***
Blackburn turned about to face the clan approaching from the rear. Had the MacDonalds somehow split their force and slipped around to their back? The kilted warriors, coming forward at a non-aggressive pace, carried many weapons, but had not yet drawn them.
"Get Kristina on your horse and hold onto her tight," he told Red Holme, then turned to his other soldiers. "Half of you guard the lady and half come with me." He guided his horse across the wet sand again to face the newcomers who wore metal-studded leather armor. "Who are you?" Blackburn demanded, stopping a few feet away.
"Chief MacDonald of Sleat," the burly, bearded leader said in an aggressive tone. "Who are you?"
Upon hearing the name MacDonald, Blackburn's hackles rose. "Stay back or I'll have the lady killed!"
"What lady?" Sleat asked, his eyes searching those behind Blackburn.
"Lady MacCromar's sister."
"MacCromar? Ah, the lady Neacal was helping?"
"Aye. She's my wife and she's being held prisoner in this castle!"
"What do you think, MacRankin?" Sleat asked the man with short brown hair and beard beside him. "Neacal MacDonald has stolen another man's woman."
"Whoreson," MacRankin hissed, sending a murderous glare toward the castle.
"Are you the MacDonald chief, or is Neacal?" Blackburn asked.
"Both. We're distant cousins and lead different branches of the clan, but he is my worst enemy."
"Indeed?" Blackburn had no problem believing that. The situation in his own clan had been similar… when he'd been forced to kill his own cousin to gain what he deserved.
"For a certainty. He and his men killed my son," Sleat said, his nostrils flaring. His sideways glare toward the castle was both anguished and lethal.
This was a man Blackburn wanted fighting beside him, for his rage and need for revenge would drive him to fight harder. "I'm sorry to hear that. Looks like we're on the same side, then."
Sleat nodded. "I plan to lay waste to this castle. If my son can't have it, no one will."
"Two years ago, the bastard turned my betrothed against me, and now she's dead." MacRankin clenched his jaw tight. "Mayhap you can flush him out and I'll kill him."
"As long as he's dead, I don't care who kills him." Blackburn smiled. These men appeared strong and they had a large force of men with them.
MacRankin nodded. "We've been watching the place for days, waiting for the whoreson to leave the castle. When we saw you approaching, we wondered whether you're friend of foe."
"Enemy of my enemy is my ally, I say," Blackburn said. "And we all want the same thing—Neacal MacDonald dead. He killed over a dozen of my men days ago."
MacRankin snorted. "Singlehandedly?"
"At first I doubted it. I figured it must have been the whole clan, but nay. The head of my guard said 'twas only one man. He hid in the darkness and shot them with arrows."
"Stealthy bastard, aye?" Sleat said.
"Nay for long," Blackburn growled.
One of his guards shouted, "Galleys approaching!"
Blackburn, Sleat and MacRankin eyed the loch. Several galleys quickly glided into view from the west end of Loch Moidart, their white sails filled to bursting with the strong wind. In the sky behind them, dark gray clouds rolled in from the sea.
Blackburn counted the galleys—ten. And each one appeared to be filled with between ten and twenty men. Were they friend or foe of Neacal MacDonald?
"Who the devil is that?" Blackburn asked.
"'Tis the damned MacKenzie," Sleat growled through clenched teeth, his eyes narrowed. He muttered several more curses.
