Isobel burst into Meggie’s room. Her sister was preening before the mirror in a new gown while Aileen pinned the hem.

Isobel leaned on the door, panting. “Gilly’s not in her room.”

Her sisters looked at her in surprise.

Aileen set the pincushion down slowly. “And John Erly?”

“Hunting?” Isobel made it a question.

Aileen looked at Meggie. “D’you think she’s eloped?”

Meggie frowned. “A month ago I wouldn’t have imagined our Gilly had the courage to do any of the things she’s managed to do of late. Now, I wouldn’t be surprised by anything. John has lost one, and quite possibly two of the contests. The MacKenzies are saying John’s cheating somehow, that he couldn’t possibly be that good.”

“Perhaps love makes a man stronger, more determined,” Isobel said.

Meggie carefully stepped out of the dress without disturbing the pins. “Gilly can’t have eloped—she promised to abide by the rules and Papa’s decision. So did English John. And he refused to cheat.”

Aileen gaped at her. “You asked him to?”

Meggie blushed. “I said we’d be willing to—assist him—if necessary, for Gillian’s sake. He wouldn’t even consider it. He wants to win her fairly, by his own merit.”

“How romantic!” Isobel said.

Meggie pulled on a workaday woolen gown. “Yes, but Papa won’t be so understanding if he finds out Gilly’s slipped out and disappeared. He’ll kill John.”

Aileen crossed to a drawer, put away the pins, and took out her dirk. She slipped it into her sleeve. “I think we’d better go and find Gilly before there’s trouble we can’t fix.”

Meggie smiled at her sister. “Is there trouble we can’t fix?”

Aileen sighed. “I think we’re about to find out.”

* * *

John smelled the boar before he saw it. It was a huge, rank creature, rooting at the edge of a meadow, tearing up tender plants with its fearsome tusks, and devouring them with yellow fangs.

John crept as close as he dared and watched the beast for a few minutes, wondering if there were others nearby, a mother with piglets perhaps. When the wind shifted, the creature raised its head, scanning the trees with weak eyes for the hunter he scented, working out the precise location of his foe.

John nocked his bow. One shot wouldn’t kill the beast, but it would draw it back into the wood where John was ready for it. His heart pounded as he waited, counting on the shrubs and undergrowth to hide him.

He knew the moment the creature spotted him. John drew the bowstring back as the mammoth animal growled and charged toward him, churning up clods of earth under sharp, cloven hooves. Stinging sweat trickled into John’s eyes, made him blink, but he drew a breath and waited until the boar was close, very close, and fired.

The creature squealed as the arrow hit it, but it was a glancing blow on the tough hide of the shoulder. It drew blood, but the boar raced on, infuriated now. John turned and darted through the trees with the boar nearly on his heels. If he tripped or slipped on the damp moss, he was done for. He saw his goal, a perch he’d built a dozen feet up a tree. He’d cut a spear from a sapling, sharpened the point, and left it there. But he had to reach the tree, climb, and plunge the pike into the creature’s neck.

He dug his fingers into the rough bark, breathless from running, and began to climb. Inches below his foot, the beast slammed into the trunk. John swore as he slipped. He curled his hand over a sturdy branch and hauled himself up as the next blow came. The tree shuddered—the whole forest shuddered. He scrabbled for safer hand and foot holds and held on.

If he fell . . . He couldn’t think of that now. In minutes, it had turned from a hunt for prey to a battle for survival, and he wasn’t sure which of them was winning. He swung the spear awkwardly, stabbed at the creature, and grazed it again. The boar roared in pain and fury, bleeding from two wounds now. It shook the tree harder, determined to dislodge its tormentor. On the next rattling blow, John dropped several feet before he managed to find a foothold. He was so close to the boar that he could see himself reflected in the beast’s black eyes and smell the animal’s fetid breath as it swiped at his dangling leg. The animal’s razor sharp tusk caught his boot, and it sank its teeth into the thick deerskin and began to pull him down. John thrust the spear again.

This time, his aim was true, and he felt the sharpened point bite deep into the creature’s flesh. It let go of him long enough to roar in pain, then came at him again, snorting and squealing. Blood streamed over its heaving sides. Once more, it rammed the tree.

This time, John fell.

He landed on his back and scrambled for the dirk in his belt as the creature turned to charge him. He raised the weapon in both hands, hoped it would be enough. He had one chance . . .

