Page 13 of Mist Warrior (Legacy of the Mist Clans #1)

The sennight passed. Branan’s knees ached, but he remained in the small chapel, where he had been praying all night. The chapel near the tower was crude by most standards, made of rough-hewn wood. Recently, Brother Gregory had joined them as their priest. The cross Branan had made for his foster-parents’ memorial adorned the basic altar. Unfortunately, the quiet solitude of the tiny place gave Branan no solace.

The dawn brought with it Catriona’s wedding day.

Branan had been on his knees all night, begging God not to awaken the sun. With the earnestness of Christ in the Garden, he prayed for a miracle—that Catriona would somehow avoid this fate, that he would not lose her to another man.

But the Almighty remained silent, and as dawn grew in strength, Branan felt the approach of destruction as clearly as Christ knew when the soldiers came for him...and when he suffered Judas’s betrayal.

John de Reigny had betrayed Branan by sealing his daughter’s fate in favor of his foster-son’s future.

Branan heard the first stirrings of life outside and slowly rose, his muscles and joints throbbing. But nothing matched the agony in his heart. Branan had vowed to escort Catriona to her wedding today, and although it would mean the devastation of his spirit, he would uphold that oath. He would not abandon Catriona, and he would not pass on his last chance to spend time with her before she became another man’s wife.

Branan trudged out of the chapel and returned to the tower solar, where he cleaned himself up and changed into his finest garb. He, Gavin, Duguald, and the Scotsmen who accompanied him, would escort Catriona to the chapel at Brackenburgh. Although he dreaded this day, he vowed it would be perfect for Catriona.

An hour later, Branan critically reviewed the entourage. Horses and armor gleamed in the pale sunlight. He had found a small palfrey for Catriona, which was so gray it was white, without a dark hair on it. The ladies had woven flowers in its mane, but right now it strained against the page holding it, trying to nibble on a tender shoot of grass. The Scotsmen flanked the palfrey. A few paces behind stood the horses for Catriona’s ladies-in-waiting.

Branan tore his gaze away and looked up at the sun. The morning aged and Catriona had not yet emerged from the tower. Did she find it as necessary to delay as he did?

The members of Thistlewood gathered, waiting expectantly. Finally, Branan spotted movement at the door of the tower as Catriona and her maids emerged.

She was so beautiful she brought tears to his eyes.

Her under-dress was made of a fine white linen which de Courcy had acquired in his business dealings. The quality was greater than anything Branan had ever seen. An expensive blue brocade, also from de Courcy, made her over-dress. It was belted with a gold-beaded girdle. A small gold coronet woven with tiny white flowers adorned her hair, which flowed freely down her back. Long trails of flowers descended with the red-gold locks. She moved with grace and beauty.

Catriona approached and her gaze locked on his. Her blue eyes, reflecting the deep color of her brocade, appeared as intense as a summer sky. But as she stared at him, he saw them mist with tears. Branan had to force himself to look away, lest the sorrow in her eyes shred his heart and force him into an action which would destroy them both.

All he wanted to do was sweep her into his arms and ride away, never to be seen again.

Somehow, Branan managed to curb the insane desire, which increased in power with every heartbeat. Summoning his courage, he strode to her.

“My lady,” he said, his voice thick as he bowed. “Ye are radiant this day.”

Catriona offered a hesitant smile, then her teeth nibbled at her lower lip.

Branan reined in his emotions as violently as he would a wild stallion. From his pouch, he pulled a small item wrapped in a cloth made of the same weave as his plaid.

“This is for ye, lass,” Branan whispered, stepping closer, even though he demanded that his feet remain in place. “Carry it with ye and ken that ye carry my heart.”

She blinked in surprise, then took the bundle and slowly opened it. Nestled in her palm was the tiny cross he had given her for her birthday, the one he had found in the ashes of her home.

“Oh,” Catriona breathed, her free hand traveling to her lips. She looked up at him, a single tear finally escaping. “My cross. Where did you find it, Branan?”

“It matters not,” he said, brushing the tear from her cheek. “Dinna cry lass, ’tis your wedding day.”

Suddenly, she looked as if she would lose control completely.

Branan wanted to scream his frustration to the heavens. All of their discussions, all of the arguments and reasons not to go through with this, stampeded through his mind like a wild herd. Yet he kept his jaw clamped shut. They had already said all they needed to say, and he would not add more weight to her shoulders.

