Davy MacKenzie tried to protest when the crone of a healer thrust a vile-smelling cup of poison under his nose, but only a rusty gasp of air emerged.

“Stop trying to talk and drink this. It will soothe your throat.”

Davy pursed his lips and gave her his angriest battle glare, but the witch didn’t even flinch. She glared right back. He silently remembered every curse and insult he knew. By the way her eyes narrowed and her own lips pinched, she understood every thought in his head. There was nothing to do but drink. She wouldn’t go until he did. The potion slid down his throat like thistles, smelled like unwashed wool, and was bitter, sour, and sick-sweet all at once, and he gagged, which hurt. She grabbed his nose and twisted, and he swallowed reflexively.

The old crone had the audacity to smile at him.

He looked across the wee sickroom at Callum, who was being tended by a far sweeter healer, one of Gillian’s bonny sisters. She had a touch like an angel and a voice as soft as spring wind—until she put her foot in Callum’s armpit, took his arm in her delicate hands and yanked it hard to set the bone. The brave MacLeod warrior suppressed a scream of agony through the bindings that held his broken jaw, and Davy clutched his blankets and winced.

“All over now,” the angel said, splinting the arm. She hummed softly as she cleaned and stitched Callum’s wounds until the lad looked like a tapestry gone awry. Davy wondered if he looked as bad as that.

He thanked his good fortune that he was alive at all.

He wouldn’t be if the Englishman’s shot had missed. Davy touched the angry welts that ringed his neck. He owed John Erly his life. He would have said so if he could speak—so, no doubt, would Callum. The MacLeod warrior looked across at Davy, his eyes pleading, and Davy knew exactly what the MacLeod clansman was saying, even if neither of them could speak a word. He gave Callum a grim smile, since he couldn’t nod.

He caught the angel’s glance. “Sassenach,” he mouthed.

She understood well enough. “You mean John,” she said. She came to stand beside him. “I’m Fia Sinclair. John is my friend, and my husband’s captain. My father is going to hang him.” Davy shook his head and winced at the pain that caused. “Right after your wedding to Gillian,” she added. He gulped air that felt like nails. He reached for her hand, clasped it. She scanned his face. “I suspect there’s more to the tale than my father knows, Laird MacKenzie. Is that so?” He blinked at her, tried to nod. Callum grunted.

She regarded them both. “Then we need to find a way for you to tell my father what truly happened. Can you write it down?”

Davy did his best to nod.

Fia gave him a breathtaking smile. “I’ll go and fetch paper, quill, and ink,” she said and left the room.

Davy looked at Callum, and Callum looked at him, and they blinked at each other like comrades, like friends, like survivors who owed everything to one man, and had a whole silent conversation without speaking a single word.

But before Fia Sinclair returned with the promised writing materials, a MacLeod clansmen entered. He snatched off his bonnet and swallowed hard as he looked at the two battered patients. “The MacLeod wants to see ye both in the hall, if ye can manage it. It seems they’re going to give the Sassenach a trial before he swings.”

* * *

John regarded Fia from inside the cell as she came down the stairs and sweetly sent his guard away.

“Why am I not surprised you’re here? Is Dair with you?” he said.

She raised one eyebrow. “He is. You should have told me you were coming to offer for Gilly.”

“Would you have stopped me?” John asked.

“I would have given you some advice.” She scanned his face and body, noted the blood and the bruises with a healer’s eye. “You look terrible, by the way. I’ll tend to you once you’re away, and—” She crossed to take the key off the hook on the wall and unlocked the door of his cell.

“Away?” he interrupted, staying where he was.

She bit her lip. “We came to find you for reasons other than Gillian. Dair has news for you. Dair has asked Papa to let you speak before he—well, Dair and I won’t let Papa hang you. But Davy and Callum can’t talk, and the Robertsons and the Grants have kidnapped Gillian so Papa can’t marry her to Davy until they’ve had a fair hearing as well, and . . .”

“Kidnapped her?” John said.

Fia sighed. “Aye. It’s a very complicated tale, and I suspect it will take some days to unravel to my father’s satisfaction, and there isn’t time now.” She opened the door wide. “The Virgin is in the bay, John. Go out the postern gate and follow the track. Find Gilly and—”

He folded his arms over his chest. “Kidnap her myself?”

She raised her brows. “Do you have a better idea?”

“I’ll go and find her and bring her safely back.”

“Here? To my father?” She scanned his face.

“He’ll be as worried as I am. It’s the right thing to do, Fia.”

