Chapter Twenty-Two

The sun’s feeble rays, thwarted of a sudden by an overcast sky, scattered diffusely through the dense foliage of alder, ash, hazel, and goat willows as Duncan rode down the River Enrick toward Loch Ness and the meeting point with Campbell. The ground was marshy in spots, and he was careful of his path. Two otters, startled by his appearance, slipped into the river with a splash.

He surveyed his surroundings, but he saw neither Fiona nor another soul.

The path opened up as the River Enrick joined the River Coiltie to flow into Loch Ness. A barren expanse of gray river rock stretched before him, broken here and there by twisted branches of fallen alder, bleached silver from the sun. The rocky riverbed formed a V at the fork and continued on either side as the two shallow streams trickled toward the loch.

He rose on his stirrups. Aye, up ahead, the stream bed twisted, looking much as a dragon tongue’s might as it flicked the fork in the river.

And if he harbored doubts, a man squatted along the bank at that point.

But if Fiona was here as expected, only one place could hide her presence. While the river bed was at least ten yards wide, it was then overtaken by a thick clutch of fern and a large enough boulder. He rode straight to the boulder, dismounted, and faced the scoundrel.

He planted his feet wide and stared him down. If Campbell wanted to complete this transaction, he could damn well come to him.

Eventually, Campbell understood the message. He rose and slunk forward.

Knowing—trusting—Fiona was within earshot, for the first time in his life, Duncan was anything other than close-mouthed.

He should have shared certain truths with Fiona.

As the man neared, his stench preceded him. Duncan asked, “Were ye knowing I took the blame for your babe, Campbell?”

A tiny gasp emerged from behind the rocks, and some of Duncan’s tension eased.

He shrugged. “I’m supposin’ someone had ta.”

“Are ye not caring to hear how your daughter fares then? Her adopted father loves her, I think.”

“Good for the brat.”

Duncan’s nose wrinkled, and he leaned away, the man’s soul as noxious as he smelled.

At the same time, as the words landed in all their careless contempt for Fiona to hear, Duncan’s heart shied from his plan. Aye, the truth about the babe’s parentage was something Fiona should have known earlier, but it could not be easy to be hearing that one’s own forebear was such a scoundrel as this.

And it would only worsen when Campbell revealed his purpose for the meeting. Duncan wished he could shield her from that awful knowledge.

The man spat and shambled closer. His hair hung in greasy hanks, and ’twas clear he was malnourished. “Do ye have my money?”

Disgusted, Duncan clenched his jaw and pulled in a measured breath. “Margery entrusted me with her valuable heirlooms, which ye can be exchanging for coin. What ye do with that money is not my concern.”

Campbell eyed Duncan’s sheathed sword and pistol. “Toss it over,” he rasped, his voice rising on the last word with greedy anticipation.

Nay. That would not work. Duncan needed him closer, for how else was he to enact Fiona’s plan to pretend to attack while she saved her ancestor?

Aye. For he’d changed his mind.

The man was wanting to go to the Virginia Colony. That was far enough away to negate any harm to his clan and the MacLeods. Gavin and Margery need not know otherwise. He’d just be escorting him to Inverness and ensuring this man left on the first ship.

He trusted that Fiona would see his actions and understand he was now following her plan.

Fiona crouched behind the boulder listening to the conversation between Duncan and William. She’d arrived over an hour ago, having hidden Glenfiddich deep in the woods behind her. She shivered as the wind pushing along the river cooled her wet cheeks.

Wet? Dammit.

She pushed the heel of her hand across her face, wiping away the stupid tears.

And choked back a sob. She already hadn’t been excited about fulfilling the legend but was stuck doing so, and now this?

She lost Duncan over this jerk?

Who was her ancestor? The one her family hailed as a hero?

And it grew worse as she picked up enough of their conversation to understand that this man was blackmailing Margery.

She almost wanted to do an eff-you test with fate and sit there. Put her back to the rock, grip the ferns growing beside her, and clench her eyes closed. Let Duncan do what he had to do for his clan’s safety. Because what would her limbs do? Somehow take on a life of their own, compel her toward the pair, and block Duncan’s inevitable attack?

The slate gray rock shot through with cream flecks refracted and magnified. She blinked rapidly, loosing the tears and clearing her vision somewhat.

And what about Duncan? Could she sit there helpless while he put his life in danger?

She angled to the side, peeked through the fern, and studied William Campbell. Well, she could put that fear to rest. The man could crumble to the ground in a stiff wind. He was no threat.

Her grandmother used the word “disreputable” to describe some people, and she could finally slap that label to a person, for this guy fit for sure.