Instead, Branan took a deep breath. “Allow me to assist ye, lass.”

She nodded, fisting her hand around his gift. He gently gripped her slight waist and helped her mount.

Catriona settled herself in the saddle and Branan backed away as her maids arranged her skirts. He watched her, but she refused to look at him again, holding the necklace so tightly her knuckles turned white. Slowly, he turned and walked to his destrier.

Branan mounted and glanced over his shoulder. Gavin approached his sister and gently gripped her hand. He spoke to her, but Branan could not hear what he said. Yet he saw Catriona’s face pale even more and she gave Gavin a slight, but firm shake of her head. Branan scowled. What words had Gavin spoken?

Her brother squeezed her fingers, Catriona’s expression eased, and Gavin walked to his horse. Branan led the party from Thistlewood on the path to Brackenburgh.

He purposefully kept a slow pace, his fool war horse chafing against the bit. The animal arched his neck and lifted his hooves in an exaggerated prance. All too quickly, Brackenburgh came into view. Branan glanced over his shoulder at the entourage, still in fine form, then looked down at his mount, who was acting as if he led the queen’s royal party.

Branan lifted his chin and squared his shoulders. No doubt they all made an impressive sight. He only wished the circumstances were as such that he could truly enjoy it.

They entered the gates of Brackenburgh and Branan immediately spotted de Courcy waiting with his own entourage at the door of the keep. Branan felt a fierce stab of pride as de Courcy’s eyes widened upon seeing them.

Branan’s emotion quickly melted into primal jealousy. He suddenly wished he had ordered Catriona dressed in sack-cloth with straw in her hair and a surly mule to ride. He chastised himself; even presented thusly Catriona would still be beautiful. This day deserved to be hers alone. Everything would be perfect, even if he had to brain a few people to make it happen.

His gaze locked on de Courcy, whose expression had changed from impressed to gloating. Branan suddenly knew on which skull he had to start.

They stopped in the bailey and Branan dismounted, moving to Catriona to help her from her horse. He wrapped his arm about hers and Gavin stepped forward, taking her other arm. Branan felt her shaking so hard he feared she might collapse. They stepped away from the horses, her maidens following.

De Courcy approached and bowed.

Gavin spoke, his voice low and strained. “I present to you my beloved sister, Lady Catriona de Reigny, for marriage as agreed in the betrothal contract signed by my father.”

De Courcy bowed again and extended his arm. “Well met, and thank you for coming.”

Branan willed himself to step back and release Catriona’s arm, but he couldn’t. De Courcy blinked at him in confusion and somehow Branan compelled his body to move.

De Courcy usurped Branan’s place, but surprisingly, Gavin delayed even longer than Branan. He stared down at Catriona, and for the first time, Branan saw concern and worry in his eyes. He offered a smile, but it was halfhearted. Dear Lord, Gavin’s hesitation would make things even harder on Catriona.

Finally, Gavin released her and moved next to Branan. They hovered right behind the couple, like two guardian angels.

“What did ye say to her afore we left Thistlewood?” Branan whispered.

Gavin’s jaw tightened. “I told her again, if she changed her mind, you and I would support any decision she might make.”

“I dinna wish her to do this.”

“Neither do I. But de Courcy has fulfilled his part of the betrothal contract. If Catriona decides not to go through with this, de Courcy has the money to petition the bishop’s court. She might find herself without a dowry, and I may lose a substantial amount of de Reigny holdings.”

“And Catriona willna risk that.”

Gavin nodded firmly.

They stopped on the steps of the chapel in the bailey. Branan stood strong as the priest performed the ceremony, but he felt short of breath—as if someone were standing on his chest. He wanted to scream for this to stop. He wanted to draw his claymore, grab Catriona, and pull her out by force.

But he remained mute and unmoving.

At the end of the ceremony, the priest commanded de Courcy to kiss the bride. Red spots appeared in Branan’s vision as de Courcy brushed his lips over Catriona’s. Branan clearly recalled the fire a kiss from Catriona could ignite in a man. Only ironclad willpower kept him in his place.

After Mass inside the chapel, the wedding party entered the castle for the feast and revel. Branan knew he would not be able to eat, but wondered if he could drink himself into oblivion with de Courcy’s fine wine.

