Page 420 of Wicked Highland Heroes

“I believe you know my sister,” the boy said, kneeling before him. “Jillian.”

Iain started. “Bran Robertson?”

“Aye.” Bran gripped the chain with both hands and pulled. A link shuddered open.

“Christ,” Iain murmured.

Bran grunted and dropped the chain.

Iain gave his leg a shake, rattling the chain still attached to the shackle. “No way to rid me of this?”

Bran shook his head. “Even I cannot break the steel of a shackle. But do not worry.” He stood. “Your man is waiting close by. By the time we reach him, the battle will be nigh over and we will be able to better deal with the shackle.” Bran pulled out the large battle-axe tucked into his belt. “Take this.” He handed the axe to Iain.

Iain grasped the handle. Weight of the weapon in his hand sent a surge of strength through him. He strode to the door and examined the blade of the dirk in the moonlight. “Nearly razor sharp, but,” Iain ran the blade across the head of the axe, “I cannot chance any burrs.” He brought the dirk down in a final quick stroke along the axe head. “Bran, do you have a strong stomach?”

“Aye,” the boy answered.

Iain looked at him. “And a steady hand?”

“Of course,” he replied, his voice laced with the indignation of youth.

“Come here, lad.”

Bran crossed to his side and halted.

“You see this swollen eyelid?” Iain pointed to his eye with the tip of the dirk.

The young warrior nodded.

Iain tucked the axe into his belt. “I need the sight of this eye. Here,” he pulled his eyelid taut, “just beneath the hair of my brow. Slice the swollen lid to allow blood flow.” Iain thrust the dirk into his hand.

Bran hesitated, then reached up, hands shaking.

Iain grasped his hand. “Easy now. A single misstep and you cut my eyeball.”

Bran took a breath and, with one swift movement, slit the eyelid.

Iain staunched the flow of blood with the edge of his sash. “Have you any black powder to seal the wound?” he asked.

“Nay,” Bran replied, “but I have allium.”

“Fine.”

“What awaits us out there?” Iain asked as Bran dug through his pouch.

Bran snorted. “A wily bunch of dogs. We estimated thirty, but ’tis more like forty.” His voice hardened. “How they managed such a force William will be wanting to know.” “MacPhersons?”

“Thirty,” Bran said, pulling out the bag of allium.

“Uneven odds,” Iain said.

“Nay,” Bran said, “there are also thirty Frasers and thirty Englishmen.”

“Englishmen—Hockley,” Iain rasped. “Since when are they friends?”

“I would imagine since your wife enlisted their help.”

Christ, what sort of pact did Victoria make to enlist the aid of that bastard? “I will strangle her with my bare hands.”