Page 61 of The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

He’d come so close to losing Niamh, just as he’d lost Constance. Just as he’d lost his father. The memories swept over him, heavy and suffocating with emotion. Alistair felt sick, the world swaying between burning fury and chilling terror in turns. He was vaguely aware of Ewan speaking, of himself pacing about the clearing, but the words made no sense. Everything hurt and burned and froze, and he couldn’t seem to get enough air. Couldn’t seem to stop moving, or gather his thoughts.

There was no room for anything save the wild, restless energy that filled him, or the emotions that drowned all the words in his mind save for a desperate, hammering cadence. It cannae happen again! It cannae! It cannae!

Something caught him round the chest, a grip like a vise. Arms clenched tight around him, and a boot to the back of the legs brought him tumbling to his knees where he couldn’t fight his way free. A low voice sounded in his ear. “Alistair, ‘tis me. Breathe. Breathe.”

The words made no sense, the voice was familiar but he couldn’t think of the name. Then the arms about him tightened further, constricting his chest. Alistair choked, then forced a breath into his aching lungs. “Again. Breathe.”

He dragged in another breath, chest heaving, muscles straining against the grip that held him. Behind him, he heard his captor sucking in a strained breath of his own, the force of his grip constricting his airway as well.

Another breath. Then another. Gradually, the fog of panic and rage began to subside. The desperate hammering thoughts receded, driven from his mind by the need to focus on pulling in one breath after another.

Slowly, the world came back into focus, and with it, his thoughts began to regain some semblance of order.

Ewan. It was his brother who was holding him, speaking quietly in his ear.

His throat ached. He must have been screaming. But Ewan would never have trapped him, unless he’d first sent the scouts away. They were alone, or close enough to it.

Och… not again.

It wasn’t the first time he’d lost control of himself like this. Or as he had with the bandit two nights before. After the death of his father and Constance, he’d had spells of paralyzing grief, burning rage, and even bone-shaking terror that he was about to lose someone else he cared for. Ewan was the only one who could stop the bouts of near-mindless emotional shattering when they happened.

Alistair focused on his breathing for a moment longer, then deliberately focused his thoughts on what had caused the shattering of his control in the first place.

They’d found a campsite. There were signs of men and horses, and it was too orderly for brigands. It must have been mercenaries, or a troop controlled by another laird.

There was no reason for such a force to be on his lands, much less to have concealed themselves and then disappeared so quickly, unless they had been part of the plan to kidnap or kill Niamh. The plan he and Ewan had foiled two days ago.

The force was therefore under the control of Fergus MacTavish, who had intended to kill or steal away his wife. His men had withdrawn when the attempt failed.

Thinking such things still enraged him, but now, now that the first raw, brutal press of emotion was past, Alistair could think of the matter - not calmly, perhaps, but sanely. He could maintain his focus now.

He took another two breaths, then tapped Ewan’s arm three times, in the signal they’d agreed upon after the first time his brother had moved to calm one of his emotional storms.

A moment’s pause, then Ewan loosened his grip and shifted his position to give Alistair a full range of movement. “Are ye well?”

“Well as I can be. Thank ye braither. But ‘tis clear these men were connected tae the men who tried tae attack Niamh before. Which means, likely as nae, they’re MacTavish men, or under his pay.” Alistair grimaced. The words hurt his throat.

Ewan handed him a waterskin, and he drank, grateful for the coolness that eased the raw ache that burned from his chest to the back of his tongue. “What should we dae?”

“Nae much we can dae. The sellsword gave us a name, but ‘twould nae be enough fer us tae have sanction tae attack. Nae that we have the men nor resources tae dae so. As it is, all we have is a dying man’s word and indications, nay proof that Fergus was involved.”

“But ye ken he is.”

Alistair scowled. “Aye. I ken he is. But until he makes a mistake, I cannae act on it. ‘Tis like everything else he’s done tae this clan - he provokes and harries us, but never leaves traces by which we might seek retaliation without invitin’ censure or losin’ men we cannae afford tae lose.”

Ewan cursed. Alistair would have done the same, save that he felt far too spent from his outburst to do so. Such explosions of emotion were always exhausting.

Finally, his brother finished venting his own ire. Alistair handed him the waterskin, and Ewan drank deeply, then sighed. “What now?”

“Now we increase the patrols, especially on the border tae MacTavish lands. And we go back tae the castle, alert the Council, and continue tae prepare fer Samhain.”

Ewan opened his mouth with an expression that suggested he wanted to protest. Then he closed it with a huff. “I’d say ‘tis folly tae continue with Samhain plans, but the folk will be uneasy enough. Tae cancel the celebration o’ Samhain would create tae much unease, and too many rumors.”

Alistair nodded grimly. “I’ll nae let the blackguard win - neither by stealing me wife, nor by throwin’ me clan intae disarray and fear.”

“Best we were returning tae the castle then.” Ewan reattached the skin to his saddle, then peered closely at Alistair’s face. “Are ye recovered enough tae ride?”

It was a fair question. Alistair studied his hands. They weren’t shaking, the way they did sometimes in the aftermath of his outbursts. He felt weary, but not to the point that he couldn’t stay in his saddle. “I’m well enough.”