His gaze returned to Catriona. Her jaw remained clenched and her face appeared pallid. At some point, she had used one of her hair ribbons and returned the cross he had given her to her throat. She had not spoken a word except to state the vows and voice her assent to the marriage. Branan grew more concerned over her.

Afternoon aged to evening as the revel commenced. The gates of the castle remained open to allow the revelers to come and go as they pleased. Torches lit the bailey and the guests feasted and danced. De Courcy and Catriona accepted the congratulations of well-wishers. De Courcy no longer seemed overbearing, but neither did he seem to notice that Catriona appeared close to collapse.

Branan’s jaw tightened, but it was not his place to protect her. It was her husband’s duty to mind her welfare, and Branan had no say in the matter.

His shoulders bowing, he decided he could remain no longer. He had to leave and try to salvage what was left of his heart. Moving with purpose toward the couple, he bowed, then dropped to one knee before Catriona.

“Lass,” he said taking her hand in his. “I must beg yer leave on this evening. Know I wish ye happiness and prosperity in the future.”

She blanched then smiled, squeezing his hand firmly.

Fortunately, another guest, well into his cups, distracted de Courcy with slurred congratulations.

Catriona leaned forward. “Thank you, Branan,” she whispered into his ear. “Know my heart will always be yours.”

A sharp pain cut through his chest, and he quickly rose. Branan kissed Catriona’s cheek and for a moment he remained frozen, inhaling the sweet scent of her hair. He tried to commit every detail to memory: her gentle beauty, her wonderful scent, and the feel of her hand in his. “Be well, my sweet,” he whispered, then quickly walked away. Motioning to the others, he waited impatiently at the door as those from Thistlewood bid their farewells to her.

The last was Gavin. Branan’s throat tightened as her brother swept Catriona into a strong embrace that lifted her from her feet. She clung to him, and Branan feared she would burst into a storm of tears. Gavin released her and kissed her cheek. He joined Branan and the other men, who were all quickly moving into the bailey.

The sun had set, leaving a faint orange glow on the western horizon. The sky turned a deep velvet blue, with only the brightest stars visible. The pressure in Branan’s chest grew worse as he mounted his horse and they rode through the gates.

They descended from the high motte that formed the castle’s foundation and rode across a flat field before traveling up a rise and turning onto the trail that would take them back to Thistlewood. Branan paused on the rise, looking back at Brackenburgh. The glow of the torches was still visible. The keep, though built for war, looked warm and inviting with its gates open and people passing in and out. But Branan knew that was only because he had left the one who meant the most to him behind its walls.

“Laddie,” Duguald said, moving his horse next to his. Gavin flanked him on the other side. “Are ye well? Ye appear rather gray.”

Branan shook his head, forcing his gaze back to the trail. He sighed and winced as the pain in his chest increased. “I’ve faced many difficult trials in my life, but none so great as this.”

Duguald scowled. “I dinna think—”

“Duguald, ye told me not to lose my heart, but I didna listen.” He paused, locking his uncle in his gaze. “I love her.” Branan turned his mount and kicked it into a trot.

Duguald and Gavin made no move to catch up, and he put two lengths between them before slowing to a walk. He heard them talking quietly, but could not make out their words.

They approached the tree line and Branan could not resist one last look back. He shouldn’t, it would only cause more pain, but he couldn’t stop himself.

As he stared at the huge keep, he wondered if his heart would ever heal. Branan had been so daft not to realize the aching desire within him was not simply lust, but a much more powerful emotion. He had ignored it, because he had thought that part of him was dead, but now he realized the truth too late. Would he ever be able to love again? Would he ever find a woman he could love as much as Catriona?

Branan muttered a bitter curse, ready to turn away, for he knew the answer to that question. The flicker of a torch caught his eye. He blinked and focused his vision. This torchlight was not coming from the castle, but moving toward it over the dark land. Late-arriving guests? Then he saw more torches, at least half a dozen. Branan scowled and jerked his horse to a stop. The animal snorted in protest, lifting its hooves off the ground. He ignored the beast. More torches joined the first group.

“What is it, Branan?” Gavin asked, as he and Duguald pulled to a stop beside him.

Branan pointed.

“What the devil?” Duguald muttered.

