Gillian stalked the familiar paths through the wood with Callum behind her. She had her bow on her back and her dirk in her sleeve, but she wasn’t concentrating on hunting. She was thinking of John.
“Don’t fret. He’ll do his best. He’s a good man, for a Sassenach,” Callum said.
She smiled into the darkness. That amounted to high praise from Callum. Warriors judged other men by their own standards of strength, skill, and honor.
“He’s a good man for anywhere,” she replied. She hoped Callum wouldn’t be disappointed when she eloped, if it came to that.
“It took a lot of courage to come here to face your da. Proves his determination. Fierce as a Scot. And he’s agreed to abide by the rules.”
Love had its own rules, its own code of honor. It bound two souls together until they could never be parted, never be whole, or survive without the other. She knew that now, and so did John. “I love him, Callum. I could never belong to any other man. I’d grow to hate anyone who took me from John.”
“You’re not a creature of hate, Gilly. I’ve never met anyone with a bigger heart in my life.”
“But it’s his heart now. All his, only his.”
Callum sighed. “Then ye’d best hope he finds that boar tomorrow and brings it down. Your father’s a fair man. He’d do anything to see his lasses happy. He let your sister marry a MacDonald, didn’t he? They were our worst enemies for generations, but he made peace with them, because that’s where Marcail’s heart lay. He’ll not see ye unha—” He gave a strangled grunt.
Gillian turned. “Callum?”
Moonlight flashed on the blade of the dirk pressed against Callum’s throat. “Gilly—run,” he managed before his captor dug the knife into Callum’s flesh, dragged him backward.
Gillian didn’t hesitate. She reached for the dirk in her sleeve, drew it.
“I’ll cut his throat if ye even move, mistress,” a dark voice said, and Gillian felt the breath leave her body. She knew that voice. Over Callum’s shoulder she met the glittering gaze of Rabbie Bain. She felt her blood turn to water. “Do ye remember me?”
“Go,” Callum said, not daring to struggle against the blade at his throat.
“If ye run, I’ll cut his throat, leave him to bleed to death, and come after ye. Ye owe me a debt, and I mean to see it paid. Ye ran to the MacKenzies, and they hanged my friends—even the poor wee Hugh. They gave him no mercy.” Gillian felt her belly roll at the horror. “I’ve come to return the favor, mistress, and hang ye, and Davy MacKenzie.”
“Gilly—” Callum insisted, but she could not—would not—leave him.
She dropped the dirk, and her bow as well, and raised her hands to show she had no other weapons. She met Callum’s panicked gaze, glittering in the moonlight.
“You have me. Let him go,” Gillian said calmly. “He has no part in this.”
Callum struggled, and the knife bit again. She saw blood on his skin. “If ye harm her, the MacLeod will gut ye.”
Rabbie Bain laughed. “The MacKenzies have tried twice to hang me. I can’t die, but Davy MacKenzie can, and you, and her.”
“Not while I have breath—” Callum began, but the outlaw twisted Callum’s arm hard behind his back, and Gillian heard the bone snap. Callum bit back a scream.
“Stop—I’ll do what you want,” Gillian said, feeling tears running down her face. Callum was moaning, but Rabbie Bain held him upright, the knife pressed hard against his throat. The outlaw gave a low, mirthless laugh. “Aye, ye will. Ye’ll do everything I want, and ye’ll scream for death before I’m finished.” He changed his grip, let go of Callum’s broken left arm and twisted his right. She saw the panic in her clansman’s eyes, the pallor of his face as he fought the pain. “If ye try anything, I’ll break this arm, too. Now let’s go.”
Gillian felt a moment of panic. She could run for help, lunge for her dirk, but Callum would be dead before she reached either. She looked at her friend. She couldn’t leave him to die.
There was nothing she could do but follow.
* * *
They released John from his cell at dawn, gave him a bow, a dirk, and a garron, and sent him off to hunt. He headed east and paused to watch the morning sunrise over the peak of Benbrankie. If he was successful today, and if yesterday’s victories counted, he’d win Gillian. But would Donal MacLeod simply continue the contests until John finally lost?
He glared at the mountain. A boar was hard prey, dangerous, sometimes deadly, a worthy adversary. Bringing down a boar would outdo a stag or a brace of conies or a fine string of salmon.
Killing a boar meant winning, and winning meant having Gillian.
If the beast didn’t kill him first.
He wondered if the boar could possibly be any more ferocious than the MacLeod himself. Ah, but he’d faced worse—he’d encountered great white bears on Hudson Bay, huge moose, and ferocious cougars that didn’t live here. By comparison, a boar should be easy. He grinned.
He began the preparations that would give him a fighting chance.