by Emma Prince
He dragged the horse to a halt as they crested the rise. A moment later, the others reached the top and did the same.
A stunned silence, broken only by their horses’ pants, hung thick over them.
Gregor glanced at each of them, his dark brows lifted. “What the bloody hell just happened?”
No one answered for a long moment, then Artair wheezed a breath that was almost a laugh. “Mayhap we were just saved by an act of God.”
“Or the Devil.” At Domnall’s grim comment, the others grew serious.
“Either way, we cannae waste this opportunity,” Artair said, his green gaze slicing into each one of them in turn. “We made a pledge in that stinking dungeon. If one of us survived, we wouldnae stop until we’d rained hell on Balliol for all that he’s done, all he’s taken from us.”
Artair’s voice cracked like a whip even over the pounding rain. They all knew what he’d lost—a brother, slain in Balliol’s cowardly attack a fortnight past.
“Aye,” Domnall growled, on top of Gregor and Tavish.
They’d all lost much, suffered much, thanks to Balliol’s arrogant quest for the Scottish crown.
“Justice will be served,” Domnall murmured, rubbing the raw skin on his throat. “Balliol and those who helped him will pay.”
“How?” Tavish asked. “How do we bring them down?”
“We’ll need an army,” Gregor said.
“And the help of those in parliament who are still loyal to King David,” Artair added, his golden brows knitting together in thought.
“That is all well and good,” Domnall rasped, “but I dinnae just want a victory. I want vengeance.”
The image of Bhaltair, lying in a pool of blood, his eyes wide with pain and fear, made Domnall’s hands tighten on his reins.
“Surely we cannae ride together, though,” Tavish said, lifting his chin in the direction of Scone Palace. “We’ll be wanted men now. Hunted.”
Domnall followed Tavish’s gesture with his gaze. Far in the distance, the gray stones of the palace could be made out against the green landscape. Soldiers swarmed like ants in front of the gates. The Highlanders hadn’t been followed, but it wouldn’t take long for Balliol’s men to set out after them.
It hadn’t been a coincidence that the four of them had been locked in a cell together, nor that they would have been hanged outside the palace for all those coming and going to see.
Each one of them had distinguished himself within the loyalist army. Domnall was one of the few Lairds who’d come to fight his own battles rather than simply sending men to stand against the Pretender. The others had risen in the ranks as the cause’s strongest, most superior warriors—leaders among men.
Balliol wouldn’t let their escape stand—not when they could be made examples to deter future resistance to his usurped reign.
“We’ll split up,” Artair said. “Ride in different directions to the four corners of Scotland.” He glanced at them each in turn. “Dinnae return home. Dinnae seek out those who ken ye. But wherever ye land, do aught ye can to forward our cause.”
“No matter what,” Tavish said, his hazel gaze flicking to Domnall. “We’ll keep fighting with our last breath to get our revenge.”
Gregor frowned. “Scattered as we’ll be, how will we communicate?”
They all pondered that for a moment.
“Do ye all ken Old Blair’s Stone?” Tavish offered. “It stands just north of Pitlochry, at the feet of the Cairngorms.”
Domnall and the others nodded in response. The standing stone rested at the very heart of Scotland. Because of the strange carvings it bore and the whispers that it carried the Old Magic, most Scots gave it a wide berth.
“We can leave messages there,” Artair said. “Communicate our moves so that we can coordinate our efforts against Balliol.”
“I only have one condition,” Domnall murmured.
Gregor cocked his dark, dripping head. “What is that?”
“The traitor Murray is mine.” His growl sounded more animal than human. “Even before we take on Balliol, I want that bastard to pay in blood for what he did.”
The others fell silent for a moment, giving Domnall room to regain control over the rage that threatened to burn him to dust.
“Murray has a holding in Tullibardine, I believe. West of here,” Artair offered, his voice soft.
“Then MacAyre rides west,” Tavish said, giving Domnall a nod of respect.
