“Me? I’m just a humble servant.” Her chin lifted into a position that was anything but humble.
“Humble, my arse!”
Louie smiled at him. “Your kilt is riding up.”
Ugh! Of course it was. Bannon glanced down, and sure enough his plaid had crept up to midthigh again. Every step his horse took made it do so. With a sigh, he tugged the fabric down, toward his knees, for the hundredth time in the past quarter hour. He still wasn’t sure why he had to wear a kilt, but Ciaran had insisted. Other clans were not going to be fooled into thinking him a MacKay by the fact that he wore a kilt. His short, fashionably cut red hair made him stick out, since all the MacKays had long hair. “To quote Winstol, you suck! And stop changing the subject!”
Wait. I thought we wanted to change the subject?
Oh, you suck too, Timothy!
Louie raised a brow at him as if sensing his inner argument with himself, then smirked at him. “That doesn’t sound like something Marcus would say.”
Bannon growled. Damn it, he was going to have to stop calling Trouble Winstol. “A humble servant doesn’t call a marquess and a marquess-consort by their given names.”
“She does if they insist.”
Well, she had him there. Marcus and Patrick were both quite insistent that he and Louie call them both by their given names, protesting that they hadn’t felt like nobility in quite some time and that titles were significantly unimportant, given what they were dealing with. Bannon certainly couldn’t argue with that logic. Trouble would approve; he hates titles.
His horse tried to speed up, and Bannon had to pull back on the reins so his voice came out a little bumpy when he said, “I don’t know how to tell them. It just didn’t seem appropriate to blurt out ‘Your son is alive. Oh, and by the way, one of those IN admirals who you hate is raising him as his own.’”
“They never said they hated Lord Deverell.”
“But they don’t trust him. Even after we vouched for him.”
“Can you blame them? They trusted Jenkins and look what he did.” Louie gave a mock shudder.
Bannon’s shiver wasn’t so mock. He still couldn’t believe that Jenkins was in on all of this. Father was going to have an apoplexy when he found out.
“You’re being overdramatic.”
Reining his horse around a craggy boulder in the middle of the pass, Bannon glared. “I am not.”
“Are too.”
“Am n….” Ugh, why did she always make him argue with her?
“They are reasonable men. They will understand and even be grateful that Trouble has been so well cared for and loved.”
“Will they?” He wasn’t so sure. Maybe he could tell Ciaran and let Ciaran tell them. They seemed to adore Ciaran.
And who can blame them?
Glancing up the line, he found Ciaran.
Blast, the man was gorgeous, even if he was still barbaric.
It really is a shame we don’t have a sketchscreen with us.
Timothy was right. It definitely was a shame, but somehow Bannon doubted it mattered. Ciaran was not a man easily forgotten. He certainly haunted Bannon’s dreams last night. He didn’t know whether to thank the witch otherwise known as Maggie or add her interruption yesterday to his list of reasons he didn’t like her. What was he saying? Of course, he was thankful—his self-restraint was not one of his positive qualities….
You don’t have any self-restraint.
Sadly, Timothy was correct. He didn’t, and that was why he always got himself into so much trouble.
As if sensing his gaze, Ciaran looked back, and he dipped his head. Then before Bannon could return the gesture, Ciaran faced forward again and steered past an outcropping.
Ciaran started up another incline. His horse, Horace—Horace the horse. Timothy snorted in his head, and Bannon nearly snickered just as he’d done when Ciaran had said the horse’s name earlier—Horace took the steep slope easily, his huge feet seeming to almost grip the rock. It crunched under him, but Ciaran moved as if he were part of his mount. It was a thing of beauty, watching the powerful chestnut and his strong master work as a team.
Four other MacKay clansmen followed, making it look just as easy. As big as their horses were, it almost defied logic that they were so agile, but their horses never faltered.
Bannon had gotten a horse with less discipline. He had to keep reminding his horse, whose name was Flùr, who was boss.
Flùr kept wanting to gallop.
“Bannon, are you listening?”
What? Bannon dragged his attention back to Louie. Had she said something?
