Hidden in the shadows of the grand gathering room, Rodrick the Bold watched the scene unfolding before him. Like a coiled snake ready to strike its victim, he came close to doing just that as soon as Muriel admitted their babe was fathered by Fergus.

I be her father! He screamed silently. Ye’re naught more than a bloody son of a whore, Fergus MacDonald.

When Fergus turned for a moment, Rodrick was able to get a better look at him.

This was the man who had tormented his wife? This scrawny, pale man with the dark eyes? This was the man who had come close to ruining Muriel to the point that she wanted to die? Rodrick was a full head taller and better built. He could snap the man’s neck with little effort. His fingers fair itched in anticipation of doing just that.

Had Ian not been with him, who knew what he might have done. But Ian’s good sense prevailed as he held Rodrick back with a simple touch on his arm. “Ye will get us all killed,” he whispered calmly.

Rodrick watched in quiet fury as Muriel was forced to admit that Fergus had fathered her child. When she hung her head in shame, his gut tightened. Had Ian not been there to hold him back, he would have lunged forward and gutted Fergus in front of God, his father, and everyone else.

It took nerves of steel to wait patiently, to hide his face under the shadows of the cowl he wore, and not to pounce the moment Fergus walked by. To not reach out and pull his wife into his arms was one of the most painful things he had experienced in his life.

This was neither the time nor the place to seek his vengeance. But vengeance would be his. And soon.

* * *

Muriel was stunned at the turn of events. In front of God and everyone, Walter MacDonald had disowned his son. Fissures of dread and terror raced up and down her spine. Who knew what Fergus would do now. If his past behavior was any indication…

She tried calling out to the MacDonald, to beg him to release her husband, but Fergus stopped her pleas. Grabbing her roughly by the arm, he began to pull her out of the gathering room.

“The healer,” she pleaded. “I did everything ye asked. Please, send the healer to Rodrick.”

Fergus held her arm tightly, his fingers digging into the tender flesh. “Wheesht!” he barked, looking around to make certain no one had heard her. He handed her off to one of his cohorts. “Get her out of here.”

“Fergus?” Anthara said as she raced to keep up with him. Fergus ignored her, too infuriated with his father to behave with any kind of good sense.

Fergus called out to have their horses brought to them at once as they bounded down the stairs. Soon, they were spilling out of the keep and into the courtyard. The man continued to dig his fingers into Muriel’s tender flesh. She should not have looked over her shoulder. Fergus’s eyes were dark, nearly black, and filled with seething anger.

While they waited in the bailey for their horses, Fergus continued to fume.

“Fergus,” Anthara whispered his name cautiously. “I get to keep the babe, aye?” There was so much hope in her eyes that Muriel almost felt sorry for her. Almost.

Fergus spun on his heels so quickly that Muriel was surprised he didn’t fall over. “Shut. Up.” His words were clipped, his tone harsh and spiteful.

“But I get to keep her, aye? Ye promised me.” Tears were welling in her eyes as she held the babe so close to her breast that Muriel began to worry she might smother her.

Before Muriel could do anything to safely wrest Cora away, Fergus drew back his hand and slapped his wife, hard. She fell to the ground, but thankfully, she kept Cora safely tucked in a protective ball.

“I told ye to shut up!” Fergus ground out.

Muriel immediately went to Anthara and knelt beside her. The woman was not only hurt, but furious. She grew even more so when Muriel tried to take Cora away from her.

“Nay!” Anthara ground out. “She be mine!”

Two of the Randall men pulled Muriel away. As she kicked and screamed, Fergus took her face in one hand and squeezed hard. “If ye do no’ shut up now, I will go inside and cut yer husband’s throat meself,” he ground out.

His hard fingers digging into her cheeks as well as his threat halted her protests. He squeezed again, one more time, before shoving her away as if he were disgusted with her. Turning his back, he called to one of his men. “Get me wife out of here.”

“Where do ye wish us to take her?” the young man asked.

Seething, Fergus growled, “Home. Take her home!”

* * *

Muriel wanted to scream, to call out for help, but worried such a decision would be akin to signing her husband’s death warrant. All she wanted in the world was to be back in her little home with Rodrick and Cora. At the moment, Rodrick lay dying in a dungeon and her daughter was being taken away by a madwoman.

