David Robertson had a penchant for eyes. Iain peered through the slit of the eye not yet swollen shut. He kept his gaze fixed on the shadowy progress of a rat making a stealthy approach along the wall toward where he sat on the dirt floor. Iain’s jaw worked in tandem with the brutal kick that sent the rat flying backward with a squeal. Eight of the rodents lay dead. One more would bring him nearer the dozen he aimed for before the night was finished.

“Cowards,” he muttered. “No true Highlander uses such methods of torture.”

Iain canted his head, his attention centered on sounds outside his prison. “Well now, come back to replenish the hungry beasties, eh?”

He squinted against the light of a torch that flooded his cell, silhouetting the figure that entered the room. Before Iain could identify the intruder, the door closed and he found himself once again in darkness, but this time, not alone.

“So, you are still among the living.”

Iain sprang to his feet, the heavy chain that shackled his leg to the wall rattling.

“Hockley,” he said in a harsh whisper.

Memory of Victoria’s limp body as she fell, dying, into his arms, sprang to life. Had he been wrong in believing she had ridden back to the castle before David captured him? Or was Hockley’s presence proof he hadn’t escaped the past after all? Was this moment a dream as the other had been? Had Victoria’s death been a dream? Iain gave his head a hard shake and ran a palm along the bridge of his nose and forehead. His head swam, but he squinted in the earl’s direction.

“You would do well to kill me for I will come for her.” Only this time, your bloody sword will not touch her.

Iain slowly bent and reached for the chain shackling his foot to the wall. “Did she tell you she carries my child?” Silence followed, and Iain prayed Hockley believed the fabrication. “Aye.” Iain winced when the chain clinked as he carefully lifted it from the floor. “My child.” The earl shifted, but still, no sound of steel leaving the scabbard. “Do you think she will give up the babe?” Iain took several stealthy steps backward, stopping when shoulders touched the wall.

Hockley broke the silence. “When I return, be ready.”

“Aye,” Iain agreed. “I will be ready.”

“If you wish to live, do as you are told.” Edwin’s voice hardened.

“I will not let her go,” Iain said.

“Beware, MacPherson,” Edwin said, his tone blunt, “no man finds revenge beyond the grave.” Iain’s heart pounded. So, too, would I have said before I awoke in that meadow.

* * *

Shouts shattered the silence of night. Iain sprang up from the floor, heart pounding at the faint but unmistakable sound of swords clashing. Gathering the chain at his side, he crouched.

Moments later, the door eased open. Pale moonlight shone outside, and Iain’s eyes shifted in painful motion from the huge Robertson warrior standing in the doorway to the men darting between cottages across the way. Sword before him, the warrior approached. Iain tightened his grip on the chain.

The man stopped just out of reach of Iain’s chain.

“Iain MacPherson?” Iain remained quiet.

“It will not do either of us any good if you brain me with that chain.” He cocked his head so that moonlight revealed the face of a young man, eighteen, maybe nineteen.

Iain rose to his feet. The chain rattled as he let it fall full length at his side.

“You want me to release you?” the young man asked.

“How do you plan on accomplishing that?” Iain asked. “Even that sword of yours will not cut this iron.” He tensed when the man shifted, turning the blade in front of him.

“I had not thought of that. If I swung it wide enough I might be able to do it.”

Iain swung the chain so that it jangled. “I would not swing that sword in my direction, lad, if you want to stay in one piece.”

The young man sheathed his sword, then reached into his boot and produced a dirk. “I did not plan on

using my sword, but my hands.”

Iain observed massive hands as the young man extended the dirk, hilt first, to Iain. Iain took the blade.

“I believe you know my sister,” the boy said, kneeling before him. “Jillian.”

Iain started. “Bran Robertson?”

“Aye.” Bran gripped the chain with both hands and pulled. A link shuddered open.

“Christ,” Iain murmured.

Bran grunted and dropped the chain.

Iain gave his leg a shake, rattling the chain still attached to the shackle. “No way to rid me of this?”

Bran shook his head. “Even I cannot break the steel of a shackle. But do not worry.” He stood. “Your man is waiting close by. By the time we reach him, the battle will be nigh over and we will be able to better deal with the shackle.” Bran pulled out the large battle-axe tucked into his belt. “Take this.” He handed the axe to Iain.

