Page 86 of Sins of the Highlander

He didn’t feel confident either would help him best Rob MacLaren.

“What do ye intend on the morrow, Stewart?”

“I havena decided.” Alistair Stewart sent him a withering glance. “Ye’ll know when I give my answer to the MacLaren, but if I were you, I’d polish up my swordplay. Now will ye leave me in peace? I’ve been gone from home too long, and there’s a great deal here that requires my attention.”

Lachlan shoved out of the tent flap and stomped toward his encampment. Matters were spiraling out of control. He had to get a grip on them again. His body servant had lit the lamp inside his tent and stood by ready to serve, but it would take too long for him to pour wine into a horn. Lachlan lifted the wineskin from its peg and upended it into his mouth in a long stream of red.

“Leave me,” he growled and swiped his mouth on his sleeve.

The fellow, whose name Lachlan couldn’t even remember, bowed and started to sidle out.

“No, wait.” An idea suddenly rushed into him. “Send Randall to me.”

Randall was the best marksman under Lachlan’s command. He was wicked enough with a long bow, but deadly accurate with a crossbow. And best of all, he owed Lachlan more fealty than was common, since he’d killed a man and Drummond had covered the deed for him by accusing and executing someone else for the crime. Randall was bound to serve the House of Drummond by an oath he dared not break.

When the man appeared, Lachlan didn’t acknowledge his presence for about ten heartbeats. He was still poking at his idea to see if he could detect any flaws. He found none.

“I want you to leave camp this night.”

“Where am I bound, my lord?”

“I want ye to find a place to hide near the castle walls, a snug spot from which ye can shoot a bolt far enough to reach the place where we held parley this day.”

“Ye mean for me to kill the MacLaren by stealth?”

“No,” Drummond said with a sly smile. “On my signal, I want you to plant your bolt in the heart of Alistair Stewart.”

After a few more instructions, the man left, ready to make his way to a place of concealment. On the morrow, because of the direction of the bolt’s path, it would seem as if one of MacLaren’s men broke the truce and killed Stewart. After that, Stewart’s men would never let MacLaren or his second reach the safety of their castle. They’d be torn to pieces before their own walls.

If there were men worthy of the name inside the castle, they’d not suffer their laird to be cut down before their eyes. The Clan MacLaren would throw open the gates and flood out to meet the angry Stewarts. Lachlan would quietly lead the Clan Drummond from the field.

And when the dust settled and the bodies were collected, there’d be two clans in want of leadership, weakened and broken. And they’d both be beholden to him for keeping his head and negotiating a peace settlement between them, a settlement that would include fealty and yearly tributes to be paid to the Clan Drummond.

Lachlan might be laird in all but name of three clans by the time the moon rose twice.

***

Elspeth felt better about attending supper this night. Rob’s people had been friendlier to her all day—all but Mrs. Beaton and her niece Margot. When Elspeth stood at the battlements, folk talked of her bringing their laird luck in his negotiations. And since he returned to the castle unharmed, she was considered good luck.

Rob had come to escort her down to the Great Hall again, and she was greeted warmly by several people who’d glared at her the night before as they took their place of honor. Rob looked so handsome, she could scarcely tear her eyes from him. Though he didn’t share what he’d discussed with her father, he assured her she’d be happy about it once he was able to tell her.

“At least, I hope ye’ll be happy,” he’d said, stealing a quick kiss in a dark corridor on their way down to the evening meal.

She didn’t think she could cram in much more happiness than she felt now. If only she didn’t have this niggling headache. It was like a claw at the base of her skull, and nothing she did could shake it.

She took a sip of wine, hoping that might ease the discomfort. Then one of the serving girls lit another candle at the end of their table, and suddenly her vision tunneled and Elspeth was sucked into the flame.

Brightness burned the backs of her eyes. Then the light dimmed, and she could see.

Oh, God! The battle scene. Not again.

Hundreds of bodies littered the field, bleeding into winter-brown grass. Corbies cried and circled overhead, waiting. Women culled items of value from the fallen or searched, weeping, for dead loved ones. A large carrion bird swooped down, impatient for the upright humans to clear the heath so the corbies could feast on the bodies that remained.

Elspeth wandered through the glen of death, looking for something. She knew not what. The only thing that made it possible for her to put one foot before another was her certainty that she had Seen this battle before. This was all but a vision, as insubstantial as a dream and over as quickly.

Someone groaned, a dying man among the dead. Another bleated piteously for his mother. Whose son was he? She couldn’t see his face.

No, he didn’t have a face.