by Katy Baker
Then she spotted something and Darcy's stomach flipped over. There, just a few meters to her left on the loch shore, rose the very thing she'd been trying unsuccessfully to find all this time.
The stone arch.
It rose gracefully into the air, one side attached to a sheer cliff, the other arcing out over the shore to come down into the cold waters of the loch itself.
Darcy’s pulse quickened. She glanced at the men around her but they didn't take any notice. They were busy checking their horses and figuring out exactly where they were.
John de Clare yanked his horse around to face the way they’d come. He reached into his saddlebags and took out a long leather tube with lenses fixed in either end. He pressed the tube against his eye and scanned their trail.
“Curse it!" he growled. "They're coming.”
Darcy's heart thudded. Quinn! It must be Quinn!
“So?” one of the men said. “We wanted him to follow us dinna we? We just keep riding and draw him into the trap we’re going to set."
With a sneer John de Clare flung the eyeglass at the man. "Idiot! Any advantage we had we lost in that damned fog. If I was a superstitious man I'd say it was sent to thwart us! Look for yourself. They'll be on us before we can reach the castle. We'll make our stand here - on ground of our choosing. We outnumber them and we have an ace up our sleeve."
He swung out of the saddle and then pulled Darcy roughly to the ground beside him. After so long in the saddle Darcy's legs were weak and she would have fallen on her backside had de Clare not kept a tight grip on her arm.
"Let me go!" she cried. "Let me go and Quinn might leave you alive!"
If she thought her bravado would intimidate John de Clare, she was disappointed. He just watched her impassively. The expression on his face made her shiver. There was nothing in his eyes. No emotion at all. She'd expected to see anger, rage, the burning need for vengeance. But there was nothing. That scared her more than his fury would have done.
"I admire your optimism," he said. "But I'm afraid it’s misplaced. Quinn will be the one who won't leave here alive."
"You really believe you can beat Quinn in battle?" Darcy said. "He'll kick your ass! He's the best warrior in the MacFarlane clan! You won't know what hit you!"
"Who said anything about battle? You seem to be laboring under the delusion that I plan to meet Quinn in combat. That is not the plan and never has been. When I attacked Dunbreggan I planned to capture Lady Rebecca. But instead I captured you and I've come to realize that you're an even greater prize. Quinn is an honorable fool. He’ll do anything to save his betrothed’s life." This time Darcy did see something in John de Clare's eyes. They gleamed with an almost savage glee. "Even give up his own life."
Darcy went cold. "What do you mean?"
De Clare moved like lightning. One minute he was stood in front of her, the next he was behind her, one arm across her throat, the other pressing the tip of a dagger against her chest.
"I mean, my dear," he said into her ear. "That when Quinn arrives I'll offer him a deal. None of his men need to die here today. They can all walk away, go back to Dunbreggan and their families. They can even take you with them. All Quinn has to do is stand there whilst I stab my sword into his treacherous heart. If he doesn't agree I can find other places to put my blade."
He increased the pressure on the dagger and Darcy gasped as she felt it bite her skin. A thin rivulet of blood stained her chest.
"You understand my meaning?" he asked.
“I understand,” Darcy said. “You're going to hold me hostage and use me against Quinn. That's a coward's way of doing things. Don't you have any honor?"
He barked a bitter laugh. "Honor? Honor is an indulgence. I’d rather have vengeance. And soon, my dear, you will help me get it."
He pushed her roughly away from him and she staggered and fell to her knees in the heather.
De Clare’s men had arranged themselves across the hilltop in a formation that would give them the high ground and force Quinn and the others to fight uphill. Darcy was no warrior but even she understood that this would put them at a disadvantage.
Don't come here, Quinn, she thought to herself. It's a trap. Please don't come here.
But she knew he would. De Clare’s plan was brilliant in its simplicity. Quinn would do it. He would give up his life for hers. She would be forced to watch him die.
I can't do that, she thought. I won't. I won’t allow it to come to this.
