Somewhere a dog barked.

And as red-stained mist swirled across Abercairn’s blood-stained bailey, the few of Logie’s men yet cowering in the shadows of the gatehouse lost their lives to a battle-ax or long sword. Swinging down from his winded steed, Iain nearly landed on the twitching corpse of one of the miscreants who’d hoped to seize Madeline in the ale-house.

Iain stepped over the blackguard’s body, not for a moment grudging the bastard a portion of fine Highland steel as his last supper.

Looking around, he searched the faces of the surviving garrison men. Some still clashed swords with the hot-blooded MacNabs, others stood already subdued.

Gavin held his own in a far corner of the bailey, his fierce swinging blows sending one man-at-arms after the other crashing to the slick and bloodied cobbles.

But no matter how carefully Iain scanned the curtain walls or the timber lean-to buildings huddled against them, he couldn’t locate the second man from the Shepherd’s Rest.

Nor did he see anyone who even remotely resembled the description he’d been given of Silver Leg.

All other hapless souls faced the grave danger of meeting a swift and steely end if they so much as batted an eye against the Highland brawn that held well-muscled arms around their necks, and well-honed blades against their throats.

A sea of flame now bathed the morning sky behind Abercairn, streaking the pearly gray horizon with a hellish orange-red glow, and those garrison men still breathing stood stunned in the cold smir of rain just beginning to fall.

Stiff-lipped with defiance, their eyes wide with disbelief, and their hands without swords, the men of Logie’s garrison offered little resistance, some even stumbling from the various outbuildings without so much as a nightshirt or shoe.

“Who amongst you will own to being Sir Bernhard?” Iain called out, swinging down from his saddle. He gazed around him, then began pacing before the captured men.

Sensing a movement behind him, he whipped about, his gleaming brand flashing in a deadly arc, the huge sword slashing down on his would-be assailant, striking at just the vulnerable spot where neck meets shoulder, his blade slicing deep into flesh and muscle. The man’s shock-widened eyes still staring, he toppled sideways, his sword clanking useless to the cobbles.

Spinning back around, Iain raked the gaping garrison men with a glare.

“Well?” He jabbed his reddened sword in their direction. “Who is Logie?”

No one answered.

But proud and granite-faced as they gave themselves, none made further attempts at resistance. As so often, the threat of losing their lives overrode their loyalty to their absent liege.

For truth, Iain might have missed the fiend had he not spotted the dark-frowning dastard slinking along in the shadows cast by the lee of the curtain wall. Two men and a pair of frightened-looking greyhounds accompanied him.

Iain stared, open-mouthed, stunned that a man of Silver Leg’s reputation would stoop to such an ignoble flight.

One of the men walked somewhat hunched over, his resentful scowl even blacker than Silver Leg’s own. His blood firing anew, Iain recognized him as the second man from the Shepherd’s Rest.

But it was the other man, the fourth, who truly caught Iain’s attention, had him sprinting after the others, his heart lodged so tight in his throat he couldn’t call out for the bastards to halt.

Couldn’t shout a warning that their days of evil-doing had come to an end. He could scarce see to run either, for dust seemed to have been blown into his eyes, causing them to burn and water.

Almost as if he had tears in his eyes.

And perhaps he did, for the fourth man was the reason the bastard from the ale-house couldn’t walk upright. The fiend was carrying the fourth man slung over his shoulder like a sack of coal.

A sack of pathetically unimpressive coal, for the old man bouncing along against the blackguard’s back was reed-thin.

A frail old man.

A fine-boned graybeard who looked to be ailing. A scholarly sort, for certain.

Madeline’s father.

“Da!”

If Iain hadn’t guessed right, his lady’s tearful cry told the tale.

Iain’s blood also froze. She wasn’t supposed to be here. Spinning about, he saw her ride up, then leap from her saddle just outside the gatehouse.

Shock slammed into him as she streaked across the bailey toward her father. Never had he seen anyone – man or woman – fling themselves from a horse’s back with such speed.

Nor would he have believed that a lass could run so fast.

Or so brazenly defy such bitter-earnest orders as he’d given her. Yet she had, and – damn his eyes – he couldn’t blame her.

Striding forward, he was startled again when Nella also burst into view. Disheveled and breathing hard, she slid from her saddle. Taking a few steps, she almost collapsed against the side of one of the bailey’s lean-to buildings.

Catching Iain’s eye, she lifted her hands and shook her head. “I couldnae stop her. I tried!” she called, then clutched a hand to her breast, gulping air.

“Just see to yourself,” Iain shouted back, running now, his gaze on Madeline.

Furious at the danger she’d put herself in, he tore across the courtyard, reaching her just as she hurled herself at the miscreant carrying her father.

“Odin’s bone!” Iain roared, plucking her off the bastard. “What are you doing here?”

Wriggling free, she ignored him, launching herself anew at the blackguard holding her father.

“Would you have waited? Helpless and not knowing what was happening?” she shot back, pulling her father from the other man’s grasp.

“Well?” she snapped, her tone so like his when riled, he almost forgot his ire. Cradling the old man against her, she glared at Iain, her eyes blazing. “I warned you Drummond women are bold.”

“So you did.” Iain’s heart thumped – not that this was the time to let her know that.

Her chin came up then, and she added, “We also descend from a long line of warrior women.”

“I am no’ surprised.” Looking at her now, Iain didn’t doubt it.

But then the anger seemed to drain out of her and she clutched her father tight, more loving daughter than anything. She made some kind of cooing sounds, soft little mewlings, and just stood there, rocking the man, tears spilling down her cheeks.

As discreetly as he could, Iain blinked against the sting in his own eyes as he thrust the killing end of his sword beneath Silver Leg’s chin. To the side, he caught Gavin making short work of the other bastards. Their gullets sliced through, the two men went down without a single cry.