The number of torches increased and a shiver of warning crawled down Branan’s spine. This was larger than any wedding guest party Branan had ever seen, and moving much too quickly. A low rumbling sound reached him, the sound of heavy horse.

“Branan?” Gavin asked. “Do my eyes deceive me or is that a battle standard? ”

Branan squinted, the growing darkness making it difficult to see. But he finally spotted the standard in the midst of the column. He couldn’t see the heraldry, but he didn’t need to.

“Strickland,” he growled.

“De Courcy said Strickland was growing more suspicious of him,” Duguald said.

“Either that or he wants more money,” Gavin added.

Branan’s gaze locked on the open gates and his heart jumped to his throat. “Nothing stands betwixt them and the keep. Most of the guards were drunk when we left. They will storm the bailey without warning.”

Duguald cursed.

“Simon!” Branan snapped, drawing his claymore. “Ride to Thistlewood and bring the mercenaries. Make haste, man!”

Simon galloped off and Branan hauled his horse around.

“Branan,” Gavin said. “We are ill-equipped for battle.”

“So is Brackenburgh, and I willna leave Catriona unguarded.” He touched his spurs to his mount. The animal reared and screamed its challenge. Branan charged toward Brackenburgh with the others close behind him.

****

Catriona tried to hold on to her courage, but terror and sorrow raged within her. She had known today would be difficult, but she never imagined saying good-bye to Branan would tear her heart to shreds. She had tried not to look at him, because when she did, she saw her own pain reflected and magnified in his expression.

The hour grew late and most of the revelers were beyond sotted. Richard guided her away from the crowd. “Mayhap now would be a good time to retire,” he said. “I have no stomach for a bedding ceremony.”

He tugged gently on her arm, but Catriona’s feet seemed as if they had suddenly grown roots into the ground.

A slight frown furrowed his brow. “Come, lady, before someone sees us and insists on the ceremony.”

That managed to get Catriona moving up the stairs, although her step was slow. They entered Richard’s solar and he closed the door, bolting it behind him. He revived the fire in the hearth, then rose and stripped off his sword belt, tossing it into a nearby chair. Next he removed his tunic, leaving only his boots and hosen.

His body was lean and strong, but did not have the power of Branan’s. Her heart lurched and Catriona quickly averted her eyes. Why must she keep thinking of Branan? She clasped her hands tightly in front of her, staring at the floor.

Richard sighed softly and poured two cups of wine, moving to hand one to her. She took it, praying he couldn’t see her shaking .

“’Tis been a long day,” he said, sinking onto the divan before the fireplace.

“Aye,” Catriona whispered, managing to take a gulp of wine.

“You are frightened.”

She nodded.

“Worry not, dear wife, I shall be gentle this eve.”

Wife. The word made the bile rise in her throat, and the thought of him bedding her made her absolutely ill. She took another drink of wine.

“Sit with me, Catriona, please.”

Surprised and uncertain, Catriona joined him on the divan.

He took her hand in his. “Catriona, I am truly sorry. I know you’ve been placed in a very difficult position and I have not made it any easier.”

She stared up at him, her eyes wide with astonishment.

“When I was forced to bed to recover from my injury, it allowed me time to think, to consider you and all I had learned. My upbringing did not prepare me to deal with a woman who can shoot a bow, who does not mind physical labor, who will stand boldly and let me know in no uncertain terms when she is displeased with me.”

Catriona felt her lips tug upward. Richard grinned and pulled her fingers to his lips, kissing them softly. “My harshness with you was mostly due to fear...fear you would be injured or even killed. I thought you were intentionally placing yourself in danger.”

She opened her mouth to speak, but he shook his head. “Nay, lady, let me finish, please. When I was abed, I found myself longing to go hunting with my forester, or riding, or even meet with someone to discuss a new venture. I was trapped in my room with no escape, no idea of the happenings around me, and no freedom. Suddenly, I realized that was exactly what I had attempted to do to you. I understood perfectly then why you reacted to me the way you did.” He paused and sighed softly. With his free hand he reached up and gently began to remove the flowers from her hair. “Despite my desire to separate myself from Branan’s quest, I came to Thistlewood so often not only to see you, but because I began to realize the freedom you found there. I felt it too, Catriona, the sense of community, of family, of shared purpose. I know now why you felt comfortable there and why you wanted to stay.”