She glanced around. The stone arch lay so close. Tiny veins in the rock caught the light and made it glitter. If she could reach it then maybe she could escape this predicament and save Quinn from this trap. De Clare couldn’t user her against him if the archway sent her home.
She watched John de Clare, timing her moment. He bent to check the stirrups on his saddle, his horse momentarily blocking his view of her.
Darcy seized her chance.
She sprang to her feet and bolted towards the loch shore. It was difficult to run with her hands bound and the hillocky tufts of heather threatened to trip her. Nonetheless, she ran with all the speed she could muster, throwing herself in a slide down the sandy bank and onto the beach.
Her feet hit the sand and she took off along the shore. Her breath burned in her chest and her heart thumped but she carried on running, not daring to look behind her.
The stone arch loomed ahead - and there was somebody standing in front of it.
With a yelp of surprise, Darcy skidded to a halt. Her eyes widened as she recognized the short, round woman who stood there as if waiting for Darcy.
Irene MacAskill.
She wore a long flowing dress of sixteenth century cut rather than the smart business suit Darcy had last seen her in, but Darcy would recognize her anywhere. That impish smile, those rosy cheeks, those large brown eyes that seemed to look right into Darcy’s soul. The silver deer brooch was pinned to her dress.
"Well, it's about time, lassie," Irene said in her singsong voice.
“What...what are you doing here?” Darcy panted.
"Waiting for ye, of course, dearie," Irene said, cocking her head. "Waiting to discover what choice ye’ll make. It's all about choices in the end, ye see."
"You came through the arch?" Darcy asked. "You came back in time just like I did?"
“Nae, lassie. I dinna need the arch to do that. I'm of this time and yer time and all the times between."
Her words made no sense but Darcy didn't have time to figure it out. "If I go through the arch now, will it take me home? Will it save Quinn from John de Clare’s trap?"
"Aye, it will. De Clare canna follow ye. If ye return home, he canna use ye against Quinn. Quinn will be free to fight.”
Darcy paused. If she went through that archway, all this would be over. She'd be back in her own time, in her own place.
But without Quinn.
Yet what choice did she have? De Clare and his men would be coming for her. They'd use her against Quinn. They’d hold her hostage until he did what they wanted. She had to go through the arch. It was the only way to keep him safe.
"Not easy, is it, lassie?" Irene MacAskill asked. "The best choices never are. Ye have one to make now, lassie. Quinn MacFarlane is up there fighting for ye. I have to admit he passed his test better than I ever would have hoped. How will ye face yers? Will ye go home to yer old life or will ye walk back up that hill and fight for the man ye love?"
***
Up ahead the fog was clearing. One minute the landscape was obscured by a white blanket, the next that white blanket broke apart to reveal a group of mounted men waiting for them on the hilltop.
"That's them!" shouted Quinn, standing in his stirrups as he galloped. “Fraser, cut round to the left and stop them flanking us! Robert, go right. I’ll take center.”
His companions nodded grimly. They were outnumbered by de Clare and his men. Usually, not good odds.
But not today, Quinn thought. The odds don't matter. We will prevail. We hav
e to.
The men atop the hillside sat their mounts calmly and waited. Quinn's eyes scanned the group, searching for Darcy and John de Clare. He saw neither of them.
He drew his sword and held it over his head. "For MacFarlane!"
With a roar, de Clare’s men spurred their mounts into motion. Quinn smashed into the nearest rider with enough force to almost rip him from the saddle. He clung on, spinning his mount and swinging his blade at de Clare’s man. They exchanged blows in quick succession, the sound of clanging metal echoing across the hilltop. The man was good, obviously an accomplished swordsman.
But he wasn't good enough. Quinn feinted to his left, drawing the man after him and then pulled his mount in a tight circle and swung his blade to strike with the flat of the blade against the man's temple. The man's eyes rolled back in his head and he toppled from his horse.