She smiled radiantly. “Somehow I knew you’d say that.” She slipped the dirk out of her sleeve, handed it to him, and stepped aside. “Go then, save her.”

“Thank you,” he said. He bussed her cheek, then took the stairs two at a time.

* * *

The Robertsons and the Grants were as kind and polite as they could be. They were enchanted by Meggie’s wide blue eyes, and Aileen’s soft smile, and Gillian’s legendary status as a slayer of outlaws, and spent the afternoon grinning besottedly at the lovely lasses. They took turns standing guard, and argued over which clan would win the right to call Gillian their lady.

The day wore on, and Gillian was grateful that this would likely delay her hasty wedding to Davy MacKenzie, but she really did need to speak to her father and save John. She could hardly tell these men she had no desire to wed either Padraig Grant or Cormag Robertson, that there was only one man she loved, and her father was about to hang him. She knew these men had their orders, but she was in a hurry.

She glanced at Meggie, who was flirting with one of the handsome Grant clansmen, and one of the handsome Robertsons as well. Aileen was talking with another one of the Grants. Cam MacLeod had been relieved of his weapons, and he stood leaning on a tree frowning at everyone.

The shadows were growing long when Gillian caught the sleeve of the nearest Grant. “Please, if I swear that I will not marry any man until the contest has been fairly judged, will you take me back and allow me to speak to my father?”

The Grant’s face fell. “We canna do that, mistress. We have our orders.”

“Aye, Gillian, what are you thinking?” Aileen said. “We must wait until Cormag Robertson strides through those trees and claims you as his bride.”

“With all respect, mistress, it will be Laird Grant,” the Grant said.

One of the Robertsons spun on him. “She’ll be our laird’s wife by the time the sun sets.”

The Grant warrior began to roll up his sleeves. “Perhaps we’d best be holding a contest of our own right here.”

The biggest Robertson approached, standing so close to the Grant that their noses almost touched. “Practice saying Lady Robertson.”

And with that, the argument had turned into a brawl.

Meggie grinned at Gillian. “Very clever. You’d better go.” Meggie said to Gillian as the lasses stepped out of the way of the melee.

Aileen nodded. “Go and see Papa and save your true love. We’ll mop up here.”

Gillian let out the breath she’d been holding and slipped into the trees.

* * *

They’d forgotten him. The weight of Davy MacKenzie’s fat arse had nearly crushed him, but it didn’t kill him. Rabbie had woken when they hauled the laird off him. He crawled away into the bush while they were still fighting over who was to blame. And there was Davy, unable to say a word, and no one was willing to listen to the lass. Rabbie would have laughed if he’d had the breath.

It was nearly dark now, and his arm was hanging painful and useless. The joint had been disconnected when Davy landed on it, needed to be pulled back into place. It hurt like the devil, and before he could see to it, he had to get out of Glen Iolair. But which way? “West,” he decided, looking at the sun. “Toward the sea.”

* * *

John returned to the clearing where he’d found Davy and Gillian and Rabbie Bain. The sun was low on the horizon now, and the space beneath the oak was empty, save for a few scraps of plaid. Davy and Callum were safe, and Rabbie Bain had likely been killed when Davy fell on him. Gillian had been kidnapped by a dozen clansmen, but they’d not harm her, since it was yet another matter of honor. It should be easy enough to track that many men, but harder to get her away from them. He found a scrap of Grant plaid on a bush, saw broken branches, and followed the clumsy trail.

He wondered what happened to the boar. If the garron was lucky, it had found its way home to the castle. He imagined the looks on the faces of the men on the gate when the laden beast appeared without explanation.

His injured leg ached as he climbed a low rise that led toward Benbrankie, through thick stands of pine and fir. There were scuff marks in the pine needles on the forest floor, and he bent to examine them.

He felt the unpleasant chill of a blade against the back of his neck for the second time that day and shut his eyes.

“Don’t move, or I’ll gut ye.”

He remembered that voice, rope-roughened, raw, and desperate. “Rabbie Bain,” he said, feeling fury burn in his breast. “I thought you died when Davy fell on you.”

The knife didn’t move. “So ye remember me, do ye? I remember ye as well. Ye helped the lass escape, and ye freed Davy MacKenzie today when I finally had him where he belongs.”

“There’s a dozen men in these woods,” John warned him. “They’ll hang you now if they catch you.”

Rabbie laughed. “They can’t kill me. They’ve tried to hang me twice and I lived. I even survived when Davy fell on me. I cannot die.”