They quickly determined that Artair would go east, Gregor north, and Tavish south. When that was settled, they angled their horses so that they could each clasp forearms one last time before dispersing.
“Luck be with ye,” Artair murmured to Domnall as they gripped arms. “And remember—ridding Scotland of Balliol is our goal. Dinnae lose yerself going after Murray.”
Domnall bit back the scathing words that leapt to his tongue. Artair’s warning was most likely justified. But Domnall was like a hound with a scent in his nose. He wouldn’t give up until Murray’s blood had been spilled. He could worry about ousting Balliol after that.
Even once their farewells were spoken, the men lingered on the hilltop for another moment. It seemed fate had bound them together in this quest for retribution. Why else had their lives been snatched from Death’s grasp and given back to them?
“What are we then?” Tavish asked quietly. “Avenging angels?”
Gregor snorted in dry amusement. “I dinnae think we could be called angels by any stretch of the imagination.”
Domnall glanced down at the ornery, ugly horse beneath him. “More like the four horsemen of the apocalypse, sworn to unleash a cataclysm of torment onto Balliol and all those who helped him.”
That brought a glow to Artair’s eyes and a grin to Gregor’s mouth. Even solemn, quiet Tavish nodded in approval.
“Until we meet again—on earth or in hell,” Artair said.
As one, they spurred their horses into motion, reining into the four directions.
Domnall’s hellion horse leapt into a reckless gallop. He lowered his head over the beast’s neck, letting the wild charge take him. Each stride brought him closer to his goal.
Murray would be his soon enough.
Chapter Three
Waiting until nightfall was one of the hardest things Domnall had ever done.
Finally. Finally, he’d tracked Murray down.
It had taken nigh on a month, and had dragged him over half of western Scotland, but it would all be worth it in a matter of another quarter hour. Then he’d have Murray under his dagger.
While Domnall had waited at the edge of the tree line for the tide to go out and darkness to fall, he’d had plenty of time to imagine how it would go.
Stalcaire Tower was positioned a long stone’s throw out into Loch Linnhe, which wasn’t truly a loch at all, for it opened into the sea. A day’s worth of observation had revealed that at low tide, the island upon which the tower sat could be reached on foot rather than by boat.
Granted, Domnall’s boots would be wet by the time he reached the tower, but that was a small inconvenience to get his hands on Murray.
He would approach from the north, skirting the tower’s main doors and the rudimentary dock where a rowboat had been tied. Then he would have to sling a rope onto one of the tower’s chimneys and scale four storeys’ worth of stone.
Fortunately, he knew exactly where he was going. A telltale glow leaked out from behind the shutters in the northeast corner of the top floor. Only the master of the keep would be permitted to burn a candle at this hour.
Which meant Murray was up there even now.
Domnall had arrived at Murray’s manor in Tullibardine mere days after he and his Highland brothers in arms had escaped Balliol’s noose. But the keep had been quiet and empty, with only a few servants to keep the dust down while their master was away.
Those servants hadn’t known where Murray was, or when he would return. Nor had anyone at the nearby parish church seen Murray o
f late. In fact, Domnall had asked around the entire village, but the only soul who had encountered the man had been the owner of a local tavern.
Apparently, Murray had been through a fortnight before, drinking and gambling the night away. He’d racked up quite a debt, both to the tavern and his dicing opponents. But before he’d settled up, Murray had slipped out the back and hadn’t been seen since. The tavern owner had a vague notion that Murray had ridden west.
Domnall had followed Murray’s trail westward, encountering a similar story at several more alehouses and gaming halls. Murray came through, played dice for several hours, amassed debt, then disappeared before he could be made to pay.
At an alehouse outside of Tyndrum, a loose-lipped barmaid had mentioned that Murray was in possession of another keep on the edge of the western isles, though it was rather shabby and isolated. It wasn’t much to go on, but it had been Domnall’s only lead.
