Sixteen

Between the space of one heartbeat and the next, Callum felt Maggie freeze beneath him and saw the look of horror in her eyes as she gazed over his shoulder. He grabbed one of the daggers lying on the ground by their heads, turned his shoulders, and flung it, shielding his wife’s body with his own.

The man behind them toppled over, his hand clutching his throat where Callum’s knife protruded from his windpipe.

Callum kept turning, letting out a sharp, distinctive whistle, and flung a second knife. It flew from his other hand and straight at another man just coming out of the shadows, hitting him in the chest. Blood soaked the man’s dirty shirt, and he fell to his knees, dying within moments.

Callum grabbed his sword with one hand and Maggie with the other as he sprang up from their makeshift bed. She’d grabbed two daggers but hadn’t used them, terror and shock clearly etched on her face.

Two more men appeared, wielding swords, and Callum backed up against the rock, Maggie behind him. No one could get to her without going through him.

“Use your daggers if you have to, Maggie,” he yelled, “and if I fall, run like hell for our men. Doona try to save me.”

He whistled again as he went into battle, a call to Gavin and the others to let them know he and Maggie were under attack. A whistle came back, then several others, signaling that they were also being attacked. He just hoped it hadn’t been an ambush, that they’d been alerted in time either by his first whistle or one of their men on guard.

They may very well have whistled at him too, but he’d heard nothing because he’d been too busy tupping his wife, his ears filled with the sounds of her moans and the blood roaring in his veins, his heart thudding like a drum as he’d pushed into her body. He’d been utterly lost to the ecstasy of being inside Maggie. Under no circumstances would he be dying after only one time with her. And if these men who’d attacked the MacLeans on their own land thought they could get to her, they’d find out why Callum was the best sword fighter in all the Highlands.

He swung at the closest man, swinging and striking with his sword. His opponent was good but not good enough. Callum disarmed him and sliced through his belly just as the second man brought his sword down right where Callum had been standing before he’d twisted his shoulder around. The blade skimmed past harmlessly. It was a mistake on the other man’s part, and Callum kept his momentum going to swing his sword up, slicing heavily through the man’s groin and into his abdomen.

He pulled his sword free with a sickening sound just as Maggie yelled, “Callum, behind you!”

One last swordsman came into the glade, weapon raised. He hesitated just long enough to look at his four fallen companions, and Callum hurled his sword. It drove right through the man’s gut and out the other side. He fell backward onto the ground. Callum picked up one of the attackers’ swords, then sprinted to the fifth dead man and pulled his own sword free. He scanned the area as he returned to Maggie. She crouched against the rocks, trembling, her daggers gripped in her hands. He whistled out a sharp message to the others and was happy to hear their replies.

“Maggie.” When she didn’t respond, he called her name again, louder this time. “Maggie!”

She looked at him, and he saw the glint of tears on her cheeks. “I didn’t throw my daggers. How could I not have thrown my daggers? They could have killed you, Callum, because I froze. Why couldn’t I throw my daggers?”

“They’re dead, Maggie. It doesn’t matter.”

“Aye, it does. I swore I’d protect you.”

“There’s a big difference between throwing your daggers into a tree and throwing them to kill a man when he’s charging at you, sword in hand. My warriors train for months to overcome that alone.”

“But I failed you.”

“Never, Maggie. Now get up and get dressed, quickly. More may come this way at any second. If they do, you get behind me, do you understand?”

“Aye.”

He helped her up, and they ran to where their clothes were draped over the rock. His shirt was wet with blood from one of the fallen men, but he didn’t care. Even if the linen were clean, it would just soak up the blood already sprayed on his body.

Maggie moved fast, and he suspected she’d practiced. She’d have needed to dress quickly in the dark as part of her plans to escape Irvin and her own castle. He’d sworn to himself she’d never have to worry about that, and yet here she was, under attack and fighting to stay free and alive. Although he suspected these men would have taken Maggie, not killed her. Raped her, most likely, seeing as Irvin’s plan had been to get her with bairn. He burned inside at the thought and couldn’t wait to run his sword through that man’s black heart.

