Page 8 of His Wicked Highland Ways

Bright sunlight glittered off the waters of the burn as from shards of glass, blinding Finnan’s eyes. When he and Rohre, with Danny’s mount now trailing well behind, entered the copse of trees not far north of Rowan Cottage, the sudden gloom further dampened his sight. Indeed, not until Rohre’s stride broke and the horse tossed his head did Finnan realize they were no longer alone.

A group of mounted men had ridden out of the trees onto the path, blocking Finnan’s way.

His every instinct roused in response. Ten years away from home and he had been first and foremost a warrior. Before he could curse, he had his sword in his hand, the same razor-edged blade with which he had defended his life across Scotland. Blinking fiercely, he saw his attackers all came heavily armed.

But who were they? And from whence had they come? He controlled Rohre with iron knees, leaving his hands ready to fight, and the horse snorted.

Finnan spared a thought for Danny coming behind. If things got ugly, the lad would ride right into it. He eyed the mounted men, assessing his chances. Six of them, two planted abreast at the front, four behind. Finnan sneered; he’d faced steeper odds, though usually with Geordie at his side.

“Well,” said one of the two men in front, “if it is not the MacAllister cur who considers himself laird of this place.”

Avrie . The name appeared whole in Finnan’s mind, spurred by the hate he heard in the voice, and just like that he knew his opponents. How, though? The brothers Avrie—Stuart and Trent—had been conspicuously absent from the glen since Finnan returned and killed their traitorous father. But another thought possessed his mind. “Where is my sister?” he demanded.

The man on the left—was he Stuart?—tossed his head. “Lost to you, turncoat murderer. You will never see her again.”

Rage rose to Finnan’s head. “You think I will not make you pay for your crimes, even as did your accursed sire?” He tossed his head much as Rohre had. “Get you out of my way.”

Stuart Avrie spoke again. “I think not. A coward such as you might find it easy to terrorize an old woman and a man on his own. But his sons are here now, and serving you notice we will answer you as you deserve.”

Finnan’s head jerked up further. “I am no coward.”

“Nay? Is that why you stood against our Prince at Culloden and fought on the winning side?”

Finnan said nothing. He owed explanations to no one, especially these jackals.

“The Crown pays its turncoats well,” said the second brother, who must be Trent. “And the dog came back to Glen Rowan a wealthy man. What does that tell you, Brother?”

“That he needs settling.” Stuart gestured to the men at his back. “Take him.” And the two of them rode away into the gloom beneath the trees.

Finnan understood the gesture: they would be elsewhere, with clean hands, when he was slain. But his lip curled in derision. And they called him a coward!

Still, his career and much of his future had been founded on just such strategy. Was it not why men of high renown paid mercenaries? And he liked these odds much better.

He eyed the wall of four men on horseback who faced him. Were they mercenaries as well, or just members of Avrie’s household guard? Either way they were paid men, with little invested in the cause.

He knew how liberating it was to hold no stake in the outcome of a battle. It freed a man’s emotions and let him concentrate on the matter at hand. Yet he could not, himself, be more invested.

As if to prove his point, he heard the approach of Danny from behind. He called out, “Go back, lad! Do not join me here.”

“What? Why?”

Finnan did not need to turn his head to see Danny disobeyed his order.

He called again, “Stay at my back!” And he urged Rohre forward with his knees.

The men were not mercenaries, as he learned at the first pass. A mercenary would have employed far dirtier means to spear him than did his first opponent. Finnan, nothing loath to use every trick at his disposal, feinted and got inside the man’s sword to slit his throat with the razor blade almost before the fellow could blink. He fell from his horse with a thud, and the animal blocked the others’ way, further improving Finnan’s odds.

The second man, a chancer, whirled his sword around his head and came in bellowing. Finnan ducked and barely saved himself from scalping.

He heard Danny holler from behind. While his opponent was overextended, Finnan launched himself from Rohre’s back and took the man over backwards from his mount. They both landed hard on the track; the air left his opponent’s lungs with a rush.

Rohre and the other animal danced, cutting off the two remaining riders. To Finnan’s horror, he heard Danny come wading in.

The fool! The lad was no warrior, and he carried no sword, only the dirk in his boot. Filled with alarm on Danny’s behalf, Finnan closed his hands around his opponent’s throat and bashed his head against the ground until the man passed out.

He had dropped his sword in the fall but now recovered it before scrambling to his feet, his muscles working with well-trained efficiency.

The sight that met his eyes set his blood aflame. The last two guards had Danny trapped between them, the lad already disarmed. Even as Finnan watched, one man struck. His sword took Danny in the stump where his right arm should be.

Without conscious thought Finnan raised his sword and chirruped to Rohre. The horse, head high and nostrils flared, answered, and Finnan vaulted onto his back. They moved together into the fray.

He took the second man, who blocked his way, in the back between the shoulder blades, and cursed as the fellow fell. Rohre, now as enflamed as Finnan, shouldered the man’s mount aside. Moving together, they were in time to see Danny’s attacker stab the lad viciously.

“No!” Finnan bellowed the word, all his heart in it. He watched Danny’s eyes go wide, saw the lad slump over the neck of his mount as his attacker withdrew the blade.

“Face me!” he roared. “I am no unarmed lad. Face me like a man!”

The man jostled his horse and turned it in the limited space. His gaze flicked toward his fallen comrades and then locked on Finnan.

“I know what you are,” he sneered. “Everyone knows. A traitor, a turncoat, a murderer.”

Finnan’s blood burned so hot he barely heard the words. All he saw was Danny doubled over in agony.

He urged Rohre forward, and the horse, picking up on his emotions, charged. Finnan’s sword met his opponent’s in the air with a wild clang. He felt his mind slip into fighting form—no distractions, few emotions, just total concentration.

For Danny , he thought when he marked the man’s shoulder. And for my Da , when he slit the fellow’s sword arm, causing him to drop the weapon. For myself , he thought when his blade kissed the side of the man’s neck with swift competence.

He felt a flash of satisfaction then, for he remained untouched. Unlike Danny.

Swiftly, he dismounted. Rohre stood blowing air and trembling with reaction. Danny had tumbled from his mount during Finnan’s last encounter and lay in a heap on the ground.

“Guard,” Finnan told Rohre. He did not know if the two brothers Avrie lurked somewhere nearby, watching to see the outcome of their ambush.

He thrust the sword upright in the ground, ready to his hand, and knelt down beside Danny, laid hold of the lad, and turned him over.

Blood, a veritable river of it. The cloth Danny kept pinned over his stump had been shredded, but the wound in his chest caused Finnan’s lips to tighten, for it was from there the bright blood spewed.

Yet the lad’s eyes were wide open, stretched by shock.

“Master Finnan—”

“Hold on, lad. I will get you to safety.”

Where, though? If he turned back for Dun Mhor there might well be another troop of men waiting for him. And he would have to pass by Avrie House.

But Rowan Cottage lay directly ahead. And the Widow MacWherter owed him, whether she knew it not.