She had no chance to reply. Two members of the guard came running, both sweating heavily and looking grim.
“They come!”
“Aye.” Rohracht stepped forward. “Then let us meet them.”
*
“Rohracht MacFee!” Micanbawled out as he and his band of men approached, escorted by members of Rohracht’s guard. None of them looked happy, and Bradana wondered if there had already been a scuffle between the two forces. The MacGillean men led their ponies, and several of them—for she hastily numbered them at nearly a score—rested their hands on their weapons.
Rohracht called out, his voice sounding reedy despite his best efforts, “Wha’ are ye doing, Mican MacGillean, on my land? Ye be no’ welcome here.”
Mican scowled. He wore an embittered expression, all too visible in the clear morning light, still more heavily lined than when Bradana had glimpsed him in the forest. His eyes scanned the group that had come out to meet him—visibly frail Rohracht with his guard gathered around him. But Bradana had pulled Adair a step behind. Mican did not at once see them.
“I ha’ business wi’ ye,” Mican called, “and wish to talk.”
Bradana’s heart leaped. Mayhap they could avoid a battle.
But her grandsire called back, “I ha’ naught to say to ye. We were allies once. Your father and I both founded our holdings here in Dalriada within years o’ each other. Since his death, ye ha’ turned on us and striven to take my lands. Your son killed my grandson. So ye can turn yoursel’ right around and begone.”
“My son, Earrach, is dead.”
“Aye, so, death comes to us all in the end.”
“’Tis my belief ye ha’ something I want—Earrach’s killer. We ha’ tracked him here. And I believe he is wi’ your granddaughter. Turn the bastard over to me and we shall go awa’ without dealing ye any harm.”
“Naught is here but belongs here wi’ me.” Rohracht’s voice now sounded steady, but from where Bradana stood behind him, she could see him trembling with strain.
How long could the valiant old man last?
Beside her, Adair stood stiff and tense, his arm like iron beneath her fingers. She clutched him in order to hold him back, even though she knew she could not for long.
Mican scanned the crowd again, catching sight of something that interested him. “That hound—I know that hound. It belongs to yer granddaughter.”
Bradana shifted and, too late, sought to draw Wen back by the scruff of his neck.
“If my granddaughter be here,” Rohracht called, “wha’ is it to ye?”
“I want the Erin-born whoreson who is in her company.”
Before Bradana could prevent it, Adair stepped forward. He did it deliberately, and took his place beside Rohracht, standing straight and tall.
“Here I be. Wha’ would ye have of me? I battled and took down your son in a fair fight, Mican MacGillean. Have ye so little honor, ye would now come grumping and whining over it?”
Mican’s gaze fastened to Adair, and even across the space that separated them, Bradana could see the rage engulf him.
“No’ a fair fight!” he seethed. “Ye got between my son and his betrothed, where ye had no business to be.”
“I will no’ stand by and watch a man abuse a woman, especially one who wants no part o’ him.”
Mican sneered. “And one ye wanted for yerself. I suppose ye ha’ had her now, and filthy she is from it. I ha’ no interest in her, but I want yer blood.”
Adair spread his hands. They were empty, his sword now thrust through the loop at his belt. “Then take me.”
Sickness roiled in Bradana’s gut. She stepped forward also. “But ye will ha’ to fight me to get him.”
For an instant, Mican looked like he wanted to laugh. Before he could, Rohracht said, “And me.”
“And me.” The man at Rohracht’s side.