Iain grasped the handle. Weight of the weapon in his hand sent a surge of strength through him. He strode to the door and examined the blade of the dirk in the moonlight. “Nearly razor sharp, but,” Iain ran the blade across the head of the axe, “I cannot chance any burrs.” He brought the dirk down in a final quick stroke along the axe head. “Bran, do you have a strong stomach?”

“Aye,” the boy answered.

Iain looked at him. “And a steady hand?”

“Of course,” he replied, his voice laced with the indignation of youth.

“Come here, lad.”

Bran crossed to his side and halted.

“You see this swollen eyelid?” Iain pointed to his eye with the tip of the dirk.

The young warrior nodded.

Iain tucked the axe into his belt. “I need the sight of this eye. Here,” he pulled his eyelid taut, “just beneath the hair of my brow. Slice the swollen lid to allow blood flow.” Iain thrust the dirk into his hand.

Bran hesitated, then reached up, hands shaking.

Iain grasped his hand. “Easy now. A single misstep and you cut my eyeball.”

Bran took a breath and, with one swift movement, slit the eyelid.

Iain staunched the flow of blood with the edge of his sash. “Have you any black powder to seal the wound?” he asked.

“Nay,” Bran replied, “but I have allium.”

“Fine.”

“What awaits us out there?” Iain asked as Bran dug through his pouch.

Bran snorted. “A wily bunch of dogs. We estimated thirty, but ’tis more like forty.” His voice hardened. “How they managed such a force William will be wanting to know.” “MacPhersons?”

“Thirty,” Bran said, pulling out the bag of allium.

“Uneven odds,” Iain said.

“Nay,” Bran said, “there are also thirty Frasers and thirty Englishmen.”

“Englishmen—Hockley,” Iain rasped. “Since when are they friends?”

“I would imagine since your wife enlisted their help.”

Christ, what sort of pact did Victoria make to enlist the aid of that bastard? “I will strangle her with my bare hands.”

Bran poured the allium on Iain’s eyelid. Iain packed it down, halting the flow of blood almost immediately. Another instant, and he blinked the swollen eye.

“Where are we to meet Thomas?”

“A cottage on the east side of the village. You are on the outskirts of the village. Strange,” Bran said, “you would think they would keep you under closer guard.”

“Arrogance,” Iain replied. He peered cautiously out the door and found the lane their cottage occupied deserted. “We had best get there.”

Iain reached for his axe as Bran unsheathed his sword, and together they stepped outside. They hurried across the open lane and stopped at the cottage Iain had seen the men hurrying past earlier.

He cocked his head, listening. “There is fighting in the center of the village.”

He paused at the corner of the building and peered around the edge. A Robertson warrior lay dead between the cottage they hid behind and the one opposite it. Another man’s legs stuck out from the back of the far cottage. Iain pushed away from the wall and strode past the dead man. Bran glanced at the man and frowned.

“I am sorry,” Iain said.

“No need,” Bran said.

“You knew him?”

“Enough to know I did not like him.”

They reached the back of the cottages. Iain halted, leaned against the wall, and slowly looked around the corner. Men fought some distance down the lane.

“Bran,” Iain pushed away from the building and glanced over his shoulder at the boy, “come—” the words died at the sight of a Robertson warrior behind Bran, sword lifted.

“Bran!” Iain grabbed Bran’s arm, yanking him clear.

Iain lunged forward and swung his axe, slicing a furrow across the warrior’s midsection. Blood spilled from his gut. The man faltered, but continued the descent of his sword toward Iain. Iain swung again, his axe opening the man’s chest. Cool air met the warmth of his innards and steam rolled in large gusts from the warrior’s body. He fell onto his face, showering spurts of blood onto Iain and Bran’s boots. “Thank you,” Bran said as another Robertson flew around the corner. He bumped into Bran, bouncing off his large body. “Rory,” Bran growled. “I never liked you either.” Bran lunged, thrusting his sword through Rory’s belly. The man fell to his knees.

“Christ,” Iain said. “I pray you never have reason to dislike me.”

Bran gave a vicious kick below Rory’s jaw, sending him flying onto his back. Bran jumped forward and plunged his sword through the man’s heart.

Iain caught the look of bloodlust in Bran’s eyes as the boy leapt over Rory’s body and started at a run

toward the sounds of fighting. The shackle’s chain jangled as he followed.