In her heart, she knew Cora was safe, at least for now. Anthara had protected the babe, even when Fergus hit her and sent her to the cold, damp ground. At the moment, Cora was better off with Anthara.

Just outside the gates, Anthara and her guard turned southward, heading back to Portree. However, Fergus was leading their small group northward. Muriel shivered as panic began to rise. “Where are ye takin’ me?” she asked.

Her question was met with cold silence, leaving her chilled to the bone with fear. “Where are we goin’?” she demanded once again.

“Wheesht!” the man next to her ground out. “Ye will find out when we get there.”

Twisting around in her saddle, she looked back at the keep. If she tore away now, she could get back before the gates closed and beg for help. Realizing she could not take such a risk, knowing full well that Fergus would end up killing her and Rodrick, she turned back.

With her heart pounding against her chest, she tried reckoning out a solution: a way to save both her husband and her child. Surrounded by three MacDonald men as well as Fergus, she felt helpless. But she was not without hope.

Scanning the horizon, she wondered what her husband would do were he in the same predicament. He would fight to the bitter end, she thought. He’d no’ lay down and die.

Across rough terrain they rode fast and hard. In unfamiliar territory, Muriel grew more and more distressed. Over a small, scraggly hill and down the other side, the land remained rough and jagged. When the wind picked up from the east, she caught the faint smell of the sea.

Nay, she screamed silently. Certainly they were not taking her to another ship, to be sold once again as a slave.

Then and there, she made a decision. Never again would she be afraid of nor fall victim to the likes of Fergus MacDonald.

For all she knew, Rodrick might already be dead. As much as it hurt to think of that possibility, she needed to remain strong and alive for Cora. She was not about to take the chance of leaving her child completely orphaned. For the first time in a very long while, Muriel chose to act instead of think.

* * *

Fergus was too busy fuming to pay any attention to what Muriel was or wasn’t doing. In quiet rage, he plotted the best method to get even with his father. There were any number of ways to do it, of course. He knew how badly Gerome wanted to be the chief of their clan. Any fool with eyes could see it. Mayhap he could join forces with Gerome in unseating their father.

He could also begin rumors — none of them grounded in any kind of factual evidence — that Walter MacDonald was a traitor, or that he was not of sound mind, or that he liked to bugger young men. Aye, any of those things would work and each possessed a deviousness that held a certain amount of appeal.

But the idea he liked most was slicing his father’s throat, watching the life drain from his body, then setting the keep on fire. And if by chance his two older brothers were inside? Well, then, Fergus would be the only one left to take the helm as the MacDonald chief. The image of his father’s burning corpse rolling over in his grave because Fergus was at the helm brought a smile to his face. It could take some time, years perhaps, before he could manage it. ’Twas the only thing that kept him moving forward at the moment. That and what he planned to do with Muriel. If she thought he had been cruel to her before, she would believe those times naught more than a picnic along a quiet riverbank by comparison.

Aye, he had special plans for her.

He was so wrapped up in his own misery and scheming, he did not hear Thomas Randall until he called out a second time. Spinning around in his saddle, he could only watch in stunned surprise as Muriel rode away from them.

“Bloody hell!” he called out as he kicked the flanks of his horse and went after her.

Across the rocky terrain and up the jagged slope she went. Thomas and Peter were not far behind. Fergus was gaining speed and ground, cursing under his breath. If she by some chance got back to the MacDonald keep, then he was done for. If she got to his father and told him the truth, then everything he’d been working hard for these past months would be gone.

* * *

Muriel couldn’t have known her decision to flee turned the tables in her favor. Fergus’s future now rested in her hands. Hands that were holding on to reins with a deathlike grip, hands that fair shook with unrivaled determination as well as fear.

Her only thought was getting away from Fergus and his men and back to the MacDonald keep. Anthara and her guard had a good head start. Muriel could only hope and pray that would play to her own advantage. Get to the keep, explain her situation, and plead for help to get her daughter back and a healer for Rodrick.

The sound of horses pounding across the ground, the men shouting and cursing, grew louder. She could feel the blood as it coursed through her veins, could feel it pounding in her ears. No matter what the men said, no matter what insults they hurled at her back, she wasn’t about to stop.

