Nay. He was hit on the head. By a man on a horse.
MacIntosh. . . the name echoed in his ringing head.
Someone had called his attacker MacIntosh.
Had he said it? Aye. Sawny had recognized the man.
An image loosely began to form in his mind.
The men. There had been more than one. Sawny had been the fool to leave his sword at home. Most of the time, his blade was ever at his side. That morning, though . . . he had been bathing for his wedding at daybreak! What manner of trouble was going to find him?
Yet trouble had found him indeed. And the man who had struck him was no’ the man who had spoken to him. That MacIntosh had been a diversion so a second man could ride up and strike him on the head from behind.
Sawny touched his side, which also ached and was sticky and painful to touch. A bloody wound there. Was that before or after they tried to split him open like a pig on a spit?
He closed his eyes, not that it made a difference in the dark.
After.
Because the MacIntoshes had discovered Sawny redressing at the bank of the loch and swept his dagger against Sawny’s side as he dove away from the dangerously sharp hooves of the man’s horse.
The MacIntosh had tried to ride him down and skewer him, and when that did not work, they knocked him out.
At least two men, mayhap more.
Which MacIntoshes, though?
Would he recognize them if he saw them again?
And why?
Because ye raided their cattle and sheep, ye feckin’ fool.
The tiny voice in his head was like a scream, and it made sense. Mayhap because he had attacked a pair of MacIntoshes on his lands but a sennight ago.
Yet his present state of injury did not seem merited. He’d barely harmed the lad. Knocking Sawny out and doing . . . whatever this was (his eyes burned as he tried to glance around) . . . seemed a bit much in retribution.
Or was his present predicament because the Campbells wanted to send a message to the MacDonalds, encouraging them to pay homage to the pretender king, and they were using their MacIntosh allies as messenger? Were they making an example of him?
Feck me,he thought.Any of those reasons are sound ones.
Probablyallof them, Sawny thought dismally.
His hands moved freely as he touched his side and head, so he was not chained. That was in his favor. Mayhap he could charge the door, or attack the guard . . . He glanced around the room again, squinting. Nay, this was a cell. A dungeon.
A sinking sensation clogged Sawny’s chest.
He was a prisoner.
Sawny tried to sit but his side and pounding head made his already darkened vision go gray and his stomach churn.
No sitting up yet. Nor standing.
But as soon as he could gain his feet, he was getting out of this pit.
That he vowed.
And the first place he’d go was to Adaira’s side.