John dared a glance over his shoulder at the outlaw and saw madness in his eyes. He could smell blood and sweat, and the hand that held the dirk was shaking. His left arm hung at an unusual angle. “Don’t look at me!” Rabbie screeched. He pressed the dirk harder against John’s neck. “Were ye hunting for me?” Rabbie asked.

John forced a laugh and stared at the trees in front of him. “Me? No. I’m leaving Glen Iolair. They blamed me for hanging Davy MacKenzie. I barely escaped the noose myself.”

“Where will ye go?” Rabbie asked.

“There’s a ship in the bay.”

He heard Rabbie shift his feet. “A ship?”

“Aye. Shall I show you where it is?”

Rabbie laughed. “Do ye take me for a fool? Ye’ll lead old Rabbie into a trap. Nay, ye can just point before I cut your thr—”

Rabbie grunted, and the blade at John’s neck disappeared. John turned, saw an arm around the outlaw’s throat, and a dirk pressed under his ear. But the hands of his rescuer were long and slender, and there was lace on the cuffs of the sleeves. John felt his heart flip in his breast, just the way it did every time he saw her.

“Don’t move,” Gillian said to Rabbie, but she made the mistake of looking at John. Rabbie drove his elbow into her ribs and she let him go.

But John was ready. Rabbie ran straight into John’s fist and dropped to the ground, motionless.

John stepped over the outlaw and knelt next to Gillian. She gripped his collar as she caught her breath. “I’m all right. He just knocked the wind out of me.” She looked up at him, breathless indeed. “Oh, John. You’re safe!” She threw her arms around his neck, and he caught her, held her close, breathed her in. “I was so afraid. Papa said he was going to hang you.”

He pulled back. “Fia helped me escape. I had to find you. She told me Dair’s ship was in the bay, suggested that we—”

“Fia’s here?” She smiled and kissed him. “We can be on the ship before dark if we hurry, be away before they think to look for us—”

He clasped her shoulders gently. “Gilly, no.”

Her smile slipped away. “No?”

He stroked her hair back from her brow. “Not like this, love.”

He saw tears shimmering in her eyes. “Then how?”

“Your father will be worried about you. I’ll take you back, hope that he gives me a chance to explain.” He shut his eyes for a moment. “I want you, Gillian, with all my heart. I love you. I’d rather have your father on our side than spend our life looking over my shoulder for him. If we don’t do this right, he’ll never stop seeking revenge. And he’d be right. You’re very precious to him. He’d kill any man who dared to harm you, just like I would. I like your father, I think. At least I understand him.”

She shut her eyes. “You’re right. When Papa understands the truth—”

Rabbie Bain groaned and shifted on the ground, reaching for his dirk. Gillian rose to kick the blade away and put her foot on his wrist. The outlaw looked up at her and laughed like a loon. “You again. You. What kind of a lass are ye?”

“A fearsome one, a MacLeod,” she said.

Gillian looked at John calmly. “I’m sure Papa would like proof. The MacKenzies can identify Rabbie. Shall we take him back?”

“You can’t kill me. No one can. I can’t die,” Rabbie panted. “I can’t die.”

John grabbed hold of his ragged shirtfront and dragged him upright. “We’ll let Donal MacLeod decide that.” He hit Rabbie under the chin, knocked him out again with a single punch, and hoisted him over his shoulder.

Gillian smiled, took his hand, and led the way home.

* * *

Davy hobbled into the hall with Callum by his side and stood as straight as he could before Donal MacLeod. His throat felt like it was coated inside and out with burning pitch, but he stood his ground and wondered how was going to say what he needed to without words. Callum was swaying on his feet, his jaw bound tightly shut, and Davy held him upright. Cormag Robertson and Padraig Grant stood across the hall, their faces stubborn. Padraig winced when he saw Davy, which just made Davy mad. Ugly, was he? He glared at his rivals, but in his battered, voiceless condition the effect was lost. His MacKenzie clansmen clustered around him at once, standing at attention. There were others there as well, a tall Sinclair with a scarred face—Davy wondered if he’d look like that when he was healed. Several of the MacLeod’s daughters were present as well, their sympathetic glances all for Callum, but Gillian wasn’t among them.

Nor was John Erly present. A prickle of fear made Davy gasp. Had they hanged him already? Nay—this was supposed to be a trial.

He looked desperately for Fia Sinclair, but she wasn’t here either. He felt panic tighten his belly.

“Bring a chair for Laird MacKenzie,” Donal MacLeod ordered, mistaking his agitation. “And one for Callum.”