Catriona felt a bit of her fear ease. If Richard could understand that, perhaps there was hope for them. Perhaps he would not lock her away and forbid her any joy in life.

“I know I have been a beast, Catriona, and I pray, just give me an opportunity. I am trying very hard to open my eyes to new possibilities. I know I will make mistakes, but I vow, for the sake of your happiness, I will try to be the husband you need and give you the home you deserve.” He cupped her cheek in his hand, his dark eyes glittering .

Her throat tightened with emotion. She had never expected this sort of response from him. “Richard, thank you. I will—”

A terrible crash resounded through the keep and they both jumped.

Screams echoed up the stairs with noises Catriona could not define. Richard lifted his head, his nostrils flaring and the planes of his face hardening in anger. “God’s bonnet,” he snarled. He rose and seized his sword from the chair. “If this is that fool Scotsman of yours, I will have his head on a pike.” Richard strode past her and opened the door.

Catriona heard the sound of steel clashing against steel. What was happening? Had Branan and Gavin done something daft? She didn’t know if she should shout grateful praises or terrified curses.

Richard stepped through the door, his bared blade gleaming in the firelight. She thought he might charge forward, but suddenly he froze. “Bastard of Strickland,” he growled.

What?

Richard reached into the room. “Catriona! To me, quickly!” The urgency in his voice drove her to his side without question. “Stay behind me. Back up to the end of the corridor.”

Catriona thought she had been terrified before, but it was nothing compared to this. Three men stood before her new husband, fully armored. Two were giant knights and the third was smaller, but built like a bull. He had sandy blond hair and a beard, but Catriona could make out little else in the poorly lit corridor. Was he David...Strickland’s bastard heir?

One of the knights cut at Richard. He easily parried. Fortunately the corridor was too narrow for them to attack two at a time. “Back up,” he growled again.

Instinctively, Catriona placed her hand on his back, so he would know where she stood. In a fighting retreat, they slowly withdrew down the corridor.

Richard continued to parry sword blows, going on the offensive only when the knights closed the distance. He was a good warrior, but he fought without armor.

They reached the end of the corridor. “The floor,” he snapped, his breath short and sweat rolling down his body. “Move the rug.”

Catriona quickly did so and spotted a bolted trap door. An escape route! She frantically tried to free the bolt.

Richard battled to fend off an attack and avoid stepping on her. “Hurry!”

Catriona snapped a curse as the bolt abruptly came free and she ripped her knuckles on the latch.

Richard glanced down at her for an instant.

“Nay!” she screamed, seeing the knight seize the opportunity. His sword drove deeply into Richard’s gut .

Richard bellowed, cutting down the knight and opening his throat. Blood spouted from the wound, showering Richard and spattering Catriona. The second knight attacked and Richard, clutching his gut with his free hand, barely managed to block the blow, but he countered with a kick to the man’s groin. With a muffled gasp, the man staggered, plowing into David and knocking him back a few paces.

Catriona tossed open the trap door. “Come on!” she screamed, grabbing Richard’s shoulder and tugging him toward her.

“Go! Down the ladder.”

She scrambled down. It was pitch-black, but within a few steps she felt a solid floor beneath her. Richard descended, fighting to hold on to his sword and the ladder with his right hand, his left still clutching his belly. “Stand against the wall, Catriona. I’ve got to drop my sword.”

“All right,” she called back. She heard a clatter in front of her. Richard slammed the trap door closed and bolted it. An instant later, sharp blows echoed against the heavy wood and a loud cracking sound resounded.

“That will only slow them down,” Richard said as he descended. “We’ve got to move fast.”

“I can’t see a bloody thing.”

“Give me a moment,” he replied. His labored breathing echoed harshly in her ears. Suddenly a spark flared to life and Richard lit a small lantern, pulling it from a shelf against the wall. She spotted the glimmer of sword blades on weapon racks. “I like to be prepared, but I never thought I’d really have to use this escape route.”

In the faint light, Catriona saw blood streaming through Richard’s fingers and down his leg. The blood appeared too dark, almost black. A deep enough gut wound would be fatal. “Blessed Mary,” she whispered and tore her skirts into long strips.

“We must hurry,” Richard said through clenched teeth.