She tsked and rolled her eyes. “I asked what was going on between you and Ciaran.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“You glow every time you look at him. And yesterday you looked positively flushed when you came in from killing that pig.”
“Maybe because I just killed a pig?” Bannon grumbled.
“Somehow I don’t believe you.” She arched one delicate brow at him.
Somehow neither do I.
“There is nothing between Ciaran and me.”
“Okay, fine, you don’t have to tell me, but I think you should use caution. You can’t get involved with him.”
“I know that! And I’m not involved.”
Too bad long-distance relationships hardly ever work.
You aren’t helping, Timothy! To Louie, he said, “He’s not at all my type!”
She gave him that look again that said clearer than words that she didn’t believe him. “I’m the only one here to chaperone you and guard your reputation.” She heeled her horse and rode off, going up the slope Ciaran and the four men behind him had just navigated.
Bannon could only stare after her and gawk. Louie was the worst chaperone in the universe. And when did she care about his virtue? This was the woman who made bets with him that he couldn’t get free fruit by flirting with vendors at the market. Shaking his head, Bannon rolled his eyes.
Up ahead, the path made a sharp turn only a yard or so after the trail led upward, but Louie handled it with little effort. She’d always had a good seat. Her horse’s rear end disappeared behind a cliff face and Angus followed her.
When Angus disappeared, Bannon clucked his tongue. “All right, Flùr. No funny business.”
Flùr listened to him and went without a hitch, but his blasted kilt slid up his legs again. How did Ciaran wear these things? With a groan Bannon shoved the plaid back toward his knees and Flùr lurched forward. “Whoa!” Bannon pulled on the reins. “This is no place to gallop.” They went around the turn, and a chuckle sounded behind him.
Bannon peeked over his shoulder as one of the MacKay warriors rounded the bend. He was a big, burly man like the rest of them, with long blond hair and a scruffy beard.
The man grinned at him, showing off a few missing teeth. “Every time ye adjust ye kilt, ye tighten ye knees, lad. Flùr is a warhorse, and she thinks ye want her tae go faster. If ye press with one knee, she’ll turn toward the pressure till ye let up. Ye control with ye legs, not ye hands on the reins.”
“Oh, so I’m the cocklehead.” The idea was intriguing and very convenient. Once they got on flat land, he was going to have to experiment with the whole knee-steering thing.
The warrior chuckled again and rode off.
As Ciaran topped the crest, he slapped a hand to the back of his neck and started glancing around.
Bannon looked too, but all he saw was mountain. They were near the place where Bannon had seen the cave the other night. Where Ochre Nose had planted him a facer and tied him up. For the first time, doubt came over Bannon as he watched Ciaran’s back stiffen.
Ciaran turned his head to the side, his jaw tight. With the sunlight behind him, he looked younger, which was a complete contrast to how he acted. He held himself like a man with a lot of responsibility on his shoulders. They all had that same look. That watchfulness, like they were just waiting for something to go wrong.
The path narrowed, and the man in front of him dropped back, following Bannon as they all formed a queue. They headed down the slope where Bannon slid headfirst into the MacLeans. He shuddered at the thought, and his face began to throb where Ochre Nose hit him.
Bannon led Flùr through two boulders and rode out into the open larger area, where Bannon and Louie had been tied up. In the daylight, it seemed less ominous. With no areas disappearing into shadow, the space was smaller than Bannon had thought. It had an almost cozy feel to it, with cliff walls going straight up on each side and one way in and one way out. Bannon raised his chin and shielded his eyes against the sun, trying to see the top of the cliff.
Skye in daylight, without a storm and impending death, was a sight to behold. It seemed almost mystical like two sides of a coin—the foreboding clouds and the inviting light behind them.
A whistling sound dragged Bannon from his wistful observation.
What was—
At the front of the line, a piece of the cliff exploded, and small fragments of rocks rained down on Ciaran and Angus, like someone had kicked rocks off the cliff. Strange.
Were they being ambushed from above? Bannon’s gut felt as though someone were trying to strangle it as he squinted up at the cliff. There was no one up there.