He aimed low, pointed the weapon at the broad breast, hoped the blade was long enough to pierce the beast’s heart, stop it, before the tusks tore into him. He tightened his grip on the knife as the boar hurtled toward him. His hands were slick with sweat and shaking.

The beast ran onto the long thin blade of the knife. John felt the coarse fur against his hand as the blade sheathed itself in the boar’s breast.

The creature’s face was inches from his own, and he felt its breath fan his face as it shuddered one last time. Then the massive body dropped between John’s outspread thighs and lay still.

John scuttled backward until he was leaning against a tree, his heart pounding. He stared at the boar, half certain that the creature would wake up and tear him to pieces after all. He ran his hand over his face and through his hair, felt it come away sticky with the creature’s blood. Or was it his own? His leg was grazed, his breeches torn along the side of his knee, and his foot ached. There were gouges and tooth marks on his boot, and he wiggled his toes, made sure nothing was broken.

He was lucky. Damned lucky. He took a flask of whisky from his belt and saluted the boar before he drank, his hands still shaking.

An hour later, his kill was loaded on the back of the garron, and he was leading the horse down the mountain slope.

He’d done it.

This time, he was going to win, and there’d be no dispute about it.

* * *

Gillian woke with a blazing headache. She smelled damp earth and knew she was lying on the ground. She tried to raise her hands, but they were bound behind her.

She remembered Rabbie Bain capturing them, breaking Callum’s arm. They’d walked until Rabbie called a halt. He shoved Callum to his knees and raised the dirk over him. She’d cried out, rushed at the outlaw, but Rabbie had been ready for that. She’d run into his fist.

Her jaw hurt like the devil under the gag around her mouth. Too tight, she thought. She couldn’t swallow or speak, and she was thirsty.

She moved her head slowly. Callum was beside her, bound to a tree with strips of his own plaid. His eyes were black and swollen, his face and throat so bloody she barely recognized her handsome kinsman. He was conscious, but she saw the glazed effects of pain in his eyes. He was staring at something above her.

She turned and looked up. She recognized the clearing and the spreading branches of the ancient oak tree that had grown in the glen since before Bannockburn. It was a part of the wood that was remote from the castle. The tracks that led here were seldom traveled because there were boar nearby.

Gillian heard a grunt, and twisted again. Davy MacKenzie sat looking down at her from the back of a garron, his posture stiff, his eyes wide above a tattered strip of plaid that was tied tight across his mouth. He looked surprised to see her, stared at her as if he expected her to do something. Then Gillian realized that he had a noose around his neck. A taut length of rope was slung over a high branch of the oak. Gillian felt her belly tighten with horror. The horse danced under the Mackenzie, and Davy screamed uselessly behind the gag. Rabbie Bain was standing behind the garron with a sword in his fist, laughing and poking the animal, teasing it into capering and sidestepping. She tried to scream, but the gag blocked the sound. Rabbie turned his attention to her.

“Awake at last are ye? Just in time. I’m about to hang Davy. Now ye can watch,” the outlaw said.

Gillian gaped as the outlaw raised the sword, ready to bring the flat of the blade down on the garron’s rump. Davy groaned.

She felt horror and rage. She was tied, helpless. Davy was about to die, and she could do nothing to save him, or herself, or Callum. She struggled against the knots until she felt blood trickle over her hands, but they held tight.

Rabbie watched her, enjoying her panic. “After Davy, I’ll hang your clansman. I’m going to save ye for last, use ye, enjoy doing it. Yours won’t be a quick death, mistress. This time, there’ll be no escape. I’ll make ye beg for death.”

He laughed again as he raised the sword. For an instant he held it high. Then he brought it down. Gillian screamed again, but it was too late. She heard the slap of the blade on the garron’s rump, watched as the horse leaped forward and raced out of the clearing. Poor Davy MacKenzie was left behind. His big body jerked backwards and swung.

Gillian screamed into the gag, but all that came out was a muffled howl.

* * *

John led the heavily laden garron down the mountainside. The beast was anxious, shying at every sound. It was the smell of the boar, perhaps, since the morning was fine, and only the sound of birdcalls disturbed the peace of the wood. He was looking forward to the look on Donal MacLeod’s face when he walked through the gates at Glen Iolair with his kill.

The toe of his boot hit something on the path, sent it skittering past the garron’s hoof, made the horse snort and caper. John bent to see what it was. His mouth dried at the sight of Gillian’s dirk. He knew it was hers—it was the same one that he’d used to cut the boughs for their shelter. Warning prickled along his spine. She’d never be out in the wood without her dirk, and she wouldn’t be so careless as to drop it. Her bow was here, too, a short distance away, and a quiver of arrows.