Silver Leg deserved a slower death.

His greyhounds snarled and bristled, but stopped short of snapping, their white-eyed trembling speaking more of terror than menace.

“So-o-o!” Iain lowered his blade, but kept its tip aimed at Logie’s sizable gut. “I’d say you’ve been well fed at Abercairn. ‘Tis your doom that I cannae say the same of the laird.”

Glancing at Madeline’s father, Iain noted the man’s skeletal frame and sunken eyes, the waxy pallor of his skin.

Sir John Drummond’s sad state made Iain’s blood run cold and ripped off all the veneer he’d struggled so hard to paint over his fuming MacLean temper.

“This was ill done, Logie,” he said, his voice rising. “I should tear you apart with my bare hands.”

Silver Leg spat on the cobbles. “God’s curse on you and yours!” he hissed, his glance sliding to a shadow-hung byre hard by the curtain wall.

Following his gaze, Iain spied two pack horses, each one heavily burdened with bulging canvas or leather sacks. Logie had been heading in that direction. No doubt to flee with whatever of Abercairn’s spoils he could carry away with him.

“Where were you going?” Iain pricked the fiend’s belly with his sword. “Do those sacks hold what I think? Or food? Since that, too, you seem to crave.”

“Rot in hell,” Logie seethed, his face dark with fury.

“I will assure you a swift passage there!” Iain vowed, nodding to Beardie and Douglas. “Seize him, lads. Hold him fast until I see what those sacks contain.”

His blood pounding in his ears, Iain unsheathed his dirk and slit the canvas of one of the sacks. Silver plate and assorted church goods, not unlike the treasures Iain was delivering to Duncairn Cathedral, spilled onto the ground.

Snatching a handful of silver coins, Iain strode back to Logie. “Your life is forfeit,” he said, letting the coins tumble from one hand to the other. “Had those sacks held your own collection of fine-embroidered tunics and knitted hose, I might have given you some small mercy.

“As is…” He handed the coins to Madeline, then grabbed a handful of Logie’s hair and yanked back the bastard’s head so far, his mouth gaped open. “I should melt down every last of those coins and pour the molten silver down your throat!”

Silver Leg’s face ran white.

“Tell me what you were about with Laird Drummond, and I will think on a more agreeable solution,” Iain said, and folded his arms. “Speak.”

Logie said nothing.

“He was taking me to the old smithy,” Laird Drummond himself spoke up, his voice little more than a rasp.

“The smithy?” Madeline stared at her father. “But Da, why there? Are you sure? No one has gone there for years.”

His bravura cracking at last, Silver Leg began to tremble.

Laird Drummond eyed him, a look of disgust on his haggard face. “Logie was using the old smithy to melt down Abercairn’s silver and gold,” he said, clutching his daughter’s arm for support. “But he hasn’t found our true treasure,” he added, pride strengthening his voice.

He looked at his daughter then, and the love Iain saw shining there tore at his heart.

“I didn’t tell him where the Bruce jewels are hidden,” Sir John said, his gaze still on Madeline’s tear-streaked face. “That’s why he brought me up from the dungeon when the trouble began this morning. He meant to ride away, but keep me with him until he could pry the answer from me.

“Or until he could find you,” he finished, wheezing. “I couldnae let that happen.”

“No one is going to e’er harm a hair on your daughter’s fine head, Sir John. Nor on your own,” Iain declared, keeping an eye on Silver Leg.

“You,” he said to that dastard, “shall receive a most pleasing penance, Logie.”

Striding up to him, Iain drew himself to his full height, and smiled. “I shall allow you to return home – to your own holding,” he said, and his smile widened. “Word has come to me that the accommodations there are most comfortable. I wish you all haste on your journey, both to your home and to hell.”

He turned to Beardie and Douglas. “Hie the bastard from my sight,” he said, eager to have done with the viper. “See that he is tossed into the deepest pit in his dungeon.”

“Ho! That we will do,” the oarsmen agreed in chorus and dragged the spluttering Logie from the bailey.

Iain watched them go, his mind on his own journey. The one he just ended, for of a sudden, he knew that he not only wanted to make Madeline his bride, he also wanted a family.

One of his own.

And perhaps one, too, in which a fragile old man could be nurtured back to good health. Too much love bonded his lady and her father for him to ever consider taking her elsewhere.

He would stay with her here.

If she would have him.

Hoping so, he turned back to her, determined to resolve the matter forthwith. But a surprisingly firm grip on his forearm stayed his tongue.

“Iain MacLean!” Sir John Drummond’s reedy voice held a challenge. “My daughter tells me you have reason to make an honest woman of her,” he said, peering at Iain from earnest gray eyes.

Iain’s brows shot upward, but he caught Madeline’s tearful wink and played along.

“Aye, sir, that may be true,” he admitted, struggling to keep a straight face.

“I thought so.” The old man nodded, and Iain suspected he caught a twinkle in John Drummond’s eye. “Young man, am I going to have to challenge you to uphold my daughter’s honor or will you do the noble thing and marry the lass?”

Iain glanced away for a moment, stared at a shaft of morning sunlight breaking through the clouds to shine on Abercairn’s curtain wall.

Sakes, but he needed to swallow. Blink a few times, too.

But when he turned back around, he was smiling.

The most dazzling smile Madeline had ever seen.

“I will marry her, Laird Drummond,” Iain said, lifting his voice so all within Abercairn’s bailey and maybe outside, too, could hear him.

“I wish to have her as my wife and at my side,” he vowed, placing a firm hand on each of their shoulders. “Nothing would make me happier. And she will always be loved and cherished. For all the days of our lives.”