Page 9

Weaned on his mother’s hatred for the earl, her constant wailing over the injustices done to her, and her almost daily recounts of her pain and suffering, Ewan grew to manhood with a bitterness eating at his heart. Two years ago, at the age of twenty, he had started the raids on the clan as a means to exact revenge, and in a short time they had increased in frequency, size, and intensity.

But so, too, had McLendon’s pursuit. Though Ewan swaggered with rash boldness in front of his men, the truth was they had nearly been caught on this last raid. The incident had given Ewan pause and for the first time he began to think about how—and when—it would all end. The earl was long dead and in his place Ewan’s half brother ruled. ’Twas said that Gavin McLendon was a fair and honorable man, yet he treated Ewan with the same contempt as their father.

“If we cannae pluck any treasure from these travelers, then I say we go to Kilmore,” Magnus grunted. “Their grain house is near to bursting. What we cannae use fer ourselves, we can sell.”

“Kilmore village is one of the earl’s strongholds,” Ewan said. “We have few allies within it.”

“They’ll not be so loyal with an empty belly and their bairns crying out from hunger when they try to go to sleep,” Magnus snarled.

Ewan closed his eyes and felt a ripple of emotion flood his heart. “I willnae starve innocent folk to make a point.”

Magnus’s eyes gleamed. “’Tis the smart move.”

There was a low grumble of agreement among several of the men who had drawn near when the discussion began. Ewan cocked an eyebrow. “And when exactly did ye get a brain in yer thick skull? Tell us true, Magnus, was it left to ye by the wee fairies while ye were sleeping?”

The men laughed and Ewan could feel the building tension leach away. Well, most of it.

Magnus was smiling as broadly as the rest of them, but his knuckles were white where his fingers wrapped around a tree branch. Ewan noted the telltale evidence of anger and defiance and casually reached for the dagger hidden in his boot. ’Twould be a pity to kill such a skilled fighter, but if challenged, he would not hesitate. Ewan had no illusions about the character of many of the men who followed him.

Heartless bastards, the lot of them. And Ewan knew he was the worst of the bunch.

The color in Magnus’s cheeks heightened and a tiny muscle beneath his left eye twitched. Ever on the alert, Ewan waited, but the attack never came. Magnus glanced at a few of the men, then looked away uneasily.

Ewan slowly lifted his hand, keeping his dagger hidden. There would be no fight—this time. Yet Ewan was wise enough to realize that one day soon the time would come when Magnuswouldchallenge him.

By all that was holy, he’d best be ready for it.

Chapter 3

Fiona stirred the meager pot of rabbit stew and wondered if it could be deemed a surprise attack when you knew it was going to happen. Not precisely the time, or even the place, but a confrontation was an eventuality. They were deliberately on the earl’s land—trespassing. And they were being watched. It was now only a matter of time before they were confronted.

Her stomach turned with restless agitation. If she was wrong about the earl, all their lives were in grave peril. The only thing that kept her calm was Spencer. Basking in the innocence of youth, he had seen this trip as a grand adventure. His boyish delight in the simplest of things had kept them all in good spirits.

But even Spencer’s sweet charm could no longer dispel the tension inside the camp. Fiona’s frayed emotions were stretched to the breaking point.

“Why have the McLendon men not approached us?” Fiona asked as she tossed a bunch of wild onions in the cauldron.

“They’ll be waiting for orders from the earl,” Sir George responded. He leaned forward and sniffed appreciatively. “Is it ready?”

Fiona sighed.Saints alive, how could he possibly be hungry?Since crossing the border into Scotland four days ago, she had barely been able to choke down a few bites of hard bread and cheese. Fiona supposed she should be grateful that Sir George was not so easily rattled, yet it was still unsettling.

After a final stir, she ladled a hearty portion of the stew into a wooden bowl and passed it to the knight. “I hope you do not regret your decision to aid me, Sir George.”

Sir George took a big bite of the concoction, noisily sucking in his breath when the hot food hit his mouth. “Riding into Scotland is the last thing I wanted for you and the boy, my lady, but I understand why you had to leave your brother’s keep.”

Catching a whiff of the food, a few of the other men drifted toward the cooking fire. Fiona handed the ladle to her maid, Alice, and the older woman diligently assumed the task of distributing the meal.

Not wanting to be overheard, Fiona stepped away from the others. Sir George took a second helping of stew before following her.

“The men all understand what they are to do when the earl’s retainers show themselves?” Fiona asked.

“I have ordered them to stand firm and wait for my signal before drawing their weapons.” Sir George frowned. “But I’m still not certain that will work. The Scots are warriors, men known to strike first and ask questions later.”

“I know. That is why ’tis so important that we not challenge them.”

Fiona carefully avoided looking at Sir George when she spoke, knowing her words had the potential to insult the knight. He was not the sort of man who ran from a fight and that was exactly what she was asking him to do.

“I will do as you wish,” Sir George said begrudgingly. “But I give you fair warning. At the first thrust of a Scotsman’s sword, my men and I will retaliate in kind.”