Page 13 of Cottage in the Mist (Time After Time #3)

“You’re sure that Lilly was right?” Iain asked as they held their horses at the top of the gorge.

“Aye. She was certain. And afraid for us. If nothing else convinces me, that would.”

“Then we advance.” Iain waved his men on, and Bram marveled at how much faith Iain had in his word. It had only been hours before when he’d woken his cousin to tell him of Lily’s warning. And all credit to Iain, he’d not questioned the demand, instead acting immediately, without doubt.

The night was dark save for the waning moon and the twinkle of stars in the sky. The wind moved restlessly through the canyon and Bram sat his mount, waiting.

Below, the valley was quiet. But silence was deceptive, and as they waited, beyond the dark, they heard the whinny of a horse. Lily had been right.

Bram looked to Iain, waiting his command. Behind him, he felt the restless energy of Iain’s men.

“Wait for it,” Ranald whispered, and somehow the night came to life.

“Now,” Iain cried, and the horses leapt forward.

Bram had been in battle before but not in such close quarters and never when the stakes were so high. The screams, both horses and men, echoed off the walls of the gorge.

He brought his claymore down against the weapon of an enemy, the contact ringing through his arm, pain singing through his brain. The man fell, but another threatened just beyond, and again Bram swung his weapon—two-handed, the blade cutting deep into the man’s gut.

With a surge of superhuman strength, he pulled the claymore free and pivoted to take on the next man, ducking to avoid the blow.

Beyond the shadows he could see Iain and Ranald fighting, their blades flashing in the moonlight.

These men were fighting for him. And whatever happened this night, the consequences fell on him.

The moon slipped beneath a cloud.

Ranald let loose a bloodthirsty cry and Iain’s men surged forward, having the advantage of knowing the gorge, even in the dark. Bram allowed himself to be led forward, still using his claymore to fend off attack.

Ahead, the canyon narrowed even more, gnarled branches arching overhead, intertwining like bony fingers. Behind him, Bram heard something clatter and he turned in anticipation, but his horse shied with the movement, rearing up and braying in fright.

He clung to the reins, fighting for control, and for a moment, he thought he’d managed to maintain his seat.

But then he was flying, landing hard against the rocky floor of the gorge.

His horse reared again, the hooves coming perilously close to his head.

How ironic it would be to die here under the feet of his own steed.

Still dizzy from the fall, Bram gathered his wits and rolled from beneath the horse, pushing to his feet, scrambling to maintain hold on his sword.

From out of the shadows, a man’s face loomed as he leaned low over his horse’s shoulder.

His feral gaze cut into Bram’s as he raised his claymore, ready for the kill.

But Bram was faster, swinging his blade in an arc over his head.

Their swords met once and Bram swung again.

Around him, he could hear the sounds of others battling, but he forced his focus onto the man in front of him.

His enemy’s claymore sliced through the air again.

But Bram pivoted, the blow glancing off of his sword.

And then a second man surged out of the dark, this one on foot, dirk in one hand, claymore in the other.

Bram backed away as he tried to figure out which man to attack first. The one on the horse or the one on foot.

They both looked equally lethal. And though he had no doubt he could take one, he was not as certain of taking them both.

The man on foot charged, and the decision was taken from his hands. Bram swung the claymore, satisfied when it made contact, but the blow was only a glancing one.

His assailant swung his sword, plunging the knife forward at the same time.

Bram countered with his own weapon, the impact sending both of them backwards.

Seeing that his friend had failed, the horseman lunged forward.

But Bram managed to catch his arm with the tip of his blade.

Blood spurted through the horseman’s shirt, and he cried out in rage.

Bram twisted to avoid the man’s claymore and thrust his sword upward, satisfied as he felt contact. The man fell from his horse, sightless eyes looking up into the night sky. But before Bram had the chance to feel relief, the second man rushed forward again, leading with his claymore.

He swung hard, and though Bram deflected the blow, the impact sent his claymore flying.

Seeing that, for the moment at least, he had the upper hand, the man raised his dirk, closing in for the kill.

Bram scrambled for his sword as the man swung the knife, but then Ranald was there, and his blade sank deep.

The man fell next to his friend and Bram grabbed his claymore, turning first to the right and then to the left, searching for another threat as Ranald wheeled his horse around, doing the same. But the fight was over, the Mackintosh men winning the day.

