“Not today.”
She grimaced at his response and turned her head away.
Aiden refused to feel guilty for reminding her that he’d slain several of her men the day before. He blamed her for that necessity. She had incited the head of her guard, Sir Robert, to a lovelorn devotion. He’d seen her speaking with the man in the orchard two days before, her cheeks flushed, her hand on his sleeve. The man had been given ample opportunity to surrender, but he had refused, insisting on fighting to the death. Had he surrendered, all of his men would have surrendered as well. Bloodshed could have been avoided.
With her head slightly bowed, she asked, “Where are you taking me?”
“Does it matter?”
Her shoulders sagged. “Perhaps not.”
Aiden frowned. She made him feel like a cad and a brute, all with a simple sigh. Yet he was the one who had been wronged; he was the one who had lost everything. She’d lost nothing thus far but a few hours.
They reached the mossy stump and swung left. Moments later, they exited the forest and came upon an overgrown circle of stones three feet high—a small broch, even older than the one that housed his clan. Useful, in that it distracted casual observers. Most never bothered to study the surrounding rocks, and none had thus far discovered the barely discernible path snaking up into the mountain. There was a plateau above them, but it wasn’t visible from this level. Large rocks that had broken from the mountain a thousand years past hid it from view.
Aiden led the climb up. The slope was littered with shards of fallen shale, but nimble as the horses were, they gained the top of the foothill in short order. Only after he navigated the shattered shale was he rewarded with the sight he yearned for.
There, amid the snow and boulders, lay a much larger broch. A fortress, really. Compared to others Aiden had seen, it was a detailed structure—double stone walls that were in some places six feet tall. The outer wall was built into the existing rock and took advantage of large sections of mountain stone that provided a natural defense. The inner wall was a man-made oval that stretched more than sixty feet wide. A dozen roundhouses were scattered inside the enclosure, each with a new thatch roof laid by Aiden’s men.
He slipped Isabail’s blindfold from her head and signaled Duncan to do the same for her maid. Then he dismounted.
At first glance, the broch appeared deserted. But he knew better.
“Give the signal,” he said brusquely to Graeme. Niall’s men communicated via a series of clicks and whistles that resembled noises of the native wildlife. Aiden had never mastered them. As the eldest son, all his spare hours had been spent with his father, learning to manage Dunstoras and play the political games required of a Highland chief—identifying which clans he could count on and which were his enemies. Aiden glanced at the lovely woman seated on his horse. Of course, his father would have counted the Grants among his allies.
And look how that turned out.
Graeme trilled a short series of whistles and then waited for a response. The wait was not long. No sooner had the sounds been carried away on the breeze than a man stepped out from behind a large rock, sword and targe at the ready.
He offered Aiden a deep nod of his head. “A fine sight you are, Chief.”
“Udard,” Aiden acknowledged. “Is all well?”
The guard frowned. “MacPherson’s men have been more active of late, and they’ve caused us grief. You’ll want to speak with Niall about it.”
“My brother has returned?”
Udard nodded. “Last eve. Quite the adventure he had, but I’ll let him be the one to tell you the tale.”
The guard led them forward, and as they breached the outer wall, members of his clan came out of hiding, greeting him with smiles, waves, and hailed good tidings. As pleased as he was to be home, Aiden was struck by the obvious signs of hardship and poverty. The past few weeks had not been kind to his clan—clothes were threadbare, bodies were gaunt, and faces were etched with weariness. This life as hunted outlaws was taking a cruel toll.
In the open space between the two walls, the men had set up quintains to practice their sword craft and straw targets to hone their bowmanship, while the lads maintained the horses. Inside the inner wall, women and children worked and played with the subdued enthusiasm of those in hiding. Fires were small to contain any smoke to mere wisps, and voices were low and calm. The roundhouses with rebuilt roofs served as homes, though they were primitive compared to the blackhouses built in the lee of Dunstoras castle.
A group of men were gathered in the center of the ruin, and as Aiden led his party into the close, one of the men broke away from the group and trotted toward Aiden.
Niall.
Aiden helped Isabail dismount, then turned to face his half brother. As he expected, Niall’s face was a mask of cool blandness. Reading his thoughts had always been a challenge. Yet he must have been surprised to see Aiden’s two guests.
“What news?” Niall asked, as if Isabail Grant wasn’t standing in front of him.
Equally dispassionate, Aiden responded, “Nothing yet. And you?”
“I returned from Duthes yestereve. Upon my arrival, I was informed that one of our hunting parties was lost to a MacPherson patrol. Three days ago. Hamish, Conal, and four others were taken.”
Aiden grimaced. “Were they caught with game in hand?”
“Aye.”