That had led Domnall here, to Stalcaire Tower. Though the barmaid had said that Murray had let the tower fall into disuse, Domnall had known from the moment he’d laid eyes on it that it was currently occupied. Just that afternoon, a servant had rowed a dinghy full of supplies to the island, and a lad had helped him unload.
And now there was a candle burning in the master’s chambers. Murray must have retreated here to hide from his debts, not to mention all the Scots he’d crossed when he’d turned traitor at the Battle of Dupplin Moor.
Then again, if tavern talk was to be believed, Balliol had continued to scour the land for King David’s supporters, hanging all he could find. Domnall had good reason to keep his head down and move on—not that he’d needed it. The farther west he rode, the closer he sensed he drew to Murray.
And now his prey was almost in his clutches.
As he waited for the last of twilight to fade and the tide to recede, Domnall withdrew the dagger from his boot and rubbed the hilt with absent fingers, tracing over and over the letters etched into the silver pommel.
AM. Andrew Murray was missing this blade, and Domnall was finally going to return it to him.
At long last, the candle in the master’s chamber was snuffed and the tower fell completely dark. Domnall rose from his haunches and moved to his infernal hellion of a horse. As he dug out a length of rope from one saddlebag, the horse twisted his head and attempted to remove Domnall’s hand with his teeth.
Luckily, the reins which he’d secured to a tree branch earlier held, and the hell-beast came up short.
Domnall had thought to check the strength of the knotted reins before making his way to the tower, fearing that the horse would somehow manage to slip away and he would return to find no means of escape after finishing Murray. But he decided against putting his hand near the animal’s face again. He’d already nearly lost a finger tying him up in the first place.
That was how it had been this past month while Domnall had tracked Murray—the bloody horse trying to bite, kick, and buck Domnall into oblivion at every turn, and Domnall just managing to escape with life and limb each time.
“Damn beast,” Domnall muttered as he moved to the edge of the tree line once again.
In response, the horse neighed. Domnall’s head snapped around, his gaze darting over the night-dark shadows in case someone had heard. He was blasted lucky that no one was about. Leave it to that Devil’s spawn to be Domnall’s demise after surviving a hanging and hunting Murray halfway across Scotland to this remote island tower.
With one last withering glare at the horse, Domnall tucked the dagger back into his boot and slung the length of rope over his shoulder. Drawing in a breath, he stepped from the cover of the trees and onto the damp rocks exposed by the low tide.
Soon he was skirting large puddles, and then wading through ankle-deep water. He cut a wide path around the north side of the island, which took him into even deeper water. Despite the surge of impatient energy coursing through his blood, he forced himself to go slow so as not to make splashing sounds.
The tide had already reached its lowest point and was lapping in once again. But that didn’t matter. Domnall could swim to shore if he had to, for once his task was done, he cared not about stealth or silence.
He was up to his knees in cold salt water by the time the tower loomed over him, black against the dark sky. All remained quiet as he hastily made a loop at the end of the rope. He swung it at his side to build momentum, then gave it a great heave upward.
The rope disappeared over the lip of the roof. He gave it a gentle tug and found that it had managed to hook on something. He could only pray it was the sturdy brick chimney he’d seen from the shoreline that afternoon.
Domnall tested it again, this time with the better part of his weight. He didn’t breathe for a long moment, but the rope held fast.
There was no more time to fret over it. He planted his dripping boots on the tower’s stones and began hoisting himself up its face. Hand over hand, he scaled the tower like a creeping shadow. His pulse roared in his ears, but he forced his breath to come slow and silent.
He paused when he reached the highest set of shutters, where the candlelight had glowed earlier. He could smash through them feet-first and catch Murray by surprise.
But nay, the man might sound an alarm, and Domnall wasn’t willing to risk aught going wrong. He wouldn’t have the satisfaction of seeing Murray’s face twist with shock and fear, but a clean, swift kill, the dagger drawn across the man’s throat while he slept, would ensure Domnall’s vengeance was delivered.