As fast as the horse could take her, she rode up the rough rise, not daring to look back. Hunching over the neck of her mount, she clung on for dear life. Oh, how she wished she had the sgian dubh with her. Even if Rodrick hadn’t taught her how to use it properly, she reckoned she could still do some amount of damage if she needed to.

Up the rise she went.

When she crested the top, the surprise at what she saw matched her momentum.

There were at least a dozen men on horseback racing towards her.

Stunned and terrified, she pulled hard on the reins of her horse. The brown steed cried out and reared. Muriel, unaccustomed to riding, did not know what to do and could not hold on. The horse reared again and sent her tumbling to the cold, hard earth.

* * *

Rodrick’s relief at seeing his wife riding toward him was short lived.

He watched in abject horror as her horse reared once, then again. ’Twas as if the entire world slowed to a crawl as he saw his wife being hurled off the horse. Landing on her back, she did not move.

For the longest moment, his heart did not beat.

’Twas when he caught Ian and the other men racing toward her that he was finally propelled to move. “Muriel!” he yelled as he kicked his horse and raced towards her.

A moment later, her captors were coming over the rise and heading towards her. They took one look at the Mackintosh and McLaren men and pulled their horses to a halt. Just then, the object of all of Muriel’s pain and heartache, and the one man Rodrick wanted the most in this world to see dead, came up and over the rise.

The fool did not even try to stop.

Fergus saw Muriel lying on the ground and headed right for her.

* * *

Ian was the nearest to Fergus. When he saw the idiot’s intention, he kicked his horse into a full run. With sword drawn, he met Fergus before the man could trample Muriel into the earth. With the hilt of his sword and his mighty fist, Ian swung out. He hit his intended mark square in the jaw with such force, it sent Fergus tumbling to the ground.

He couldn’t kill the man. Nay, he was saving that pleasure for Rodrick.

Pulling rein, Ian dismounted and stood over Fergus. “Move and ye die,” he warned, as he pressed the tip of his blade to Fergus’s chest. The man could not respond, for he was fighting hard to catch his breath.

Rodrick was off his mount and at Muriel’s side. Carefully, he began looking for signs she still lived. His heart pounded ferociously against his chest as he tried to whisper her name. “Muriel, love,” he choked. “Please wake up.”

At the sound of her husband’s voice, she opened her eyes. “Can’t breathe,” she said.

Relief washed over him like the waters of Mealt Falls. His breath came out in a great whoosh as he lifted her head into his arms. She’d had the wind knocked from her lungs. He saw no sign of blood, which made him feel even more relieved.

Muriel lifted one arm slowly and grabbed hold of his arms. “Kill him,” she whispered.

He needed no more encouragement than that.

* * *

Rodrick left Muriel to the good care of one of the McLaren men. Standing slowly, he withdrew his sword and went to stand beside Fergus MacDonald. The men who had been riding with Fergus had more intelligence than he would have given them credit for. They had dismounted — encouraged, he supposed — by five of the men who had ridden with him and Ian. The Randall men were now on their knees, divested of their swords and other weapons. Both of them had broken out into a cold sweat and were looking up at him nervously. He’d leave them be for now. He had more important matters to attend to.

Standing over Fergus MacDonald, he shook his head in disgust. Closer now than when they’d been in the MacDonald keep, Rodrick was even less impressed with the man. He was naught more than a weak, sadistic puppet.

Catching his breath, Fergus laughed sinisterly. “I take it,” he said between breaths, “ye be Rodrick the Bold.”

Rodrick cocked his head to one side. “Aye, I am. And ye be the bloody son of a whore named Fergus MacDonald.”

Another laugh and a nod from Fergus as he slowly rolled over and struggled to his feet. “Aye, that be me,” he said.

Rodrick remained quiet as he studied the man closely.

“I take it ye’ll be wantin’ to kill me now,” Fergus said as he finally began to catch his breath. Resting his hands on his knees, he bent at the waist, taking in slow, deep breaths.