Then he saw blood splashed across the bent blades of grass next to the path.

“No.” Dread made his belly curl into his spine. John let the garron go and followed the blood trail into the undergrowth.

* * *

Davy MacKenzie was grunting, fighting for breath, Gillian watched him kick as the noose tightened, killing him. She pleaded with Rabbie, but behind her gag the words were useless. She struggled harder against her bonds, but Davy was turning purple, and Rabbie Bain stood beneath him, laughing. “I could pull on your leg, Davy, lad, give ye mercy, hasten your end.” He grinned down at Gillian. “What say ye, mistress? Or should I let him swing until the last, suffer for his sins?”

Gillian screamed again, but there was no one to hear.

* * *

John moved carefully, staying low. He wished he had a sword or the damned spear he’d used to kill the boar. All he had was a dirk and the bow strapped over his shoulder. But those weapons had been enough to kill the boar.

He heard the sound of a slap, a sharp report that startled the birds, sent them flying from the trees. A horse screamed in surprise, and the underbrush crackled. Hoofbeats shook the ground and he threw himself out of the way as the garron raced past him, its eyes wild with panic.

John saw the clearing a dozen feet ahead, saw the rope tied over the branch of a tree, heard it creaking under the weight it bore, and looked up into Davy MacKenzie’s bulging eyes.

John pulled the bow from his back, loaded an arrow, and took aim. He silently willed Davy to be still for an instant, just long enough for the arrow to find its target. He blinked the sweat out of his eyes and fired.

* * *

The cloth that bound her wrists broke at last, but Gillian’s hands were numb, her fingers slick with her own blood, and her ankles were still bound. It was too late—Davy’s grunts were becoming weaker.

A flash of movement caught her eye, and she turned, saw John, his bow drawn, an arrow aimed at Davy. A coup de grace, perhaps? Her breath caught in her throat.

But Rabbie had also seen John, was turning toward him. He still had Davy’s sword in his hand, and he raised it again and charged. Gillian swung her bound ankles into his path, and Rabbie stumbled over them and fell.

Then John’s arrow tore through the rope, and Davy dropped like a sack, and landed on top of the outlaw.

Gillian tore the gag from her mouth. “John!”

But John was on his knees beside Davy MacKenzie, loosening the rope around his neck. Davy drew a gasping breath. John used his dirk to cut the strips of plaid that bound Davy’s wrists.

Gillian untied her ankles with shaking fingers. She crawled toward Callum and pulled his gag away. He stared at her in silent agony.

Tears streamed down her face. “Don’t talk,” she said, trying to untie the bonds that held Callum to the tree. Then John was beside her, cutting Callum free. He caught Callum as he fell forward and laid him down gently. Then John’s hands were on her shoulders, turning her to face him, his eyes scanning the bruises on her face.

“Where are you hurt?”

Her jaw throbbed with pain, her head swam, but John was here, and it was over. “Callum, and Davy, and—” She buried her face in John’s shoulder and sobbed, He pulled her into his arms and held her close, and she knew she was safe.

* * *

John saw the bruises on Gillian’s jaw, the raw marks where the gag had scraped her face, the bloody gouges on her wrists where she’d struggled to free her hands—she’d done it, too, his brave lass. She’d brought Rabbie Bain down. He glanced over her shoulder at the outlaw. He lay still under Davy’s bulk.

Gillian was shaking in his arms.

“It’s over, sweetheart. It’s—”

He felt the unmistakable chill of a sword against the back of his neck.

“Unhand my daughter, Sassenach.”

John slowly raised his hands, Donal MacLeod’s heavy hand on his collar dragged him upright, away from Gillian. Donal was looking around the clearing, taking in the sight of Davy MacKenzie lying on the ground gulping air, the still figure of Rabbie Bain, and Callum’s battered body. He stared longest at his daughter’s bruised face, her tears, her bloodstained hands. “Take care of Gillian,” the laird commanded his clansmen.

Then Donal turned and looked at John, his face mottled with rage. “Ye did this?” he demanded.

“Papa, no, he—” Gillian began.

But Donal saw the dirk in John’s hands. John heard the Fearsome MacLeod roar, saw his fist bunch, and braced for the blow. It hit him in the jaw like a battering ram. He was aware of an explosion of pain, of the force of the blow driving him backward. He tasted blood, and the breath left his lungs. Then the world went dark.