William crept closer, his hand outstretched for the sack Duncan dangled.

How could the legend have become so twisted? This was no brave warrior. She chuffed a sniffly laugh and bit her lip. Typical guy, building up his prowess.

Through the ferns, movement registered across the river between a trio of stunted trees.

She stilled. A man in a dull-colored kilt emerged from behind an alder tree and crouch-ran to a boulder. He snuck, from boulder to bush, closer to the river’s edge. Closer to Duncan.

His fiercest opponent was a warrior of the MacCowan’s…

The chilly hand of fate ran her finger up Fiona’s spine.

She’d been right. There was more than one opponent.

She mentally slapped away fate’s chilly hand, though, still opting for the eff-you approach. Duncan was all that mattered. But he was still arguing with her douche-dung of an ancestor and was completely unaware they had a party crasher.

The intruder raised his sword and stealthily stepped into the shallow stream. And still Duncan hadn’t noticed.

Fiona jerked. No. Heart pounding, she sprang from her hiding place and stumbled through the fern as her thigh buckled—it had fallen partially asleep while she’d crouched in her spot. She fell to the side, catching herself with an outstretched hand. “Look out!”

Screw the legend.

Duncan was in danger, and she didn’t care for anything but that.

Duncan spun around, eyes wide. William blinked at her in confusion. But Duncan was quicker to realize what was happening and pivoted to follow Fiona’s line of sight in time to hip-check the intruder, who’d forded the shallow stream, aiming his sword at William.

William swiveled toward the commotion, pulling his dirk. All was confusion as Duncan screamed her name.

“Stay clear,” he shouted.

Like hell she would.

She hefted a fist-sized rock and stood. From her vantage point, two things were clear about the fight:

One, William thought Duncan and the intruder were in cahoots against him, and he was flailing around wildly, his movements frantic and jerky.

Two, Duncan was attacking William, but in movements designed to spare him and block the intruder’s attempt to dispatch her ancestor.

So yeah, as the legend said, William was under attack.

Time elongated as Duncan’s actions sank in.

Thrusts and parries appeared slower.

Steel on steel clashes sounded lower, longer.

And then popped back into real time as the thrust, parry, clash, clash sped up. She flushed cold, then hot—Duncan was giving her time to fulfill her part of the legend!

Even as that stupid finger of fate prodded her, her heart squeezed.

Oh, this man.

Despite everything that happened, he was giving her what he thought she wanted, and how could she tell him, in this chaos, that she wanted him, not the legend? That she wanted to live in the relative present, with him, and not obsess about the past? Or how the future would judge her merits.

Hope rushed through her veins. Maybe Duncan had forgiven her. Maybe they had a chance for an us after all.

Her hands began to shake—the intruder was realizing Duncan was the bigger threat, and if he were going to succeed at his main aim, he’d need to first eliminate Duncan.

And this man, like Duncan, was a warrior.

Her aim proved true.

Chill bumps peppered her skin—she lifted her hand holding the rock and stared. Her aim proved true. Maybe by fulfilling the legend she could save Duncan.

She planted her feet wide, clenched her jaw, and stared at the intruder, waiting for a clear shot. She pushed down her doubts, which threatened to overwhelm her and keep her immobile.

She had to trust.

Trust fate that her aim would fly true, and she’d “save” William from Duncan, but also this other man intent on killing him, and thereby save Duncan.

Trust that Duncan would find a way to make himself look defeated by William once she’d immobilized the intruder. For it had to play out like the legend—Duncan attacked William, and she saved William, which meant Duncan’s defeat.

But would William take advantage of Duncan’s apparent “defeat” and kill him?

No. She had to trust Duncan’s skill here too. The intruder was the threat. And he’d just stepped clear of the other two.

Oh God, oh God, okay…

Blood pounding in her ears, she hefted the rock over her head, her arm muscles shaking with the strain, and heaved with all her strength toward the intruder.

Fate.

Closed loop.

And she’d make damn sure Duncan lived.

The rock arced through the air, slowly rotating. As she stared, everything around her seemed sharper—the leaves and flowers more saturated in color, the bird calls more strident, the vegetation, rocks, and turf more earthy, pungent. As if everything alive had become more alert in surprise and anticipation to watch what unfolded.

The rock reached the apex of its trajectory and began its descent.

And William managed a lucky shove against her target.

Everything inside her seized, and she watched with helpless horror as the rock smacked sickeningly into the side of William’s head, not the intruder.