Ciaran ducked, holding up one hand to ward off the debris, and Horace backed up. The clansmen near Ciaran spread out like ants who’d had their ant hill stepped on. They all went into action. The men behind Bannon rushed forward, as though they were privy to something Bannon was not.
Louie had stopped and glanced back at Bannon, clearly as puzzled as he.
The whistle sounded again as Ciaran reached over his head and pulled his sword from the scabbard on his back. He held it forward like a lance and leaned forward. Horace charged down the narrow pass, out of sight. What the…?
More rocks fell from the opposite side of the cliff, but this time a black burn mark marred the spot.
Oh my galaxy. We’re being shot at! The canyon had disguised the sound, but Bannon was certain that must be it. Why else would rocks break off that way? He tightened his knees on Flùr, and they lurched forward toward Louie, his only thought to protect her.
Fortunately, she clued into what was happening too and stayed put.
Several more MacKays charged forward toward the pass, riding between him and Louie. It was like running down a long tunnel in a nightmare and seeing your goal but not being able to reach it. Bannon’s heart raced, rushing through his ears like waves of the ocean. He had to protect her.
Louie’s horse pranced in place, but she quickly calmed it.
Shouting came from beyond the pass, echoing off the rocks. The pew sound of fraggers being fired filled the air.
Soon he and Louie were alone on the narrow pass.
“What do we do?” she asked. “We have to help.”
Bannon was torn. It wasn’t in his nature to not stand up for himself, but he didn’t want to leave Louie, and he definitely did not want her fighting. “Stay here!” He reined in close to Louie, leaning forward and getting right in her face. “So help me, if you get killed, I’ll never speak to you again!” He left her gaping after him and heeled Flùr down the path, his stomach somewhere in the vicinity of his throat.
The clash of steel met his ears before his eyes registered what he was seeing. It was chaos. Complete and utter chaos. Highlanders fought on the ground and on their horses. Slashing and stabbing at men in black jumpsuits. Forty or so against twenty MacKays, but the MacKays were doing okay, especially considering that some of the mercenaries had fragger pistols. The men with fraggers stood in the middle of the crowd, taking aim. Already a few Highlanders had fallen.
Bannon’s throat tightened, trying to close up. He searched for Ciaran but didn’t find him.
Angus had flung himself off his horse and onto a mercenary. In a split second, he dispatched him. Blood sprayed as he slashed at the man’s side, leaving the man’s forearm dangling from what looked like skin or tendons.
Bannon swallowed back bile and turned away from the sight.
The MacKays still on horseback charged the men with fraggers, and another MacKay was shot from his horse. He quickly gained his feet and forged back into the fight. Thank galaxy.
Another MacKay speared a man with his sword, and his horse trampled another.
A shot flew past Bannon’s head, and in his panic, he applied his knees to Flùr. He had to do something….
Flùr bolted into action. Oh dust! He didn’t have a sword or a fragger…. Leaning down low over her back, Bannon charged forward with the MacKays. It was like wading through a teatime crowd on Platt Street.
Flùr trampled a man with a saber who slashed at Bannon, using her hooves like weapons and pawing at him.
Another MacKay fell in front of Bannon, his kilt flying up and exposing his bare arse.
Bannon gawked and froze, even though Flùr kept going. He had nothing on under his kilt.
Another fragger bolt came close, snapping him out of his shock. Galaxy help him, he had no idea what to do. He was going to die. Shouts and screams of pain rang in his ears, and smoke and dust made it hard to breathe. The sheer terror almost had him turning around, but out of the corner of his eye, he saw something moving… fast.
Ciaran.
Horace barreled forward in a dead-run.
Bannon turned back, looking for where Ciaran was headed, and found his target on a flat boulder away from the rest of the group. He had a rifle. No way Ciaran could make it in time.
The man with the rifle took aim, but Ciaran didn’t stop.
Gulping in a breath, Bannon urged Flùr forward, aiming her at the rifleman. “Arrrrh!” You can’t shoot us both.
The rifleman turned to look at Bannon, and Bannon’s chest began to ache so badly he felt as though it were going to explode, but he didn’t stop. He couldn’t.
