Chapter Twenty-One
Annista had no desire to leave Bonnie, any more than she wanted to let Tempest out of her sight.
But another of the maids came to sit with the lass and seemed inclined to provide much-needed company.
Tucked into Annista’s own bed, Bonnie had calmed, though the handprint Evan had dealt her stood out on her cheek like a brand.
“Do no’ leave her, please,” Annista asked the maid, Cora.
A young woman surely close to Bonnie in age, Cora nodded soberly. “I will no’ but, Mistress, where will ye be?”
“Searching, like the others.”
“Och, Mistress, I beg ye, nay. ’Tis no’ wise.”
“I ken that fine.” Yet Annista felt driven. It was as if some intent deep inside, one perhaps as old as womanhood, bade her hunt down the source of the danger. Eliminate it.
“Only stay wi’ Bonnie,” she told the woman before catching up her cloak and leaving the chamber.
The house seemed strangely quiet, all the footmen gone, Earl MacKallan out with his men, searching. Mistress MacKallan must be in the solar. Annista did not go there.
Two of the kitchen maids did peek out at her as she exited through the back door. Dawn was just grasping the sky and the yard stood empty—only a light on in the stable. Everyone gone.
It occurred to Annista that if Evan returned now, he could do as he wished. Murder his mother, his horse. Finish with Bonnie and Annista herself. Perhaps she should stay to protect them. Could she?
Perhaps. Yet that inner drive pushed at her, relentless. She wished she had a mount. Alan would have taken Chieftain.
And she needed to find Alan.
It was that conviction that took her off, moving northward, following the same path upon which he had taken her previously. Over the field past the courtyard. Through the woodland which rattled in the dawn wind and awakened with life. To the great upland beyond.
She had her knife in her pocket and fingered the handle as she went. Could she overpower Evan if she had to? Likely not. But if it came down to a matter of life or death—
She would do as she must.
****
The sneer on Evan’s face was both a taunt and an insult. Despite what had happened up in his chamber, he did not fear what Alan might hand out to him now, certain he would win.
Indeed, Alan thought again as he raised his own fists, Evan had been sotted when they’d faced off in his chamber. Not so much now. He looked prepared to fight.
Something he enjoyed full well.
Alan could not lose this contest. He could not.
The place where they stood was wild—naught but a narrow track that led nowhere, the beauty of the land Alan loved all around. Did Evan love it too? Or did he just need to grasp? To hold?
Despite his promise, Evan swung first and Alan ducked under the blow. Well that he did, since it was a roundhouse with all Evan’s power behind it and might have laid Alan flat. He danced away before coming in with a blow to the side of Evan’s head. One that should have felled the man.
It did not, merely rocked him a bit where he stood, and Alan’s stomach clenched. This would not be easy.
Evan shook his head like an angry bull and Alan got in another blow to his jaw before ducking away again. Chieftain, spooked by the sudden furor, had moved off, the sole observer to this most primeval of contests.
And primeval it was. They traded blows, for though Alan was faster than his brother, Evan did manage to land fist to flesh, including a blow that took Alan to his knees. He rose again just in time to avoid a kick from Evan’s heavily booted foot.
No clean fight, this—at least not on Evan’s part. Thinking back on it later, Alan supposed he should have expected that. Evan never fought fair. Why suppose he would begin now?
But he was not thinking, not truly, merely answering the inner urge that told him he had to best his brother now, if any of them hoped to have a future.
He went at it determinedly, landing blows to head, face, and torso.
Blows that began to tell, as Evan’s returning strikes grew weaker and he began to wobble on the stumps of his legs.
Instinct it was that told Alan a punch to the throat would take his brother down. Evan’s features had gone slack and it seemed he handed out punishment by rote now.
But as Alan prepared to land his final blow, Evan’s gaze met his and Alan saw something there.
The glare of the serpent just before it strikes.
Even so, he never saw the knife, never suspected Evan wore one beneath his doublet. Though he should, aye, he should. The blade was just there—suddenly—in Evan’s hand, and as Alan rushed to deliver his felling blow, Evan plunged that blade into him, reaching for Alan’s heart.
At first there was no pain, only shock. It took precious moments for Alan to realize what had happened. The pain came when Evan withdrew the blade with a grimace that displayed satisfaction.
Alan stared at his brother in disbelief and down at the blood welling up through his clothing. His knees began to buckle, and when Evan reached out for him, he at first thought his brother meant to hold him up.
Instead, Evan caught him with one fist in his shirt and the other in his hair, having thrust the bloodied knife back into his belt. Bending close so his hot breath scorched Alan’s cheek, he growled, “Never think ye can best me, little brother. Never.”