William Campbell, douche-canoe, the legend in her family, despite their being in a closed loop, crumpled to the rocks and lay still.

The sight momentarily stunned both Duncan and the interloper, but Duncan recovered first. He whipped around, tripped the intruder, and swung his sword to the man’s neck. And held.

Fiona…Fiona stood there. Shaking. Shaking. Shaking so hard, her limbs jerked as if shocked by a current. Coldness detonated inside her.

William. Campbell. Didn’t. Move.

And blood…blood trickled from his head and soaked into the gray rocks beneath him.

What…What had just happened?

Maybe…Maybe he’s not dead. Head wounds can bleed and look worse than they are.

Despite all the assurances from Mr. Podbury about this closed-loop mumbo-jumbo, could she have killed her own ancestor? Like Isabelle, had she spawned a new, alternate world? One where she and her family didn’t exist? But that would be a paradox. Oh God…

She held up her arms. They weren’t turning transparent. She pinched herself.

“Who are ye, and what’s your purpose here?” Duncan’s rough words snatched her focus back to the unfolding drama. “Answer true, and I’ll allow ye to live.”

The man’s chest moved like a bellows, and his face was flushed crimson from exertion.

Duncan reached his other hand behind him. He closed and opened his fingers. Fiona stared at his flexed hand, trying to understand. And when she did, she sprinted forward, steps uneven on the rocks, hope battling with stark terror.

“Duncan,” she choked out and grasped his large, warrior-callused hand while her heart kicked up with relief at what this might mean, but also in renewed fear that William remained still. So still.

Duncan whipped her tight against his solid back, shielding her. She peeked around his side and looked at the man he had pinned.

Then let her gaze travel from him to the other body on the ground. From one body whose chest heaved in and out. To another body whose chest didn’t move. At all.

And whose face paled as she watched.

The jerky shivers returned with double force, and Duncan clasped her tighter against his back.

William wasn’t a good man. He’d impregnated and abandoned Margery. And apparently held secrets scandalous enough for blackmail.

It all made her sick.

But she didn’t want him dead.

He couldn’t be dead. And by her hand, no less. What the hell?

Their unwanted visitor released his fingers, one by one. His sword clattered onto the rocks. He dropped his arms straight out, palms open. “I’ve no quarrel with ye, unless you were aiding this scoundrel,” the stranger answered, his voice strong and defiant, despite his vulnerable position.

“Nay, the man was a blackguard.”

Fiona shivered again at Duncan’s use of the past tense. And the shivers wouldn’t stop now. She wrapped her arms around Duncan’s large, warm body and held on tight. She squeezed her eyes shut as her throat constricted.

I can’t disappear.

And Traci! They’d both cease to exist, taking them from the men they loved. And her parents. How could Mr. Podbury be so, so wrong?

Duncan.

Duncan was real.

Duncan was solid.

She concentrated on that. Him pressed against her. His warmth. His strength. His scent. His chest moving with his breaths. If she still felt him, she hadn’t disappeared. And if she held on tight enough, maybe she wouldn’t.

Then the world spun. Oh shit, it was happening.

But…no. She was now plastered up against Duncan’s side—somehow he’d swung her around and was holding her against him with one arm as he’d stepped back to give the other man room to stand.

She cinched her arms around him again and held on tight, her feet dangling above the ground. She breathed in his unique scent. Felt his chest move with his breaths. Buried her face in his chest.

“Don’t let me go, Duncan,” she whisper-pleaded, her voice choking on the hot tears clogging her throat. “I killed him. I killed him,” she repeated over and over.

Duncan gripped her tighter but kept his focus on the intruder. “You still aren’t saying who ye are and what your quarrel was with William Campbell.” Duncan jerked his chin to the still prone body.

The other man rose to a squatting position, steadied himself with one hand, and surged to his feet, pebbles scattering and clinking against rocks.

This close, and with his face no longer red from exertion and frustration at having been bested, she could see he’d be considered good-looking by some. He appeared to have lived roughly, but only recently—his clothes were well made but now begrimed. His beard unkempt but not long.

The stranger’s eyes shone with intelligence as well as loathing, and he snorted with disgust and kicked William’s side. His head rolled sideways, and his sightless eyes stared straight past them.

She gagged, bile slashing sharp and tangy in her throat. Duncan cupped her head, pushing her into his chest. “I’m sorry, nighean,” he whispered.

Oh shit. “I’m going to disappear.”

“I have ye,” he said fiercely. “I’m not letting ye go. Not now.” His voice cracked on the last word.

And then the stranger spoke. “This man isna William Campbell. He’s not even a Campbell.”