So instead of crashing through the wooden shutters, Domnall eased one side open a crack with the tip of his boot. No sound came from within, so he nudged the shutter open farther, until he could gain purchase with his foot on the sill cut into the stone.
He released one hand from the rope and gripped the sill from the inside, pulling himself the rest of the way through the window. The chamber remained dark and silent. Some mild, pleasant scent hung in the air—candle wax and something sweet. Honey?
His gaze landed on a large bed pushed against the far wall. A shaft of moonlight fell across the covers, revealing a figure underneath. From this angle, he could only see the very top of the sleeper’s head. Golden hair glowed in the shadows.
Domnall eased on noiseless feet toward the bed. Even though naught moved or made a sound, bells of warning clanged in his head.
Something isnae right.
And yet he could detect naught amiss. Still, he’d learned to pay heed to his instincts. They had served him well as Laird of the MacAyres, and had saved his arse more than once on the battlefield.
But he was so bloody close to Murray. There was no way in hell he would turn back now. Murray’s time was up, the last few seconds of his life slipping away. Domnall would just have to take whatever happened after that as it came.
He closed the remaining space with two hasty steps. Though unease rippled through him, he leaned over the bed, one hand reaching for the dagger in his boot and the other extending toward the bed coverings.
In one fluid movement, he yanked the covers back and jerked the dagger from his boot. The blade flashed in the moonlight as it sliced through the air and toward Murray’s throat.
But a hair’s breadth before the dagger met flesh, some intuitive reflex halted Domnall’s hand.
In that same instant, the figure beneath him sucked in a breath. Eyes as dark as mahogany snapped open, freezing him to stone.
Even before he could comprehend what he was seeing, he jerked the dagger away from the creamy throat.
Staring up at him from Murray’s bed was a woman.
A bonny woman.
A terrified woman.
She blinked once at Domnall, then pulled in a lungful of air to scream.
Chapter Four
Before the scream could leave her throat, the man standing above Ailsa clamped a rough hand over her mouth.
Her mind tumbled into chaos. Get up. Run away. Do aught to save yourself.
But the man didn’t move, so
neither did Ailsa. They both remained frozen, staring at each other in the dim moonlight.
At last, a string of curses rolled off his tongue, his voice low and thick with a Highland brogue. Ailsa held her breath. She felt like a rabbit set upon by a wolf, so petrified that she was locked into immobility. Did those stricken, motionless creatures ever survive?
He fixed her with pale blue eyes as hard and sharp as steel. “Scream and I’ll kill the first soul through that door,” he murmured, pointing across the chamber with the tip of his dagger. He waited, never taking his cold gaze from her.
Think! Form a plan! But her mind had ground to a halt the moment her eyes had snapped open to behold this looming intruder. She was helpless to do aught but slowly nod.
The man cautiously lowered his hand from her mouth.
“Who are ye? Murray’s whore?”
Ailsa recoiled into her pillow. “Nay!”
“I ken he doesnae have a wife, and ye are in his bed, so—”
“I am his sister.”
The man’s brows shot up at that. He cocked his head, which was dark auburn in the low light, considering what she’d just revealed.
Fool girl, she chastised herself, telling this man whatever he wants to know. Andrew had been right. Her naïveté was a threat to the family.
“What the bloody hell are ye doing here?”
Ailsa opened her mouth to blurt an explanation, but at last some of her wits began to return. She didn’t owe this trespasser aught. If he intended to hurt or kill her, he could have done so by now.
“I should ask you the same question.”
He narrowed his eyes on her, and she couldn’t help but flinch. Mayhap now wasn’t the time to grow a spine after all.
“What is yer name, lass?”
She swallowed. She could lie, but what was the point? She had a feeling the man looming over her could sniff out a falsehood like a hound scented blood. Besides, there was no way she’d be able to come up with something clever at the moment.
“Lady Ailsa Murray.”
“And where the hell is yer brother?”