Quinn’s companions were involved in fierce close-quarter fighting. Robert was hemmed in by two of de Clare’s men. But Robert was an expert horseman and his mount danced nimbly in and out, turning almost on a sixpence so that by the time the two men got their weapons to bear, he’d already switched positions. The two men hampered each other, seemingly unable to coordinate their attack. As Quinn watched, Robert ran one through and then barged the other’s mount, knocking him to the ground.
Quinn looked around desperately, searching for some sign of Darcy and John de Clare. Where were they? Why wasn't she here?
Turning his mount in a circle, he caught a glimpse of John de Clare scrambling down the hill on foot, towards the loch shore. With a cry, he spurred his horse into motion, driving his mount to the edge of the hill and then springing from the saddle. He slid and scrambled down the slope until he reached the shore of the loch.
He flicked a stray strand of hair from his face irritably and looked around, sword clutched in one hand. Perhaps fifty paces ahead of him an archway stretched from the hillside into the loch. To his immense relief he saw Darcy standing in front of that archway.
But pelting towards her across the shore was John de Clare.
Fury bloomed in Quinn's chest. He took off after de Clare, his feet pounding the ground, his arms pumping. He would not let de Clare reach Darcy.
"Turn and face me!" Quinn yelled. "Turn and face me like a man, coward!”
Quinn was gaining on de Clare. When he was perhaps five paces behind the man, Quinn bunched his muscles and launched himself through the air. He collided with de Clare and sent them both sprawling to the ground.
De Clare’s fist connected with Quinn's chin hard enough to snap his head to one side. Quinn rolled away just as de Clare’s sword thudded into the sand where he’d lain.
"You bastard," de Clare growled. "I'll kill you."
Quinn staggered to his feet. He'd lost his sword when he threw himself at de Clare and it lay several feet behind his opponent, too far for him to recover. Quinn dropped into a fighting crouch, hands curled into fists, eyes fixed on his enemy.
De Clare had regained his feet and was standing with his sword tip resting in the sand, eyes glaring hatred at Quinn. Slowly, they began to circle. Quinn risked a glance at Darcy. She was watching the fight with wide, fearful eyes. And there was somebody else with her.
Irene MacAskill.
He didn't have time to ponder what the woman’s presence might mean. All his attention was focused on John de Clare.
Without warning the man sprang at him. He moved like lightning. Quinn threw himself to his right, getting out of the way of de Clare’s blade just in time. It scored a graze along his cheek rather than taking off his head.
Quinn spun and lashed out with his foot. His kick caught de Clare’s knee and made him stagger, giving Quinn just enough time to roll and grab the hilt of his sword lying in the sand. He brought his blade up just in time to catch the downswing of de Clare’s two-handed stroke. The two blades met with an almighty clang.
Quinn heaved on his sword, pushing de Clare back long enough for him to regain his feet. De Clare came at him and they traded blows, swinging and ducking and parrying, each trying to get through the other's defense. De Clare was good. By God, he was good. His reputation as one of the best swordsman in the land was not exaggerated. In only seconds, Quinn found himself fighting for his life.
And still Darcy stood there, watching. And still Irene MacAskill stood by her side, watching.
Choices, she had once said to Quinn. It's always about choices. The question was now, what choice had she offered Darcy?
Why do ye stand there, love? Quinn thought. Run. Run!
Chapter 19
Darcy was frozen to the spot. She watched the fight with horror, fear running through her veins like acid.
John de Clare fought like a madman. Quinn was hard pressed to keep him at bay. The two men's swords were a blur, their movements quick as they tussled back and forth across the beach.
She had to do something. She had to help Quinn. But she couldn't move. She felt the pull of the stone arch behind her. She felt the pull of Quinn ahead of her. It was like being caught between two magnets.
Irene MacAskill cocked her head as she watched Darcy. The old woman was as eerily calm as ever, completely unperturbed by the fight going on just meters from where she stood.
"That's the pull of home, ye feel,” she said. "It's a strong one isn't it? Now you have to make yer choice, lassie."
The murky blankness inside the stone arch suddenly shimmered. It coalesced into an image, an image of home. Darcy saw the city with its bustling streets, lines of traffic, coffee shops, shopping malls. It seemed so vibrant, so full of life. A pang of homesickness went through her, so strong it almost drove her to her knees.
