CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Well past sunset, they still hadn’t found tracks indicating which direction Ciaran had taken Tevin, or Emily had gone.
Darkness had since claimed the land, and the scouts sought a spot to camp for the night.
Gregor didn’t want to halt the search. He dreaded speculating on what could happen to his wife and the bairn overnight.
He suspected Ciaran had kidnapped them both. What could be the man’s motive?
Surrounded by torchbearers, Gregor rode between the chief and Duncan, and amidst others of their kin.
He rubbed his tight chest. Fear threatened to overwhelm him.
Suddenly, three hovering, sparkling lights appeared in front of the group of MacLachlan warriors.
One blue, one green, and one lavender with purple swirls.
The lavender separated from the others and wove its way through the riders, buzzing his cheek in passing.
During the quick encounter, he caught a glimpse of the ebony-haired, winged lass within the star-like surge of light. “Damned pixies.”
Would he never be free of the wee creatures?
Tee teehee hee. She circled the chief before rejoining her brethren.
“I believe she wants us to follow,” the chief said with a chuckle, seeming more pleased than Gregor would have imagined. “Perhaps they will lead us to Emily and Tevin.”
More colorful lights—representing all the varied hues of a rainbow—joined the original three. The pixies flew in an undulating pattern, creating a wave-shaped path of light. Beacons in the night.
“Dim your torches, lads. We follow the pixies,” the chief ordered. The man was more trusting of Fae magic than Gregor, but at least they weren’t abandoning the search to sleep.
They rode through the dark of the new moon, guided by the pixie light. Hope replaced fear in Gregor’s heart.
By dawn’s earliest radiance the pixies left them to their own devices, and the party of men crossed a shallow burn in single file. On the opposite shore, they followed its flow south until Duncan stopped and leaned over the side of his horse.
“Tracks!” he called over a shoulder.
Gregor leapt from his mount and squatted on the ground. He touched the distinct mark of a horse hoof in the mud. “Probably fresh from yestereve,” he reported. “’Tis deep, as if the beast carries more than one rider.”
One of the riders might be Emily. He strode farther afield, combing through undergrowth, eyes peeled for another sign, his abrupt actions driven by hopeful impatience.
The other men fanned out in silence. After a short time, Duncan waved Gregor over to a boggy area where the big man searched the ground. He indicated another impression in the mud. “They traveled this way.”
Reins in hand, the men followed the tracks on foot, led by the chief and Duncan.
Duncan fell back and into pace next to Gregor. “Dinnae be disappointed if this rider is not the one. We will find the lass and the wee lad.”
Gregor swallowed uneasily. The longer the two were missing, the harder it would be to find them. Anything could happen to a lone woman and bairn out in this wilderness.
The chief, using hand motions, signaled for them to stop. Footsteps marked the dusty dirt. Many large like men’s, a few smaller like a woman’s, and some bairn sized. One of the men pointed to a pile of loose brush. On closer inspection, they discovered a mouth to a cave.
With a tilt of the head and more hand signals, the chief commanded them to back off and find defensive positions.
Gregor followed the order with reluctance.
Emily was his wife. He should be the one to draw out whoever was in that cave.
He nocked an arrow to his raised bow and drew it back to his jaw.
His gaze followed the length of the shaft, his aim on the mouth of the cave.
He waited, his nerves as taut as the bow string.
Duncan conferred with the chief off to the side of the cave mouth. He signaled for two of the men to follow him into the cave. ’Twas torture not to be one of those to enter. Gregor wanted to be the man to find his wife.
After what felt like an eternity, the three backed out of the cave, arms raised to the side, away from their weapons in concession.
Ciaran exited next, Emily held in front of him, trapped by a meaty arm.
In his other hand, he wielded a blade. His brother attempted to contain a squirming Tevin, who bit the man’s hand at the same time as Emily kicked back, her foot connecting with her captor’s balls.
They broke free amid a hail of foul swearing and startled ooofs.
Duncan grabbed Tevin and carried the lad to safety.
Without conscious thought, Gregor released the primed arrow into Cinead’s throat. Blood gurgled from the man’s mouth as he fell to the ground.