“This will only take a moment,” Catriona said. She wrapped the strips of fabric around him, binding the wound tightly. Richard sucked in his breath, muttering curses against the pain.

“’Tis the best I can do.”

“Good enough,” he said with a bitter smile. “Hand me my sword, lady, please. In the corner, you’ll find another trap door, we will follow them all the way to ground level.”

She quickly found the trap door and opened it. The blows against the door above them continued. Catriona took the lantern from Richard and quickly descended. Richard paused only long enough to bolt each door, but she heard the others breaking through the one above just as Richard would secure the one below.

Finally on the ground floor, Richard bolted the last and staggered against the wall, his face ashen .

“Come on,” she said urgently, grabbing his arm and tugging him forward.

“Straight ahead,” he gasped. “There is a heavy oak door which leads to the bailey.”

Catriona hauled Richard’s arm over her shoulders, but he could barely stand. His weight threatened to drive her into the ground. She found the door and opened it. They lurched through into the chill of the night air. In the bailey, she saw men fighting; not far from her lay bodies with various weapons strewn around them.

Richard fought to close the door behind them, but he staggered, almost falling.

The door crashed open, knocking him back three paces where he slammed into the dirt. The knight and David charged through. Catriona’s gaze desperately scanned the ground. She saw a crossbow, the quarrel still in place, and lunged for it. Seizing it in shaking hands, Catriona turned and aimed. The knight lifted his sword to kill Richard.

She squeezed the trigger.

The bolt struck the man full in the face, killing him instantly. As he toppled over, Catriona charged, swinging the crossbow with all her might. It smacked David in the jaw and knocked him on his back.

“Richard!” she screamed and grabbed his arm. Somehow, Catriona hauled him up. He used his sword like a cane and lurched forward. They entered the bailey and Catriona heard a familiar voice bellowing a war cry.

“Cruach Mór!”

Her gaze locked on Branan in the middle of the bailey, fighting like a man possessed. Blood soaked his inar and plaid, but he continued to move with fluid grace. His claymore swept outward, dealing death with every stroke, smashing through armor and bone. Beside him fought Gavin and Duguald, their weapons also mowing through Strickland’s men.

“Praise the saints,” Richard whispered. “I never thought I’d be so glad to see that man.”

“MacTavish!” another voice roared.

Catriona spotted Simon galloping through the gates, the mercenaries of Thistlewood behind him.

“I take back everything I ever said about your foster-brother,” Richard said and laughed. He gasped in pain, his knees buckling. Catriona managed to pull him toward a wall, away from the immediate fighting. She eased him down, his back against the stone.

“Branan!” Catriona screamed, wondering how her small voice could carry over the din of the fighting.

But Branan’s gaze locked on hers. He killed the man he fought and cut his way toward her.

Catriona sent grateful praises to the heavens. But too many fought between her and Branan. She and Richard were trapped.

Terror raged deep within her. She forced it down and began tearing strips from her skirts, trying to bind Richard’s wound. He panted, his eyes glazed with pain.

“Nay, Catriona,” he whispered hoarsely. “You know it’s mortal.”

“Nonsense,” Catriona snapped, but in her heart she knew...he was right.

Richard grabbed her hands with surprising strength. “Listen to me,” he growled. “I am dead. My only concern is for you. Get to Branan. He will keep you safe.”

She tore her gaze from his and looked over her shoulder. Branan still hacked through the enemy, trying to get to her, but he made slow progress. There were just too many.

“Catriona,” Richard said, his voice gentling. He touched her cheek with bloodstained, shaking fingers. “I pray you forgive me.” He paused and smiled bitterly. “We would have had a good marriage, my sweet, as soon as you pounded some sense into my thick skull.”

Tears pushed forward in her eyes. “Richard, I am so sorry.”

His dark eyes seemed dull with pain, his normally tanned skin gray from blood loss. A wisp of his long mahogany hair escaped its tie and brushed across his cheek. Gently, Catriona smoothed it from his face. To be sure, he was a handsome man. She only wished it did not have to end like this. Not with his death...Christ Almighty....not like this.

“You are my wife now,” Richard whispered, cupping her face in his hands. “All that I have is yours. Help Branan. He will take care of you. He loves you, my sweet.”

Catriona blinked at him, startled.

