Nor did Torr. He had never accomplished such a feat before.
"His sword is still in his hand, so he intended to kill us," Brodie growled.
'Twas true, and Torr didn't regret it. Still, he found it unsettling to kill a man he hadn't seen and whose name he didn't know.
"The MacRaes will seek revenge for their chief's death, even though 'twas a fair fight," Gavin said. "Alpin is such an adder; he will lie and claim we ambushed them."
Brodie gave a dark scowl. "I'll send for reinforcements from my clan."
"As will I." Torr drew the silver whisky flask from his doublet and handed it to Gavin. The sword slash on his face had bled more in the past few minutes. "You must be in pain."
They needed to rush Gavin to Caithmore Castle, where the healer could stitch his wound before he lost an excessive amount of blood.
***
THE FOLLOWING SENNIGHTwas an uproar of activity as Torr and his four guards returned to his clan's home, Castle Dubhuisge, and asked his older brother, the chief, to loan Gavin a couple of dozen soldiers to combat the MacRaes when they sought revenge. Angus was more than willing to do so. Though the MacTavishes had a significant number of soldiers, reinforcements from their allies were welcome. The MacRaes might drag some of their own allies into this conflict. 'Twas impossible to guess how many would eventually show up. Brodie did the same, sending guards to Farspag to retrieve most of his clansmen.
In the barmkin of Caithmore Castle, Torr glanced around at the hundred and fifty soldiers practicing their sword-fighting skills and sharpening their blades amongst much camaraderie.
The slash down the side of Gavin's face had been stitched up and appeared to be healing, though it would leave a conspicuous scar. Most fortunate of all, the wound had not injured his eye.
"Riders approaching!" shouted one of the lookouts in the gatehouse.
Torr's focus sharpened, and his muscles tensed. A conflict was impending.
"How many, Alan?" Gavin called.
"I only see a half dozen."
Torr frowned. That didn't sound right. It had to be a trick.
Gavin's father, Lunn, the MacTavish chief, concurred. He and Gavin proceeded up the steps into the tower.
Hanging back and peering through the portcullis, Torr watched the six riders move closer. His gaze scanned the scrubby purple heather and prickly green gorse bushes behind them for additional soldiers, but he saw no further movement.
"They're plotting something, certain sure," Brodie grumbled with a deadly scowl.
"Without doubt."
Two riders separated from the others and rode forward slowly. They stopped several yards away from the heavy iron and wood portcullis. Torr was surprised to see that one, with a thin frame, wore black skirts and a cloak. Bright ginger hair shone from beneath the large cowl.
"Her ladyship wishes to speak to Gavin MacTavish!" the burly guard beside her shouted. He wore metal-studded leather armor.
"Who is she?" Torr asked, keeping his voice low.
Brodie's dark eyes narrowed as he peered into the distance. "Looks like Silas MacRae's mother, Lady Wilona MacRae."
Torr felt sorry for the woman, that she'd lost her son. But he had been a reckless, depraved chief.
After Gavin descended the steps, he, Torr, and Brodie moved closer to the portcullis, their targes held before them for protection.
"Gavin MacTavish," the woman yelled.
"Aye."
"Torr MacElrath!"
A shock went through him. "How does she ken my name?"