Gregor dropped the bow and lunged forward, but stopped short.
Ciaran had somehow regained control of Emily and now held the blade to her throat. “If you want the lass, give me the lad in exchange.”
The chief stepped forward. “Why do you want the bairn?”
“I am owed,” Ciaran claimed. “MacEwen murdered my sister.”
“You ken that is not the truth. Malcolm Maclay murdered your sister.”
“MacEwen kilt her even if he was not the one who beat her to death.”
While the discourse continued, Gregor retrieved his bow and nocked another arrow, but couldn’t take a shot at Ciaran without risking Emily.
Ciaran glanced at his brother, dead on the ground. His gaze swung to Gregor then to the chief. “If you wish to negotiate the release of this woman, call off your bowman.”
“’Tis his wife you threaten.”
“Call him off.”
“Stand down, Gregor.”
Gregor lowered the bow and arrow, but didn’t relax his stance.
The discussion dragged on with unreasonable requests from Ciaran. Refusals from the chief.
“If I release the lass, you will allow me to leave a free man,” Ciaran pressed.
“You ken I cannot allow such without”—the chief held the man’s stare—“trial by combat.”
“Aye,” Ciaran agreed and tossed Emily aside.
She stumbled across the distance between her and Gregor and fell into his embrace. She quaked within his arms. He kissed her hair, her face, her lips. He held her tight, hoping to chase away some of the horror of her ordeal.
“Choose your weapon, lad,” the chief’s voice boomed.
Ciaran lunged behind a large rock and, rising with a claymore in his hand, moved into a defensive position.
“So be it.” The chief directed an abrupt nod to Duncan.
The big man pulled his claymore from the sheath strapped to his back and took a fighting stance opposite the other warrior.
“Nae,” Gregor bellowed. “He abducted my wife. ’Tis my right to do battle with the villain.”
“As you wish.” The chief inclined his head.
“Don’t do anything crazy on my account.” Emily gripped Gregor’s wrist. “I couldn’t live with myself if you were harmed, or worse.”
“Dinnae ever again insult my manhood, my honor, in such a public display,” he said in a low growl meant only for Emily’s ears. She cringed away from him, eyes wide. He handed her off to another of the MacLachlan warriors. “Keep her safe.”
Gregor gripped the cold steel of the two-handed sword as he would an axe.
The claymore was not his best weapon. He clenched his jaw.
Anger at the doubt Emily held of his abilities burned in his gut.
He needed to harvest that rage and direct it at his adversary.
The man had dared take what belonged to him.
In a fluid motion, Gregor stepped forward with his lead foot, his sword stretched out in front of his torso, blade in a diagonal position, cross guard held high, tip pointed slightly back, and faced his opponent.
Ciaran circled, and Gregor followed his movement. The man attacked.
Gregor warded the blow with the flat of his blade, close to the hilt, diminishing the power of the strike.
Using his sword and body as one, he counterattacked.
With the clang of steel against steel, the blow hit the other sword in time with the motion of his hips and the completion of his step, jarring the length of his arm.
Ciaran backed away, circled again.
Strike following strike, blow following blow, one attacking and one defending, the fight continued.
Weariness took its toll. Gregor must end this, and quick.
Their blades crossed. Gregor released one hand from his sword and gripped the hilt of Ciaran’s sword between the man’s hands, slipped a foot behind his leg, and forced him down to the ground.
In a follow-through, the point of Gregor’s sword pricked the man’s throat, and with just the right amount of pressure drew a few drops of blood that ran down the man’s neck. “Yield?”
“Never.”
The chief gave Gregor an abrupt nod.
With no other choice, he twisted his grip on the sword, applied force, and pierced the man’s jugular. Hot blood spurted up Gregor’s arm and a metallic scent affronted his nostrils, as the other man’s life bled away.
He dropped the sword to the ground. Bent over, hands on knees, and gulped large quantities of air.
When he raised his head, his gaze found Emily within the crowd.
She held her stomach as if in pain. Her lips were pressed tight in disapproval.
Her gaze condemning. She looked upon him as if he were the devil incarnate.
Her horrified expression sliced him to the core.
Gregor straightened to his full height. Would she forgive him?