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"Oh, get up," Alistair said impatiently. "Here—step over to this tree. Have ye kinfolk to pay your ransom?"

"Nay," the boy said in a miserable whisper.

"Christ's blood, lad, ye mustn't say that! D'ye ken naught about this business?" He regarded the boy through narrowed eyes, then said, "I think I must have struck your head, no doubt your wits are addled. Now, as I was saying, I'll hold you for ransom, for Johnson will surely pay to have ye safe again."

He glared at the boy, daring him to contradict, but he stayed wisely silent as Alistair bound him to the tree, pulling the knots tight. There. That should hold him for an hour or two. By the looks of what was happening below, an hour would see the battle finished.

Ross Maxwell came breathless up the slope, wiping his sweating brow. "That's done," he said cheerfully. "Now what?"

Alistair glanced down to the field below. "Now we wait for Brodie's signal."

"But we'll miss it all!"

"And if we leave now and Brodie signals, then what? Orders are orders, my fine laddie, and I'll thank ye to remember it."

Alistair spoke sharply, for in truth he agreed with every word Ross spoke. Brodie had no idea how to lead his men. Imagine putting him—Alistair Kirallen, a seasoned commander and an able swordsman—up here among the rocks and stones! It was a calculated insult, to be sure, but it was the kind of insult only a fool like Brodie would invent.

"Fine!" Ross flung himself down upon the stony slope. "We wait."

Alistair stood, one hand shading his eyes as he watched the battle below. "Here, now," he said. "It's coming this way."

Ross sat up, his face brightening as he watched Johnson's men scramble up the slope. And Brodie, who should have known better, was leading his own men right after them.

"If we push the stone down it will take Maxwell, too," Ross said, worried. "What's Brodie thinking to follow?"

"God only knows, lad," Alistair said. "Here, now, stand ready—"

At his signal they leaped forward with a cry, taking Johnson's lead men by surprise. They stepped back, loose shards of shale slipping beneath their feet and carrying them right into Brodie's men.

Up and down the slope they fought as the sun rose to its zenith and sparkled on the river far below. Without quite knowing how it happened, Alistair found himself in command of a dozen men. Save for young Ross they were all mercenaries like himself, many of them men he'd fought with—and in some cases, against—before. They had abandoned Maxwell in disgust when he ordered them to stand and fight on the slope of the hill, below Johnson's men. It was an indefensible position, as was proved by the beating that the bulk of Maxwell's men were taking.

Crouched in the lee of the highest rocks, Alistair wiped his streaming forehead and surveyed the battle below.

One of the older men grunted. "Christ, just look at that," he said, pointing toward the Maxwells on the hillside. "Where the devil is Maxwell himself?" he asked, disgusted. "Worst day's work I ever did, takin' siller from the man."

"Aye, well, let's see we all live to regret it," Alistair said. "Go there—" he pointed toward and outcropping just above Johnson's forces. "And wait for my signal. With any luck we'll drive them right back down the hillside and home again."

Alistair waited as they made their way toward the outcropping. From the corner of his eye he saw a deeper shadow move among the trees behind him. Damnation, he'd forgotten the boy he'd tied to the tree.

He sprinted into the stand of trees. There he found Brodie Maxwell himself, sword upraised as the terrified lad ducked futilely behind a slender branch.

"Hold, Brodie!" Alistair cried. "That's my prisoner."

"Prisoner?" Brodie roared. "Who gave ye leave to be takin' any prisoners?"

"Christ's blood, he's but a child," Alistair said, disgusted. "Let him be—or here, I'll turn him loose. Go," he ordered the boy, jerking his head toward the path as he sliced through the ropes.

But even as the boy began to run, Brodie put out a foot and sent him flying. He landed inches from the cliff's edge and lay gasping, the wind knocked from him.

"Brodie, that's enough!" Alistair cried, really angry now, but had no time for more as Brodie Maxwell raised his sword again and rushed forward. Even as the sword began its swift descent the boy twisted desperately, knocking Brodie's feet from under him. As Alistair watched, astonished, the force of Brodie's charge carried him straight over the cliff's edge.

Running forward, Alistair saw Brodie fly through the air with a wailing cry. Alistair cried out himself as the man struck against the side of the cliff, bounced off, and vanished with a splash into the river far below.

CHAPTER 9

Deirdre rose stiffly from her knees and drew her cloak around her as the priest began his final blessing. Poor old man, she thought with distant sympathy. His stained and mended surplice gave but little protection from the cold. The end of his long nose was red and his words were visible things, coming from his mouth in little puffs. Deirdre shivered, glancing about the dank and miserable chapel of Cranston Keep. Neither Brodie nor his father had ever seen fit to waste a single coin on a place that held so little interest for them.

But even Maxwell's laird could not avoid his chapel altogether now. He was not here today, which was odd, for he himself had ordered daily masses for Brodie's safe return. Day after day the household had crowded into the tiny chapel, and though Maxwell had ordered braziers to be lit at every corner, their warmth was quickly dissipated by the ever-present drafts.