“Aye, I will be killin’ ye this day,” Rodrick replied. His voice was calm, steady, and his tone was unmistakably blunt. He was, at the moment, trying to decide the best way to do it. The manner that would give him the most satisfaction. Slicing his throat? Gutting him and leaving his entrails on the ground? Hanging? In the end, he supposed it didn’t matter. Fergus MacDonald would still be dead.

Fergus chuckled once again, still bent over. He looked up at Rodrick and shook his head. “Forgive me,” he began, “if I do no’ wish to go down without a fight!”

Before he finished speaking, he’d lunged at Rodrick and caught him off guard. He’d hit him with enough force that it knocked Rodrick backward, sending them both tumbling to the ground. Rodrick’s sword fell from his hand and slid across the earth.

Fergus may have seemed scrawny and without any strength, but he had enough to knock Rodrick down. However, he should not have taken too much false pride or hope in his action.

Rodrick lifted his legs and kicked out, summarily dislodging and tossing Fergus away as if he were naught but a pup. In one fluid motion, he was back on his feet and retrieving his sword.

Fergus struggled back to his knees. “Ye may kill me,” he said, “but it does no’ change the fact that the bastard child is mine.”

Infuriated, Rodrick gritted his teeth. “She is no’ a bastard. She has a name.” His words were clipped, his tone cold yet furious.

“Aye, she does!” Fergus laughed. “Her name be Burunild MacDonald,” he said before spitting on the ground.

Rodrick could take no more. With his sword in both hands, he lifted it over his shoulder. With all his strength, he brought the sword down hard, slicing across Fergus MacDonald’s throat. Blood spurted from the gaping wound. Fergus’s eyes grew wide with incredulity.

“Nay,” Rodrick said before bringing the sword across Fergus’s neck from the opposite direction. “Her name be Cora MacElroy.”

Fergus MacDonald teetered for a few moments, as the blood and life drained from his body. Moments later, he fell onto his side, his once sadistic and cruel eyes now lifeless.

* * *

Muriel had watched the entire scene unfold before her eyes.

Frozen on her knees, she saw her husband slice his blade across Fergus’s throat, once, twice, and yet again. The third strike effectively severed Fergus’s head from his neck. The head fell to the ground with a sickening thud and rolled back and forth for what seemed an extraordinarily long time. Finally, it came to rest; the dark yet lifeless eyes seemed to be staring directly at her.

Her stomach roiled. She had never seen anything even remotely like it before. Finally, she could take no more. Turning her head away she buried it in the nearest chest she could find, caring not who it belonged to.

“Wheesht,” he said as he patted her back. She knew he was a McLaren, but that was all she could remember at the moment.

It seemed a long time passed as she wept against the McLaren man’s chest. ’Twas a blend of relief and disgust. Briefly, she wondered if God would be displeased with her for feeling so much solace in knowing Fergus MacDonald was dead. Later, much later, she’d do her best to make peace with Him. For now, her emotions were too high, her relief too grand.

It was finally over.

Fergus MacDonald was dead. He could never hurt her again. Nor could he hurt Cora.

Cora! Saying her babe’s name in her head began to draw her out of the dense fog. “Cora,” she whispered, her panic beginning to return in leaps and bounds.

Rodrick was soon at her side, helping her to her feet. “Wheesht,” he whispered. “Cora be fine.”

“Nay!” she argued, grabbing his arms for balance and strength. “Anthara took her!”

Rodrick drew her into his chest and kissed the top of her head. “Anthara did no’ get far,” he told her. “Our men went after them.”

She drew very little reassurance from that knowledge. “But ye do no’ understand! Anthara is determined to keep her as her own!” she said as she drew her head back. As if seeing him for the first time, she said, “Why are ye no’ dead? Fergus said he had ye in the dungeon, that ye were mortally wounded!”

Rodrick smiled down at her. “’Twas a lie, Muriel. I be as right as rain.”

’Twas all too much. She fell against his chest, wrapping her arms around him. “I thought ye were dyin’ or already dead!” she cried. “I had to save our daughter. Please, believe me.”

Hugging her tightly, Rodrick said, “Lass, do no’ fash yerself over it. I ken what ye did and why. Come now, let us go get our daughter and go home.”

Home.

A year ago that word meant naught to her. But now? Today? It meant everything.