“Why do you think I was at odds with him so? I see it in his eyes every time he looks at you.” Sadness filled Richard’s gaze. “I had hoped, eventually, we might find love between us...you and I...but now…”

“Catriona!” Branan’s voice roared across the bailey. “Behind you!”

She looked over her shoulder. Strickland had rallied a handful of men and they were coming toward them.

Richard snarled a curse, surging to his feet.

“Richard, nay!” Catriona gasped in horror.

He sagged against the wall, his right hand gripping the hilt of his sword, his free hand pulling her closer. Richard’s mouth descended on hers for a hard kiss. Deep within, Catriona sensed his gentling and his sorrow, his lips slid over hers in a tender and poignant farewell.

Richard pulled back, and for a moment his eyes blazed with life. “Go now,” he said hoarsely. “Get to Branan. I’ll hold them off for as long as I can.”

“Richard—”

“Silence, woman! Run!” He shoved her away and through an effort of supreme will stood on his own power, brandishing his sword.

Catriona hesitated, watching as Richard crossed swords with the first man. But he was weak from blood loss. He blocked two blows before the third slammed between his shoulder and neck, tearing flesh and cracking bone. A crimson stream spewed from the wound.

“Catriona!” Branan roared. “Run!”

Terror and sorrow cut through her as she saw Richard drop and knew he would never move again. Tears blurred her eyes as she sprinted away.

Another of Strickland’s men saw her. He broke away from the fighting and charged.

“Cruach Mór!” a voice shouted.

Catriona looked up in confusion, knowing the voice was not Branan’s. Jamie ran toward her. Catriona sprinted to him with all her might, forcing her legs to move.

Jamie dove past her and tackled the soldier just as the man’s fingers brushed the fabric of her dress. They rolled on the ground, but it was Jamie who gained his feet first. His sword ended the man’s fight.

Catriona found herself trapped in a corner with wooden crates of supplies. She cast around for escape as Jamie backed toward her, determined to defend her with his life.

Her foot bumped something on the ground. Catriona saw more weapons strewn about...and a bow. Her gaze took in a quiver of arrows and then a second one caught her eye.

“What the hell am I doing?” she snarled. These bloody whoresons had slain Richard and it was damned sure time she made them pay. Catriona snatched up the bow and arrows. “Jamie,” she barked, moving toward the crates.

“Lass?” he asked, his voice fearful. Jamie spied the bow in her hand and a wry grin creased his face. “Aye, lassie,” he said and moved to give her a boost.

Catriona gained the top of the crates. Jamie spun, readying himself to meet the charge of the next attacker as he closed the distance. She drew a deep breath and expelled it to still her shaking limbs. Catriona nocked an arrow, pulled back the bow string, and sighted along the shaft. Just as the soldier raised his sword to attack Jamie, she opened her fingers.

The arrow buried in the man’s chest with such force it knocked him backward. His dead eyes stared at nothing. Wasting no time, Catriona nocked another arrow and loosed again, killing a second man. Then she spied the bastard...a third time an arrow flew. Unfortunately, it missed its target, but it forced David to make a frantic dive for cover behind a wagon. Two more arrows followed and buried in the wood.

She heard Branan whoop and caught his eye as he gazed up at her, grinning like a little boy. But she saw movement behind him and her humor vanished. Catriona aimed and before Branan could realize what was happening, her arrow zipped past his head, so close it stirred his long hair. He jerked away and spun around just as the missile killed the enemy lunging for his back.

Branan stared at the dead man on the ground. Wide-eyed, he faced her again.

Catriona winked at him.

Shouts arose. With the advent of an archer picking them off on a whim, many of Strickland’s men threw down their weapons and ran for the gates. A horse squealed loudly. From her vantage point on the crates, she saw David mount the beast and spur it forward, trying to escape.

“Catriona!” Branan shouted. He pointed at David with his sword. She was the only one who had a chance.

Again, she drew back her bow. Her arrow slammed into David’s shoulder, almost knocking him from his horse, but somehow he held on, continuing his mad charge for the gate.

She cursed and fired again, but missed.

Her third arrow hit the horse’s hip as it galloped through the barbican and she could no longer see her target.

“Bloody cod-sucker!” she screeched. She leaped from the crates. Her feet hit the ground and Branan’s arms enveloped her.