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“Ach, there now,” one of the men huffs. “Stupid MacGregor cow. You’ll learn soon enough.”
I’m swept off the ground and thrown over a shoulder again. My head is pounding, I’m nauseous and I can barely keep my eyes open, but I’m not dead. It’s the only thing I can cling to. Hope isn’t gone. Not yet.
“I’m not a MacGregor,” I say.
“MacGregor or not, you’re ours now. We’ll break ya.”
My head pounds in counterpoint to the bouncing against the back of the man carrying me. Nausea comes in waves. Do I have a concussion? It feels like I might. The symptoms drift through the haze that fills my head, and I can check several of them off.
Gritting my teeth against the pain, I resume struggling. Either I’m too weak or my captors are too wary because I don’t seem to make any headway.
“Colquhoun!” a distant voice yells.
“Trade you!” one of my captors returns. “We’ll take your lass for the cows you done stole!”
“Are ya calling me a thief?” a man says; I recognize Duncan’s voice. “Stop and say that to my face, you cowards.”
“Coward?” the man carrying me bellows.
He stops and whirls around so fast I bounce up then drop hard against him, jarring my head again.
“That’s right, Thomas Colquhoun. You think I do nae know ya? You’re as yellow as the sun in the sky.”
“You no good son of an arse,” Thomas growls.
Thomas lets go of me and I drop. I barely manage to get my arms up in time to protect my aching head. I don’t have the strength to get up, so I roll to the side. The smell of fresh grass and heather fills my nose. The nausea hits so strong, I have to stop or throw up.
I lie on my back, staring up at a sky that is too blue, too perfect. This can’t be happening. It’s all a mistake. Or a bad dream. That must be it. A bad dream. Any minute now, I’m going to wake up and I’ll be in my bed in Dalmally.
The slide of steel being drawn stops my thought and hope of it being a dream.
My bound wrists ache. The rope is rubbing them raw. I struggle to get free, and the rope seems to loosen some. If I work at it more, I might be able to get out of my bonds. Duncan yells something unintelligible that, on some level, I know is a battle cry. Is it Gaelic? It sounds Gaelic.
Run, you stupid fool. Run. This is your chance.
Right. Run. Good idea. I roll over but the nausea makes my stomach clench and I dry heave. I push myself up onto my elbows, waiting for my belly to ease. When I can raise my head, I see Duncan charging up the slope towards Thomas. He has his massive sword held upright and to one side. His long, rich brown hair flows behind him like the waves of the ocean. His stunning eyes catch the sunlight and sparkle. He’s beautiful. Like a painting or a really good book cover. My heart thumps loud in my ears and my mouth is dry.
I should run. Or yell and scream. Do something. Anything, but I’m battered and bruised, and everything hurts. Besides, where do I run? I thought my friends would be on this side of the hill but here I am and there’s no sign of them. My best hope is rushing towards Thomas with a drawn sword.
Duncan and Thomas close and their swords clash. The ringing of steel connecting against steel echoes in my ears as the sharp blades scrape against each other. Thomas steps backwards under the force of Duncan’s assault. The rest of the men with Duncan aren’t far behind him, running up with their own weapons out.
“Thomas, let’s go,” one of the Colquhouns says. “This isn’t the time to settle old scores.”
“Tha’s right, Thomas,” Duncan taunts. The swords the two men wield are both claymores, meant more for bashing then finesse. The long, heavy blades are deadly in the right hands and both seem to know what they’re doing. “Runaway now. Go back to your momma. Let her teat suckle your wounds.”
Thomas’s face turns purple with rage. His mouth moves and a strangled sound comes out. They keep their faces inches apart, glaring at each other past their locked swords. In a swift motion, Thomas takes one hand off his hilt and punches Duncan in the face. Duncan stumbles back, blood running from his nose and mouth.
“Is tha’ the best you’ve got?” Duncan asks, wiping his mouth on his sleeve. “My gramma hits harder than you.”
Thomas swings his sword overhead. The blade flashes in the sun, arcing towards Duncan. Duncan moves his sword but it’s too slow. He’s not going to block the blow. A scream stops at the lump in my throat, then a raven caws. Out of nowhere, a black bird dives from on high, aiming right at Thomas' face.
Every man present gasps. Thomas’ blade changes its arc and slams into the ground, missing Duncan by inches. The bird flaps in Thomas’ face. He stumbles back, dropping the sword and throwing his arms over his face to protect his eyes.
“Witchcraft!” one of the Colquhoun men says as their group retreats.
“Damn you, Duncan,” Thomas says, making the sign of the cross. “I’ll see ya burn. You’re making dark deals.”
“Weren’t me,” Duncan says. “But I’d say that even God himself can’t stand the sight of your ugly face.”