The mercenary dismissed him and turned back at Ciaran, taking aim again.
Ten feet. Almost there.
Ciaran didn’t let up either.
Six feet. Just a little more.
Someone screamed.
Bannon thought he heard his name, but he didn’t stop. Louie, that was Louie, but he couldn’t look for her. Three feet. I’ve got this. Bannon heeled Flùr harder and stretched lower over her neck. Come on, Flùr, let’s stomp this bastard like the other one.
Light flashed from the muzzle, and Ciaran jerked in the saddle.
Bannon rose up a little, sucking in air. It was as though someone grabbed ahold of his lungs and squeezed. He could only stare. Helplessness and failure flooded him at once as he watched Ciaran’s sword slash.
The man’s head fell from his shoulders, in slow motion the rifle fell from his hands, and his body collapsed into a heap. Blood spurted from his open neck.
It should have made Bannon cast up his accounts, but it didn’t. He couldn’t feel anything but the burning need to get to the rifle. Not even waiting for Flùr to stop, he slid from the saddle and dove for the weapon. He landed on it and scrambled to get it into position.
Ciaran stopped too, but he didn’t climb down from Horace. He stared at Bannon, gave a quick nod, and his eyes went expressionless. The sword fell from his hand, and he slumped forward on Horace.
“No!” Somehow Bannon managed to get the rifle to his shoulder. He wasn’t even sure how he did it, but he started taking aim and firing. He shot two men, and then someone screamed his name.
“Bannon, to your left!” It was Louie.
He spun to his left in time to see a merc with a pistol take aim at him. He fired, shooting the man dead in the center of his chest.
There was a loud roar of shouts, then the mercs were running. One tried to grab a fragger on his way, but Bannon shot at him. He missed, but the man left the fragger. Bannon followed the retreating men to their ship with his gaze, staring down the sight of the rifle. He watched them disappear over the foothills. The whirl of a ship’s engine sounded, and the small shuttle
took off. Then he watched the ship vanish into the atmosphere, following it with the rifle the entire way.
He slowly became aware of the voices around him. Lowering his gun, he looked out at the battlefield. There were several bodies, at least twenty. Some mercenary, some MacKays.
A sick feeling filled Bannon’s stomach and tears welled up in his eyes. He clutched the weapon close to his chest as he watched the remaining MacKays go to their fallen men. Louie was with them, helping a man sit up. There was so much blood and gore. A few horses had even been killed.
Ciaran! Bannon turned frantically, searching. He found Ciaran lying on the ground, Horace and Flùr standing close by. Bannon’s heart hammered away in his chest, and the sounds of the men around him faded into the background. His legs were numb, but somehow he managed to make it all the way to Ciaran’s side.
A bloody burn spot marred the upper part of Ciaran’s chest, toward the left shoulder, and blood blossomed on the white fabric of his shirt, spreading outward.
Bannon skidded to a halt, standing over Ciaran.
Brown eyes blinked up at him, and a soft smile eased over Ciaran’s pale lips. “Ye did guid, Red, but ye need tae sit down before ye fall down.” He reached a blood-encrusted hand up to him.
Wrapping his fingers around Ciaran’s, feeling the warmth, Bannon let it soak into him. Ciaran was alive. It was his last thought before his legs gave out and everything went black.
§ § § §
Lochwood Castle
The intermittent moonlight peeking through the clouds cut a white swath across the glassy surface of the lake, like a pathway leading all the way to the moon. It looked as though he could walk that trail, reach up, and touch the glowing orb as if it were separate from the endless cloud-covered sky above him. As if he could just grab hold and pull himself up into the haze and disappear. What if that was what death was like?
Bannon leaned back on his hands, resting them on the battlement where he sat, and his eyes blurred with tears. His stomach was a swirling mass of goo, and his emotions weren’t much better. He’d thought for sure that Ciaran was going to get killed today, and even now the thought made his heart race with panic. The reaction puzzled him. He hardly knew Ciaran, but that didn’t seem to matter.
My Highland Laird: Sci-Regency Book 5 Page 14