But the men who’d attacked them didn’t look like MacDonnells. They’d have to look through each man’s clothing for identifying marks, perhaps even letters. He had a feeling this attack had more to do with the notes Maggie had given to him than the MacDonnells who’d been chasing them or the traitor in the MacLeans. Though something told him it was all connected.

“Hold on to my plaid at the back and doona let go unless we’re attacked. If that happens, climb up the nearest tree like you did when the wolves came after you, and use your daggers and bow for defense, aye?”

“Aye.”

He tugged Maggie behind him, going as quickly and quietly as he could, swords in both hands. It was about a five-minute hike from the pool to their camp during the day, without having to worry about an enemy force hiding in the dark. Now the trek was longer. They needed speed, but they also needed stealth and care. He had to trust that Gavin and the others would be able to hold their own against…how many? If five men had attacked him and Maggie, how many more had attacked the rest? They were all good fighters, even Finn. Callum had made sure of it before he’d allowed Gavin to bring him along. But too many men could overwhelm even the best fighters.

Something alerted him, a noise maybe, or the moonlight glinting off something that shouldn’t be there. He stopped, and Maggie stopped behind him. She pressed her forehead into his spine for a moment before stepping back. Aye, smart lass. She’d be ready to let go if he had to fight.

He heard whispers, and he signaled for Maggie to conceal herself in the brush, then crept forward just off the path. Two men were crouched ahead, arrows notched on their bows, watching the fight in the camp down below.

The fire still burned in the middle of the glade, and relief flooded through him to see all of his companions still standing, still fighting—except Gill, who by the looks of the arrows in many of the fallen attackers, was in a tree somewhere sniping from above. Drustan stood beside Finn, his body angled protectively toward the young lad, who held his own. Artair fought beside Gavin, who did battle with a savagery Callum had seen in him only since his son was taken.

That rage boiled just beneath the surface and was always looking for a way to come out. What better place than a battle, defending his friends?

“I doona see him,” one of the men in front of Callum said to the other. “He must have moved.”

“Well, unless you want him raining down arrows on us, doona shoot until you see him clearly.”

“But he hasn’t shot anyone in the last minute. Surely he’s out of arrows by now. If Laird Mac—”

An arrow pierced the man through the eye, and Callum groaned silently. Which laird? Who had sent them?

The other man jumped and darted into the trees, right into Callum’s sword. Callum pulled his weapon free and whistled to let Gill and the others know he was here, then stuck his sword out. An arrow landed two feet in front of him, Gill’s signal that he understood.

Aye, if it had been his enemy standing there and not Callum, Gill wouldn’t have missed.

He ran silently for Maggie to find her halfway up a tree, her bow over her shoulder. “Maggie,” he whispered as softly as he could but still be heard, “come down. The trail guards are dead. I need you hidden in a safe place so I can go down and help the others.”

“I saw. Gill took out one of them. I’m going to help him.”

“Nay, you canna. You’re not a trained marksman. There is more to what Gill does than just aim and shoot. You’ll be killed.”

She hesitated. “But I want to help.”

“Then come down. That’s the best way you can help right now. You are not prepared for battle, and I canna train you how to be a warrior in the next few minutes. Come down now. ’Tis an order, lass—from your husband and your laird. Already, you’ve put us in danger.”

Maggie let herself drop down the trunk, her skirts tied up between her legs, just as an arrow hit the tree where she’d been clinging moments before. Callum cursed beneath his breath and dived with her into the underbrush as she let out a muffled squeak. His heart pounded with fear, as fast as when he’d watched her slide down the pulley from the castle wall. He pulled her farther away, their bellies to the ground, before he pushed her into a depression in the soil and rolled on top of her.

He heard the sound of an arrow hitting a body, then a cry as a man tumbled out of a tree on the opposite side of the glade. The enemy—struck down by Gill, no doubt—after he’d revealed himself by taking a shot at Maggie.

He shuddered. His wife would be the death of him yet. If something happened to her… Callum would be just like Gavin, grieving his loved one but without hope that someday Maggie would be returned to him.

The edge of the glade was just a few feet away. He grabbed some dirt and smudged it over his exposed skin before silently rolling off Maggie and laying his extra blanket over her, the dark colors blending into the night.

