Page 4 of Highlander’s Mercenary Lass

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Twenty years later...

"Father! Father!"

The words sliced through Marcus's skull like a knife. He came to, gazing through the dark tent into the light.

Everything hurt, even his eyes. And the searing light from beyond the tent stabbed him as he gazed out.

"Father!"

Well, that was what it sounded like, but Marcus knew it was his mind playing tricks on him. None of his children could have been anywhere near right then. Still, he could have sworn he heard a girl's voice asking for him.

"Fiona?" he called, his head dizzy with pain.

"Sir?" another voice cut in. Now Marcus was confused. Still thinking it was his daughter, he looked about.

"Fiona...Aggie?" he mumbled. Slowly, he came to. Someone was supporting him, and with great effort, he tried to sit. Then, he remembered.

"Sir, it's me, Andrew," a man said.

Marcus looked up. With difficulty, he made out the solid form of his best clan swordsman.

The green eyes twinkled out inquiringly from his young face. And in them, Marcus read that something was gravely wrong. Then he remembered what.

Him.

Hewas what was wrong. And now that he came to, Marcus saw that he was lying, half-splayed on a stretcher, staring up at the tent around him.

Looking into Andrew's face, Marcus detected a trace of fear.

"What is it, Son?" croaked Marcus. His own voice sounded very far away. "Is something wrong? The Kennedys… The commander, is he..."

"Dead," said Andrew matter-of-factly. Then he brought his vivid eyes to gaze at the laird's face. "Ye saw tae that. Dinnae fash, sir. He is a spent force now."

Marcus settled his head back onto the makeshift bed and tried to breathe, but something sharp caught him as he exhaled. Spluttering, Marcus struggled for air. But the harder he tried, the more painful it was. He could only take shallow breaths. Andrew looked at him anxiously.

"Ye should rest, sir," he said, as Marcus made an ill-fated attempt to move. He didn't get far. It did not even take Andrew's might to restrain him. His own body was seeing to that. Just the simple act of movement was enough to floor him, literally.

With no warning, Marcus careened off the bed and straight onto the ground.

"Sir!" Andrew's face was flushed with panic. Pain ripped through Marcus's body. He couldn't remember what had happened, but Andrew's face was telling him it was something bad.

The agony was so immense, it was crazy, so much so that Marcus found he was out of control. Only once he had gotten himself out of its grip could he draw breath. And when he did, something unexpected happened. A deep laugh gurgled up from beneath his fractured ribs. And God, it hurt!

But when Andrew began to fuss, Marcus dismissed him sharply.

"Och, dinnae fash," he chided as slowly, Andrew helped him to the bed. Reluctantly, Marcus allowed himself to be lifted to it. "It's just a wee bump, lad!"

Andrew looked at him skeptically. He had an aura of wisdom that belied his youthful years. He opened his mouth to contradict Marcus.

"It was rather more than a wee bump, sir," he said dutifully. Marcus just rolled his eyes. He'd just about worked that one out. "But at least the Kennedy clan are defeated...for now, anyway."

"The Kennedys," Laird Marcus ruminated. It took a moment for him to run that name through his head. It had connotations. Then he remembered. "Ach, the Kennedys... I dinnae want to fight them..." he said wistfully.

"Sir?" Andrew looked at him like he was mad, which maybe at that point he was.

But right then, none of that mattered. Something in his heart jolted.