Page 13 of The Highlander Who Loved Me

He bid the laird and Lady Armstrong a polite farewell. The latter made an impassioned plea for him to remain until he was fully healed, but James could not abide staying within these walls another day. He also declined the laird’s lackluster offer of an escort, his stubborn McKenna pride refusing to acknowledge the need for assistance of any kind.

He saddled his horse himself. After securing a dirk in each of his boots, James hoisted himself into the saddle. A sharp pain raced up his arm and his legs quivered, but he managed to settle himself.

Moisture collected on his upper lip and brow, but he ignored the pain. Head held high, a brokenhearted James rode through the gates of Armstrong Castle, over the drawbridge, and through the village.

Though sorely tempted, he never once looked back.

The brigand arrived at the private glen well before the appointed meeting time. He kept his head lowered, to avoid the biting wind, though his ears were attune to the surrounding sounds. Dismounting gingerly from his horse, he placed his sore, bruised hand on his sword hilt and strode into the dense forest. A light, misty rain had started falling, but the trees still retained enough of their leaves to provide an adequate cover from the worst of it.

Damp, aching, and miserable, he waited. A sudden noise warned him of a presence. The brigand spun around, then turned and peered ahead through the underbrush. He saw no one.

Suddenly, a bolt of lightning cracked and sizzled about his head, illuminating the area in unnatural brightness. The wind picked up to a violent fury, spraying moisture in his face, the droplets of water clinging to his scraggly beard.

A flock of birds scattered wildly in the sky. A second thunder crack brought another flash of intense light and, startled, he cried out, for a cloaked figure stood not ten feet away.

“I dinnae hear ye approach,” he blustered.

“Aye,’tis what I intended,” the figure answered. “Where is Drummond?”

“Dead. His wounds festered. He told me where to meet ye before the fever turned him into a babbling half-wit.” The brigand sniffed and wiped his nose with the back of his sleeve. “Did ye bring the payment?”

“I did.”

He raised his arm and caught the leather purse that was tossed his way. Frowning, he weighed the pouch in his left hand. “It feels light.”

“’Tis the price that was agreed upon.”

“But the task was more complicated. We should be paid more to compensate fer the injuries and deaths.”

The figure sighed with annoyance. “Ye are lucky to get what I give ye. I never instructed Drummond to be so brutal to them. I wanted Sir James driven away and the relationship between them ended. That’s all.”

The brigand felt his jaw twist and set. “We did what ye hired us to do. I saw McKenna ride out two days ago.”

“Aye, and no thanks to ye,” the figure accused. “He could barely sit upon his horse.”

“Ye dinnae tell us that McKenna was such a wild one!” the brigand blustered. “Ye said it would be easy to surprise them, to frighten him off. But he fought like a man possessed, killing two of our men outright and badly wounding two others. Drummond has already gone to meet his maker and ’tis doubtful if Eudard will survive.”

The cloaked figure regarded him with a penetrating stare. “Then ye’ve no cause to complain about the wages ye have earned. I have paid the price and now there are fewer to share it, leaving more fer each of ye.”

Ever practical, the brigand had no rebuke for that chilling, heartless logic. The gray, murky air swirled about them, the wind screeching and moaning. He thought to make one final plea—nay a veiled threat—for more coin, when a bolt of lightning flashed, striking a tall tree. It burst into flames, burning in an angry glow despite the misty rain.

Startled, he turned to watch the eerie sight, feeling the heat of the flames on his flesh. A mist, cool and dense, rose from the ground, mingling with the smoke from the fire. It looked like the bowels of hell, a place of evil and fear. Unsettled, the brigand turned back around, only to discover the cloaked figure was gone, vanishing into the fog, like an unworldly apparition.

Crossing himself, the brigand recited a quiet prayer, then limped slowly back to his horse.

Chapter Four

Five years later

From the privacy of her tower bedchamber, Davina gazed out the small window at the stark, barren landscape below. Another winter was fast approaching and the earth was preparing to lie dormant. The days would be short, the nights long, leaving far too much time for thinking.

How could it be that time hung so heavy, yet the seasons moved with lightning speed? The darkening horizon blurred and she realized that tears were stinging her eyes. She wiped them away. She was grieving again, lamenting the sorrow of the past, the loss of what she had once held so fleetingly within her grasp that was now gone forever.

James.

He was no longer in Scotland, but instead on Crusade, fighting in the Holy Land. Yet it would not have mattered if he resided but a few miles away, for it was far more than physical distance that separated them.

His face haunted her dreams, the memory of their love whittled away at her soul. Once she had believed they would marry and fill their home with children. But a cruel, unforeseen act of violence had denied her that happiness.

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