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Will laughed low to himself. It seemed the more perilous the situation, the more humor his friend brought to bear. But still, Ormonde’s message was clear. He was trussed, captured by three men.

Will rowed closer, pulling along the far side of the militia boat. He’d need to intervene before they got back onboard their birlinn. Somehow disable the three men and save Ormonde.

With naught but his cane and a dagger.

His eyes creased in thought. There wouldn’t be much time. He just needed to plunge in and hope a strategy made itself clear.

Will slid back into the icy water, and it was oddly warming on his cold, wet clothing. Scowling, he trudged the shallow river, casting his mind open for a plan. The silt was thick, and it fought his every step like a bog. So damnably slow , he thought. And then the idea struck.

All men move slowly in the water.

Will had been cursing it, but really, this hateful river was the great equalizer. It mattered not that he was crippled. Every man who tried to move in shallow water would be rendered a lumbering fool.

Ducking out of sight, he waited, assessing their location. Birlinns were low and light—it was what enabled them to move easily through shallow water—and this one hugged close to shore. The militiamen would need to push it back into the water, with a man at the rear to guide it.

He waited, knowing what would come, and finally he heard it. Someone approached from the rear of the boat. The man cursed low to himself, about the cold and the muck, completely unaware of what lurked for him in the water.

Will sank to his knees. Though he canted his chin up, the river swayed and splashed lazily, tasting soft and muddy at his mouth. Water seeped under his collar and sucked the heat from his chest, but focus made him immune to the cold.

He eased his cane underwater, stretching it out along the river bottom.

There was splashing, another curse, and the man came into view. Will’s sight was accustomed, but this man moved from moonlight to shadows, and it took him a moment to adjust.

Holding tight to the base of his cane, Will sucked in a breath and slipped beneath the surface.

Blackness and silence engulfed him. Steadying himself, he dug one hand into the slime of the river bottom and extended the cane before him with the other.

The water fought his every movement, and he flexed his wrist, fighting to keep the handle from skimming into the silt.

He swung, pushing the cane in a sluggish arc through the water. The crook struck the man’s ankle, and Will gave a quick, sharp tug.

The man fell into the water with a shout and a splash. Will came up for air, distantly aware of the change in the other men’s voices. He had but a moment to silence this one before he let out a call of alarm.

He went under again, dragging the man’s foot to him. Will grabbed the man’s thigh, pinned flailing hands beneath his feet. And then Rollo drowned him.

It seemed to take forever for him to thrash his last. The two of them struck an obscenely intimate pose, this stranger’s body writhing beneath him, the water’s resistance cho reographing a languorous dance.

Will’s hand tangled in the man’s hair, holding him under while he tilted his own chin up for precious sips of air.

Until finally, blessedly, the man flinched, and grew still.

He didn’t have a moment to savor his victory. Hearing the commotion, the other men called to their fellow.

Someone was making a clumsy approach from around the back, and Will kept his eyes trained on the rear of the birlinn. Which meant he didn’t sense the man behind him until he felt the knife on his throat.

“What have we got here?” a voice hissed in his ear.

Anger, clear and lightning bright, was his only response. Felicity. He needed to live for Felicity.

Will grabbed the man’s knife hand, securing it. With a growl, he slammed his elbow back, catching the man in the gut. His attacker stumbled back. Will stood, pivoted, watching in slow motion as his attacker arced his blade arm back up.

Forget the blade. Fight the man.

Will made a fist, his every ounce of desire to see Felicity a tidal wave driving his punch. His right fist slammed into the man’s jaw. Immediately, Will torqued his torso, catching the man’s cheek with his left. He swung up, his right fist connecting with the man’s chin.

The militiaman wavered, gave an uneven shake to his head, and then collapsed into the river.

The third and last man approached fast at Will’s back, and he spun to face him, just in time to see Ormond hobbling behind, arms still trussed at his back. His friend dove for the militiaman, slamming awkwardly into him, both falling with a splash into the river.

Ormonde struggled to stand but his feet kept sliding on the viscous muck of the river bottom. His trussed hands made his body awkward, and his head slipped below the surface of the freezing water. He bobbed up, inhaled sharply, and disappeared again.

The militiaman had recovered from his fall and stalked toward Will, Ormonde ready to drown if he didn’t act fast.

Rollo reached down, his frozen fingers fumbling along his calf. His dagger. He gripped it, careful to keep ahold of the wet hilt. Standing tall, he took the blade of the sgian dubh between his thumb and fingers, and threw.

The man teetered, clawing at the knife stuck in his throat, and then disappeared into the black water.

Will stumbled, leaping for his friend. Hooking his hand under Ormonde’s arm, he pulled him to standing.

“That was quite a pretty throw,” Ormonde said, steadying himself. He feigned nonchalance, but Will heard the relief in his voice.

“MacColla’s woman showed me the trick.” Will stood behind him, studying his wrists. The knots were tight, the bonds cloth, not rope.

“Good Lord,” Ormonde exclaimed. “You’re better men than I with these . . . uncommon women of yours.”

Will laughed low, picking at the knots. The water had made them tenacious, and he leaned down to tear the fabric with his teeth. “I seem to always be saving your hide,” he grumbled, then spat a thread from his tongue.

“It’s the hair, Will.” Ormonde shook out his arms, and gestured to his bright red curls, dusky brown in the moonlight. “I stand out.”

“Then how did you manage not to get shot?” Rollo asked, eyeing his friend for injuries. “Such fireworks. The Gloucester militia must’ve expelled their munitions stores for the next month.”

“Stand out I may,” Ormonde assured him, “but I am also quite wily.”

“I see.” Will chuckled. “Or the militiamen are blind in the dark, more like.”

There was a light splashing along the bank, and, locking eyes, both men froze. Turning in unison, they poised for attack. But it was only Massey, chest heaving with exertion, peering into the darkness of the river. “Oh,” he said simply, seeing Ormonde standing shoulder to shoulder with Will.

Will smiled. Massey’s single “oh” spoke volumes. He turned his attention to the water, scudding his feet along the riverbed.

“Is this what you’re looking for?” Ormonde slipped under to dig in the silt, coming back up with Will’s muddied staff. “You took a great risk, helping us,” he said, dashing the water from his face. “You have my gratitude. And it seems it is I who owe you now.”

Will raised his hands in protest. “Och, please man, let’s just call the tally even.”

The two men laughed low. “Now go, friend,” Ormonde said, handing Rollo his cane. “You’ve done enough. Go to your woman.”

“ Now you’d have me leave?” Tugging his wet collar from where it clung at his neck, Will shook his head.

“Soaked, cold, and disarmed? Thank you, no.” He shivered, looking downriver to where the fishing boat bobbed near the dock.

“We’ll take that tub down to Bristol and part ways there.

I might hate sailing, but it’ll be the fastest way between here and Lochaber. ”

Ormonde laughed, clapped Will on the back, then shuddered as a sudden chill seized him. “Good Lord, man,” he said, a smile still on his face. “Lochaber? You must really love this woman.”

“Aye,” Will said simply. “Love her I do.”