“Doona move until I come for you,” he whispered.

He pulled the hood of his plaid up and belly crawled to the edge of the glade, careful not to make any noise or shake any foliage.

At least twelve dead or dying bodies littered the ground around them. Plus the five men he’d killed up at the spring, the two at the trailhead just now, and the marksman Gill had taken out. That made twenty. A large fighting force to keep hidden on someone else’s land.

He hooted like an owl this time, to alert the others that he was there, watching, and to ask for a status report. Gill hooted in return, closer than he’d expected. Part of Gill’s skill as a marksman was not only to take out the enemy with unerring aim, but also to stay hidden and move unseen to another perch and another, staying ahead of any marksmen the enemy might also have. Like the marksman who’d almost killed Maggie minutes ago.

Fear still had its roots in Callum, and he found himself furious not only at the enemy marksman, but at Maggie herself. They would have a good, long talk later, and she would listen to him. In matters of her safety, if he deemed something unsafe, she was not to do it.

He could not lose her.

He crawled out of the bush slowly, revealing himself, knowing Gill would have his back if anyone else appeared.

“Is Maggie all right?” Gavin asked, covered in blood. He was holding up Artair, who had a long gash down his side.

“Aye, barely,” Callum said as he jogged toward them, eyes on the downed bodies and looking for survivors. “Any alive?”

Gavin jerked his chin at a man who was still moving and in obvious pain.

Callum crossed over to him. “Good. I doona think these are MacDonnells.”

“Nay, me neither.” Gavin helped Artair down and then followed Callum to the wounded man. “It’s hard to tell in this light, but their plaids aren’t right.”

“Aye.” He approached the man, careful to kick aside any weapons before stepping on the man’s arm to restrain him. Gavin stepped on his other arm. The man had a gaping belly wound and was too weak to lift his legs. He’d been taken down by one of Gill’s arrows—a killing shot that would take him hours to die and leave him in great pain all the while.

The man was nearing his middle years and had a rough countenance, with several blackened teeth and a scar down the side of his face that crossed over one eye. Callum had to remind himself that if the men had captured Maggie, this man might have waited in line to rape her.

He quelled his fury at the thought. Instead of pushing a hand into his enemy’s wound and causing more pain, he crouched beside him and caressed a gentle hand down his cheek, much like a mother would do. “You’re dying, lad,” he said, even though the man looked older than Callum. “And not an easy death, either. I would help you with the pain, but I have no herbs with me. All I can do is end it quickly, so you suffer no longer. Would you like that?”

The man grunted and nodded.

“Aye, me too,” Callum continued. “What’s your name, so I can say a prayer for you?”

“They call me…Scythe.” The man wheezed through the pain.

“Because you were a farmer?” Callum asked.

“Nay, because it’s…how I kill…people. Doona play games…Laird MacLean. Ask your questions…and slice my throat.”

Gavin knelt beside him. “Are you a MacDonnell?”

“Nay.”

“A MacLean?” Callum asked.

“Nay.”

“But you have men inside Clan MacLean?”

“Aye.”

“And did they kill my father? The old Laird MacLean?” Callum’s heart raced, wondering if he’d finally get some answers.

“Nay. I doona know who…did that, but it wasn’t one…of us.”

“Who is ‘us’? What clan are you? Where have you been hiding?” Gavin asked.

“At a farm. Not far from here. Waiting for you.”

“Working with Irvin Sinclair?” Callum asked.

“Aye. He’s one…of ours.”

“Your clan, Scythe. Who is your laird?”

The man didn’t answer, and Gavin pressed his thumb near the open belly wound.

“Stop! Stop!” he screamed. “It’s Clan—”

An arrow plunged into Scythe’s chest, and blood sprayed up from the new wound. Gavin and Callum jumped back and ran for cover as a horse and rider raced into the clearing, near to where Callum had hidden Maggie. The man’s arrow was sighted on Callum, and he would have loosed a killing shot, but Maggie’s dagger hit the man dead center in the forehead a second before Gill’s arrow hit him in the chest. He toppled off the racing stallion, whose eyes were wide with fear, ears flattened against his head.