“You saved my life,” Bram said to Ranald as he gathered his horse’s reins and pulled himself back into the saddle again.

“Aye, that I did. But you’d have done the same for me.” Ranald grinned, pumping a fist in the air. “Looks like we’ve sent the bastards straight to hell.”

After the whooping of success settled, Iain pulled his mount close to Bram’s. “We’re blessed that your woman warned us.” He reined in his horse. “I have no doubt that we would have prevailed, but with her warning we suffered no loss of life. And you’re still in one piece.”

“Which is of little importance to anyone but me, at the end of the day.” Bram grimaced, gingerly rolling his injured shoulder.

“And mayhap your Lily,” Iain said, his smile guarded.

“I canna complain that we have routed our enemy,” Ranald said, reining in his horse, “but we’ve also managed to kill them all. Which means we canna question them to find out who the traitor might be. Did you recognize any of the riders?”

“Nay.” Bram shook his head. “But they wear the Comyn colors.”

“That they do,” Iain said, “but none have the look of a Comyn. They’re known for their wild black hair.”

“But not all of them share that trait,” Bram protested. “And the plaids dinna lie.”

“We canna know for certain,” Iain said. “’Tis possible they’re Comyns but we’ve had firsthand experience with men wearing colors that were no’ their own.”

“I canna disagree, cousin,” Ranald said, “but despite the fact that they dinna have the look of the Comyns, we canna dismiss this.” He opened his hand, a silver brooch glimmering in the pale light.

“God’s blood.” The words came out before Bram could stop them. “My father’s crest.”

Silence stretched across the gorge.

“In truth, I suppose some part of me wanted to believe that this wasna happening. That the events at Dunbrae were somehow limited to a location, a moment in time. That no one was truly after me.”

“I’m afraid you’ve no’ the luxury of allowing yourself that fantasy,” Ranald said. “Whatever happened at Dunbrae, the ramifications have spread. If for no other reason than because you live.”

“Then I have brought danger to your door,” Bram said, his stomach churning.

“We’re cousins, are we not?” Ranald asked, his tone carrying his disbelief. “Nay, more like brothers. So, unless I’m no’ understanding, your enemy is mine.”

“Aye, ’tis true,” Iain agreed, and Bram felt a weakness he was loathe to admit. These were his brothers as truly as they had been born to him. He did them disservice to have doubted.

“So what happens now?” Bram asked, not sure what the next step should be, but knowing that if he were going to survive, he needed to take a stand.

Lily shivered as she stared out at the dark mountains surrounding Duncreag.

Unable to sleep after her encounter with Bram, she’d followed the staircases up until she’d emerged onto the rooftop of the tower.

Surrounded by crenelated edges and holes cut through the stone that must have been for dropping God knows what on an attacking enemy, the floor was made of hewn stone.

Despite the precipitous drop below, the view was quite stunning.

Stars twinkled in the sky. And a few lights winked in the distant fields and mountains.

Signs that she was not alone. At least not in a literal sense.

Still, she couldn’t shake the feeling that she’d lost something more precious than even her parents.

Although just entertaining the thought seemed sacrilegious.

She was choosing a fantasy over the people she claimed to have loved most.

Her fingers closed on the cool silver of the wedding ring. Her parents would have wanted her to be happy. Of that she was certain. They wouldn’t have wanted her to drown in her grief. Or to let it drive her crazy.

She smiled at the thought, knowing somewhere deep in her heart that there was an explanation.

Maybe not a logical one. But at least something real.

She glanced down at the ragged cliff edges below, her mind trailing back to the vision, or whatever the hell it had been, of men climbing the narrow fissure, primed for attack.

There were no sounds carrying on the breeze, save for the whispering trees. No horses, no battle cries. No stronghold gate. Bram had mentioned that Iain kept men on guard.

But there was no gate. At least not here. Not now.

And no Iain either.

She tilted back her head, letting the cool night air soothe her. Maybe she’d been wrong to come. Maybe she was too fragile. Maybe Mrs. Abernathy was right and she should see a doctor.

Behind her a loose stone rattled, and she spun around, heart pounding, praying that it was Bram.

But instead a woman emerged.

“I’m sorry,” she said, holding up a hand in apology. “I didn’t know anyone was up here.” Her voice was deep, with just the slightest hint of a brogue.