When the two men were seated, the MacLeod looked at Davy grimly. “There seems to be some question as to your right to wed my daughter.”

The Sinclair cleared his throat, and Donal shot him a sharp look. “First things first, Alasdair Og. We’ll get to the Sassenach’s part in the attempted murders after we decide which of the three lairds has the right to wed Gillian.”

“The lass was to be given to the man who won the most contests,” Padraig said, stepping forward. “The Sassenach won the contest of swords, though Davy says he cheated. I assume he’ll be disqualified anyway by the fact that he’s soon to hang.”

“Which makes Davy the winner, since he came second,” Donal said.

“But I won the Gillie Callum,” Cormag said proudly. “And Davy lost that one.” He ran his eyes over Davy’s battered body. “I seem to recall the swords predicted his death.”

Davy raised his chin and suppressed a wince. He settled for sending Robertson a rude hand gesture to remind him he was very much alive.

“And the drinking contest was won by—” Padraig frowned. “Who won that one?”

“Depends,” Donal said. “The MacKenzies believe that the Sassenach should have lost when he played the chanter without the pipes—”

“It was a beautiful tune,” Cormag admitted. “But if he’s disqualified there, it means . . .” He glared at Davy. Davy couldn’t resist a grin, though it hurt.

“Which still leaves the hunting contest to be decided,” Padraig said. “I brought in a roe deer.”

“I caught three fine, fat salmon and a pair of grouse,” Cormag said.

“Grouse are out of season,” Padraig argued.

“But John Erly got a boar,” Isobel MacLeod interrupted.

Davy gaped at her. A boar? The other two lairds stared at her as well. “It’s roasting now,” she said, blushing. Her father sent her a quelling look.

“Doesn’t count if he’s going to hang,” Cormag grumbled. “Though I suppose he should have some of the meat for his last meal.”

“’Tis a fine feat, bringing down a boar,” Padraig admitted, rubbing his chin. “Was that before or after he killed Davy?”

Davy glared at him. “Och, I misspoke, Davy. Of course you’re still alive. Mostly,” Padraig said.

“It still sounds like John won most of the contests,” Alasdair Og Sinclair said.

“It doesn’t count,” Donal said stubbornly. “I won’t marry my daughter to a man who’d murder his rival.” He looked at Cormag and Padraig. “The two of you might have been next.”

Padraig smoothed his hand over his own throat.

“Even if you’ve decided to give Gillian to another man, I’d still like to speak for John. I cannot believe he did the things you suggest. He’s a good man, an honorable man,” the Sinclair said.

Davy pointed to him, hoping it signified agreement.

“The MacKenzie disagrees,” Donal said.

Davy met Alasdair Og’s eyes with a pleading glance. “Nay,” he mouthed the word. “Rabbie Bain.”

“Rabbits, did he say?” Cormag said. “Is this about the contest? Did ye have time to hunt after all, Davy?”

Davy pointed to his neck, then mimed shooting an arrow from a bow, at a rope.

“Looks like the hanging addled his wits,” Padraig said. “The Sassenach didn’t shoot ye, lad—he hanged ye.”

“Nay—he’s describing how the Sassenach strung him up,” Cormag said. “Do ye want us to shoot him with arrows, Davy, instead of hanging him?”

Davy glared at them. What gestures described a hero, a man who’d saved his life? He looked at Alasdair Og Sinclair, wondering where his angelic wee wife was now. He looked at Donal, made writing motions with his fingers.

“Aye, his mind is gone,” Padraig said. He turned to Donal. “Ye can’t marry your lass to a man who’s—” He twirled his forefinger beside his ear.

“Does that mean the contest is down to the two of us?”

Davy felt frustration well. “Writing paper,” he mouthed the words. “Pàipear-sgìobhadh.”

“Waiting! I got that!” Cormag said. “He’s waiting. Or perhaps he wants us to wait.”

“What for?” Padraig asked.

“The bride for one thing. If it’s down to the two of us, we can have our men bring her back.”

But the door opened, and Meggie and Aileen and Will MacLeod entered with twelve bruised and rumpled warriors.

“Where’s Gillian?” Donal MacLeod asked.

The door opened again and another MacLeod burst in. “The Sassenach has escaped! The cell is empty.”

Davy would have cheered if he’d had the voice to do it. Then Fia Sinclair pushed past him and limped across the room to Davy. “I’ve been looking for you, Laird MacKenzie.” She held up a sheaf of parchment, a quill, and a bottle of ink. Gratefully, he blinked at her, ignored the mayhem around him, sat down, and began to write.