Callum yelled at Maggie to get out of the way, but it was too late—it had been too late as soon as she’d stepped in front of the horse with her daggers in her hands. All she had time to do was spin away before the horse barreled into her and ran her down.

Yelling in terror, Callum sprinted toward her. The others closed ranks around them, weapons raised, looking for other assassins and making sure this one was dead.

He knelt beside her. She lay prone on her side, turned away from him, her body crumpled like she was dead even though he couldn’t see much blood. Hadn’t Drustan’s wife died like this? By a horse? Aye, but she’d been kicked.

He frantically took her hand, leaned down to look at her closely. Words poured from his lips, making no sense at all. “We are married, lass. And will be for a good, long time. I tupped you hard and you liked it. I spilled my seed. You canna get out of being my wife that easily! You may have our bairn growing inside you already. Open your eyes, love.”

Her eyes, those beautiful hazel eyes that had been filled with need and desire not long ago, stayed closed. Her lovely, expressive face was so pale beneath the streaks of dirt, it made his heart clench.

“Maggie, open your eyes! Look at me, dearling. Now!” He pressed his ear to her mouth, hoping to hear her breathe. Her fingers squeezed his leg, and he felt her eyelashes flutter against his skin. He cupped both hands around her cheeks, gently turned her head.

“Doona move her until we know she’s all right,” Drustan said at his shoulder, his voice rough, almost broken. He crouched on her other side and leaned close. “Abi,” he continued. “Abi, look at me.”

A chill ran down Callum’s spine. What was Drustan’s dead wife’s name? Abigail. The English lass who had resembled Maggie.

“Drustan,” he said, his heart breaking for this man whom he considered as close as an older brother or uncle, a confidante, and a friend. “’Tis Maggie, not Abigail. Look at her red hair, man. She’s Maggie MacLean. My wife.”

Drustan’s eyes met his, clouded with memories and stricken with grief. “Aye, Laird. I know. I’m sorry. ’Twas just a slip of the tongue. It took me back to when…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Callum knew what he meant.

Maggie was not Abigail! She would not die!

“Callum,” Maggie whispered, and he turned to her.

“I’m here, love. Are you well?”

“Nay. My shoulder and head hurt.”

He felt on the side of Maggie’s head where a bump had formed, but when he pulled his hand away, only a small smear of blood coated his fingers. Still, head wounds could be serious.

Her shoulder was a different matter. It looked like it was dislocated. He’d watched Lachlan’s wife, Amber, push a shoulder back into the joint several times, but the manipulation required a lot of force. It didn’t look like Maggie’s arm was broken, but her hand had a circular cut on her palm. That had been left behind, perhaps, after the stallion had run over it.

“Can you sit up, lass?” he asked, his arms circling her shoulders to help her.

She tried but lay down again immediately. “Nay, I feel dizzy and sick. Just let me rest for a while. Do what you have to with the bodies. You’ll need to search them, aye?” When he hesitated, she squeezed his hand. “I’m not dying, Callum. I’m in pain. I think my hand is broken, but it’s not my throwing hand, and I feel dizzy from banging my head. But I’m alive, and you’re alive. We all are. This was a win for us. You fought well, Husband.”

Pleasure surged in him at her words. He gripped her head tightly, then kissed her forehead, moved his lips down her face to her mouth, unable to stop reliving those moments. When the stallion had run her down. When the arrow had hit the tree in the exact place she’d just been. When the attackers had tried to ambush them at the pool. Not to mention the wolves, her devil of a cousin, and her ride on the pulley from the castle wall. When Callum finally withdrew, convinced she was battered but would be all right with rest, he scowled at her. “Doona think I’ve forgotten that I told you not to move until I returned for you.”

“I heard no such thing. You put me in a hole and covered me with a blanket. I couldnae hear anything. Besides, you said I could protect you too. Well, I did. Finally. And I will do so again if the chance arises.”

He sighed. Aye, she would. He’d married Maggie MacLean, a warrior faery princess who liked to throw daggers and climb out windows for fun. He’d best get used to it.

“Just so you know, Wife, you aimed well. But so do I. My seed is strong. I shall have you pregnant and surrounded by red-headed bairns in no time. You willna be able to climb out of windows for much longer.”