All she had to do was step through the archway and she would be home.
All she had to do was abandon Quinn.
But she couldn’t do it. She couldn’t leave him. He needed her.
Quinn's attention, which should have been focused wholly on the man he fought, was divided. He kept glancing in Darcy’s direction when he should've been watching his opponent. And each time he glanced at her, a look of worry and doubt flashed into his eyes as though he somehow knew she teetered on the edge of a decision that could take her away from him for ever.
She glanced over her shoulder at the image of home in the stone arch and then very deliberately turned her back on it.
What is home? she thought. Home is the man I love. Home is Quinn.
“Quinn!" she bellowed. "Fight! Beat him! I'm here! I love you !"
As if drawing strength from her words, Quinn redoubled his efforts. His blows became harder, quicker, his feet moved faster and a look of steely determination came over his face. He began pushing John de Clare back towards the water.
But John de Clare redoubled his efforts too. It was a stalemate. They were too evenly matched. Their blades locked together and the two men pushed against each other, their faces mere inches apart.
"Ye killed my brother!" Quinn snarled at de Clare. "I won't rest until ye've paid for yer crime!"
"He got what he deserved," de Clare spat back. "He ruined my life. I lost everything because of him, because of the MacFarlane clan! It’s taken me years to rebuild all you took from me. I will have my vengeance!"
“And ye thought ye’d do that by attacking Dunbreggan? By hurting innocent people? Yer argument is with me and Robert, de Clare. Why should my clan pay for yer hatred?”
“Nobody is innocent,” de Clare grated. “And when you’re dead I’ll kill your brother. Then I’ll ride to Dunbreggan in victory as the conqueror of the MacFarlanes!”
“Yer a fool!” Quinn growled. “The siege has been raised! Dunbreggan is free. Ye’ve failed, de Clare.”
De Clare’s eyes widened and for a moment he seemed stunned by this news. But he mastered himself in an instant. “You think that matters? I command the Murray clan now. We are far stronger than you could ever hope to be. I’ll take Dunbreggan one day. I’m a patient man, I know how to wait. Killing you today will be e
nough for now.”
With that, he braced his feet and pushed with all his strength. Quinn took a grudging step backwards. De Clare lifted a foot and hooked it around Quinn’s, tripping him. It was a dirty move and Quinn wasn’t expecting it. With a curse he staggered back, sword flying from his hand.
With a shout of triumph de Clare swung his sword.
“Quinn!” Darcy screamed.
His eyes snapped to hers. His eyes were filled with love. He wasn’t afraid. He seemed resigned as de Clare’s blade swung at him.
Darcy felt something touch her palm. She looked down to see she was holding the wolf-head dagger Quinn had made her and the bonds tying her wrists had been cut. Where had the dagger come from? She glanced at Irene MacAskill who merely shrugged. She didn’t stop to question.
“Catch!” Darcy screamed.
She flung the dagger towards Quinn. He caught it hilt-first and rammed it into de Clare’s chest just as he began the killing blow. De Clare’s eyes widened. He stared at the blade sticking from his chest. De Clare’s mouth worked as if he was trying to form words but no sounds came out. Then he toppled backwards onto the beach and lay still.
“Quinn!”
Darcy scrambled across the sand and threw herself into his arms. He held her tight, pressing her against him, his strong arms around her.
“Hush, love,” he whispered in her ear. “It’s over. Yer safe now.”
Darcy clung to him. She never wanted to let him go. He was her home. How could she have ever thought otherwise?
He pressed his forehead against hers. “Are ye all right, love? He dinna hurt ye?”
“No. I’m fine.”
“I’m glad.” He looked over her shoulder and tensed.
Darcy turned to see Irene MacAskill approaching. She smiled warmly at them.
“So it seems the choice has finally been made. I feel quite the proud mother hen.”
“What are ye doing here, woman?” Quinn snapped. “I should have guessed ye’d have something to do with this mischief!”