He let Alan fall then into the pit of darkness that awaited him.
****
Annista ran when she could and walked at a quick pace when she lost her breath, still following the instinct that prodded—or perhaps led—her. Relentless it was, and almost merciless, as if a voice of demand cried in her head.
She could not have turned back if she’d tried.
Her eyes burned, but she kept them trained ahead for the merest flicker of movement. Birds took panicked flight at her approach. A fox ran across the trail. Shadows that might be roe deer flickered to one side. The land swept ever upward, magnificent.
When she saw the bundle on the ground, she thought it just that—something abandoned. It was the inner knowing—a sickening feeling this time—that took her racing forward.
Careful now, instinct told her. It could be a trap. The monster might linger nearby.
But before many strides, she saw it was—aye, a man. She recognized him by his dark hair and his clothing, for he lay face down. Unmoving.
Dead? Was he dead?
Och, holy God!
She cast one look around before falling to her knees and touching him. Warm. Alive or dead, he could not have lain here long. But what had befallen him?
Not till she turned him over did she see. Blood flowed freely, making a dark red mat of his shirt. It appeared to come directly from his heart.
If he bled so, surely he must yet be alive?
“Alan? Och, God, och, God—Alan?”
No response. His lashes lay black and stark against a face that showed marks of a beating. Or at least a dire fight. Indeed, he lay as one dead.
But nay, for his blood was still warm to her touch.
“Och, God,” it seemed to be all she could say. “Help me. Pray help me!”
As if in response, a sound caught her ear. She half started up, swinging around, her hand flying to the knife in her pocket. A dark shape moved toward her.
A horse. Chieftain. It was only Chieftain.
The horse, clearly spooked, had his head out, curious and somehow regretful.
“Alan. Alan?”
She laid her hand on his cheek, abraded and blooming with red and purple bruises. Was he breathing?
“Alan—husband—please.”
What was this fear in her heart? All out of proportion it was, even to this dire and terrible situation. She wanted him to live.
Upon the thought, his eyelashes fluttered. He gave a groan.
“What happened?” She tried to cradle him on her knees, to keep his head up out of the dirt.
“Stabbed…me. Did no’ see the knife coming.”
“Evan?” But she knew. Even before she asked, she knew.
“Aye.”
Desperately, Annista glanced around. If Evan appeared now, she would have to kill him. At any cost.
“Chieftain—” Alan croaked.
“He is here.” And bless the man for thinking of his horse.
“Evan did no’—take him?” Alan forced his eyes open, regarding not the horse that stood so near but Annista’s face where she hovered above him. “I thought—”
“Nay, Chieftain is right here.”
He seemed to study her with perplexed wonder for an instant. “Good. The brute would ha’ abused him out o’ spite.”
“Nay need to worry about that now. We maun get help for ye. How bad is it?”
“Bad, I think.” Alan’s gaze still clung to hers. “He went for my heart.”
Tried to kill his own brother. Thank God he missed the mark. “Can ye get up?”
“Aye, so.”
It proved a battle. The pain struck hard when Alan moved, and even with Annista’s shoulder beneath his arm, the struggle to get him up took all of their combined strength.
“Mayhap,” he said then, “ye should ride back for help.”
“Leave ye here? Like this? Nay. What if he returns? Besides, there is no one at the house. They are all out searching.”
“Ye—”
“I was out searching also.” For ye, though she did not add that. The urge that had spurred her northward—had it been focused on him? “Nay, we shall ha’ to manage this. Stand but a moment. Let me think.”
Hastily, she unbuttoned his jerkin which was rent, and used the slash to tear open the sodden shirt beneath. What she saw made her gasp.
The wound, aligned with his ribs, seeped blood steadily. Indeed, the blade must have passed between those ribs and could have only just missed his heart.
With hasty hands, she reached under her skirts and tore her petticoat—not too clean at this point—and folded the fabric with shaky hands. This she pressed against his wound and tied the rent shirt over.
“D’ye think ye can mount?”
“Aye.”
He sounded confident, but again, the simple act proved far more difficult than it seemed. By the time he was in the saddle, they were both sweating.
Alan pressed an arm across his chest, keeping the bandage in place. “Come up,” he bade.
“Nay, I had better walk.” Hold him up by the leg if necessary, for if he fell from the saddle she would never get him up again.
They went slowly at first, and that frightened her for he needed help soon, so she quickened her pace as she could. In between watching so he did not lose consciousness and slide, Annista searched the land all around for movement—a red head. A vicious, terrifying mien.
When she found movement at last, her heart leaped in terror. But it was two men coming out of the woodland toward them. When they drew near, she saw them for Earl MacKallan and Archie, the footman.
“Help. Help him!” she cried.