies.

When the bowmen retreated to string their weapons, the MacKenzies pushed forward again, moving quickly this time as the Frasers still standing ran back down the stairs to get out of the archers’ range, trampling the bowmen as they tried to reposition themselves.

The MacKenzies reached the bottom, and full-scale fighting broke out, swords clashing, bones crunching. The archway leading to the pulley that raised the portcullis was just ahead. Darach pushed forward, and the Fraser line fell back. His other men, the ten who had gone the opposite way along the battlements, appeared on the other side of the Frasers, who were now trapped. Darach let out his clan’s battle cry—answered by his men. Seconds later, they overcame the last Fraser, and Darach raised the portcullis, jamming it open with a fallen sword.

Gregor’s army poured through the entrance, flowing over the shocked and scattered Frasers. Hands on his knees, Darach took a moment to catch his breath and relish the victory. The Frasers would cease to be a threat to all good people in the Highlands.

Straightening, he strode toward the castle. It was time to behead the snake.

* * *

Darach pushed carefully inside the dark passageway that led to the Frasers’ great hall, sword in one hand, dirk in the other, shield hanging from his belt. The fighting still raged in pockets near the curtain wall, but it would soon be over.

After eight years, the Frasers were defeated.

Clenching the hilt of his sword, Darach flexed each finger, noting they were stiff. His entire arm hurt, most likely from the blow he’d taken earlier to his shoulder. He considered switching the weapon to fight with his other hand, a skill Gregor had taught them all as lads, but then Darach heard raised voices, and he stilled.

Fraser and MacInnes. The vipers were in the nest, and they were arguing. The yelling stopped and a scream rang out. Darach snuck forward. Peering around the corner, he saw MacInnes leaning against the mantel in front of the great hearth with a dagger protruding from his belly, his filthy lèine soaked in blood. Fraser was nowhere to be seen.

Darach advanced slowly, the only source of light a few candles and a low-burning fire. The room was much as he remembered, dirty rushes on the floor, a central hearth with two chairs in front of it, benches and tables scattered around.

Fraser could be hiding anywhere, or he could have fled. If a secret passageway existed into Moire’s bedchamber, most likely others existed in the keep as well. Damnation. If Fraser survived tonight, he might still come after Caitlin. Darach would have to track him down like a rat in a maze.

Shifting his gaze back to MacInnes, he saw the man had dropped to his knees in front of the fire. Blood dripped from his mouth. It would have pleased Darach to hang the bastard in front of witnesses for what he’d done to Caitlin and her parents, but this would have to do. Their eyes met, and MacInnes held out a bloody hand.

“Please.”

Darach moved forward, his gaze scanning the room and up the stairwell. “Please what? Please help me? Please forgive me for killing my brother and abusing my niece?”

MacInnes whimpered. “You doona understand.”

“What’s to understand? You’re a murderer. You sold a woman for gold into a lifetime of abuse and degradation. You are beyond forgiveness.”

Darach was within reach now and drew the dagger from the man’s belly. Blood gushed out and MacInnes sagged forward. Dropping the knife, Darach stepped away.

“Look into the fire, MacInnes. The devil awaits you.”

MacInnes stared at the flames, his eyes wide and horror-filled. He moaned, then slumped back on his haunches, blood pooling around his knees. He opened his mouth as if to scream, but the only sound emitted was a final puff of air escaping his lungs.

Darach could only imagine that justice was being served—in Hell—by Lucifer himself. A fitting end to MacInnes’s vile life.

Retreating to the other side of the room, he searched for any sign of Laird Fraser.

A mewing noise at his feet caught his attention. He glanced down and was shocked to see a tiny, white kitten with blue eyes the same intense shade as Caitlin’s. He bent over to retrieve the animal just as an arrow lodged in the wall behind him, missing his head by inches.

Cursing, Darach dove behind one of the tables and flipped it over just as another arrow thudded into the wood. The kitten mewed again, more frantic this time, and he saw he still held it in his hand. Heart pounding, he tucked it into his sporran for safekeeping.

Peering through a hole in the wood, he calmed his breath and searched for his attacker. Judging from the direction of the assault, it had come from somewhere near the hearth. A lone warrior? Or maybe it was Fraser.

A man stepped out from behind a tapestry hanging on the wall, bow and arrow at the ready, then disappeared into the shadows before Darach could attack. The wall hanging had been flat a moment ago, so Darach assumed there must be a passageway behind it—which meant the man was most likely Fraser.

“Come back to see your clan and castle destroyed, have you?” Darach asked, wanting to goad the man into revealing himself.

It worked, and Fraser moved into the light. He’d been an excellent shot in the past, and Darach knew he was fortunate to have survived the attack. The wee kitten in his sporran had saved him—just like Caitlin.

“My castle may burn, but not before I kill you,” Fraser said, hate thick in his voice. “That wee slut of yours will mourn you like she did her parents, and I’ll still be there, waiting to see if she’s with bairn, waiting to take your child.”

Darach inhaled sharply, but he refused to let fear and rage overwhelm him. It was what Fraser wanted. He needed Darach to show himself too.

Looking through the wood again, he assessed the situation. What were his advantages? Speed, strength, surprise. Fraser wouldn’t dare get close enough to battle Darach with a sword, so he’d have to take the fight to his enemy. But even if he could close the distance unharmed, Fraser would escape down the passageway.

Aye, the passageway. That was the key. Somehow Darach had to block it before he advanced on Fraser, who had retreated into the shadows again.

His vile, disembodied voice floated across the room “Maybe I willna wait. Maybe I’ll take your wife and cut the bairn from her. Give her to my men to use while she dies.”

Darach ground his teeth, refusing to be provoked. He grabbed the edges of the table and set it on end, so he could stand. An arrow pierced the wood inches from his fingers. He snatched his hands back.

Fraser had moved in front of the hearth, trying to get a better angle. Darach turned the table to stay covered and hefted his dirk. If the man ever lowered his weapon, Darach could use him for target practice. Suddenly Fraser dropped his bow and ducked behind one of the chairs. Darach hurled his dirk an instant later, but it landed in the mantel.

Retreating behind the table again, he cursed at the wasted move. Fraser laughed before throwing a burning log over Darach’s head. It landed among the benches and tables behind him. The rushes caught fire immediately, burning like kindling. Another burning log landed closer to him. The bastard was trying to smoke Darach out, but Fraser had just given Darach exactly what he needed.

He cleared the rushes from around him and dragged the burning log closer. Fraser stood in the open, waiting for Darach to move. He did, tossing the log back toward Fraser. It landed at the base of the tapestry, which quickly went up in flames, blocking the secret passageway. Before Fraser could decide what to do, Darach used his great strength to pick up the table like a shield and charge ahead. Two arrows embedded in the wood before Fraser turned and ran. Darach heaved the table forward and it crashed into Fraser’s legs, knocking him to the floor.

Jumping over the table, he landed on Fraser’s back with a primal roar, pinning his enemy. The warrior in him raged with victory, and he grabbed Fraser’s hair, pulled back his head. The husband in him seethed with fury and he readied his sword. The son in him wept with sorrow and he pressed it to Fraser’s gullet, heart beating fiercely, body trembling.

Flames crackled behind them. Smoke and heat filled the air.

“You killed my father. You killed my clansmen. But you will ne’er touch my wife, my bairns, or any living thing again.”

Then he slit Fraser’s throat.