Page 56 of Cottage in the Mist
“You canna predict at all to my way o’ thinking.” Ranald’s grin loomed out of through the mist. “The only Comyn you can truly count on is a dead one.”
“So we stay alert,” Iain agreed. “But we still stop for the night. We dare not risk the horses. ’Tis too easy to stumble off the cliff in this mist.”
Bram saw the truth in what Iain was saying, but that didn’t make it any easier to stomach. He wanted it over with—the Comyns vanquished and Dunbrae restored to its rightful owner. His uncle be damned. There’d never been any love lost between Malcolm and Seamus. And clearly his uncle was not interested in reconciliation with his nephew. Otherwise he’d have quashed the rumors and called for Bram to come home.
Instead, the lies were still circulating, Bram’s honor sullied by the innuendo. Anger forced his fingers into fists. He’d never felt so impotent. And leaving Lily had only made it all that much more unpalatable.
Although, in truth, had his father not been betrayed, he would never have been at the cottage and so never met her at all. Fate, it seemed, had a wicked sense of irony, the loss of his father leading to the love of his life. And now, it was possible that he’d lost her as well. For even if he did manage to vanquish Alec Comyn, there was no telling if he’d be able to find her again. And perchance that miracle were to occur, there was nothing to say that she’d forgive him for what she no doubt saw as a betrayal.
For the first time he wondered if the price of honor might not be too high.
He shook his head, banishing the thought. There was nothing more important. Were he here, his father would demand vengeance against both the Comyns and the brother who had so deftly put his son aside. And even if Bram could overlook all of that, there was the matter of his clansmen, slaughtered by the Comyns, many of them in an effort to let him slip away.
He owed them all his life, and that was a debt he intended to pay. Lily would simply have to understand. He’d make her see.
After he’d defeated Alec Comyn.
But first they had to wait out this damned weather.
With a start, Bram realized the hillside had gone quiet. While he’d stood there ruminating, his cousins and the rest of the men had disappeared into the mist. He strained into the silence, relieved when he could just make out the distant whinny of a horse. His own mount shuffled nervously, hoofs echoing against the loose rocks littering the hillside.
“Ho there,” he soothed, reaching out to stroke the horse’s flank. “’Tis nothing to be afraid of. Only a wee bit o’ mist. Come now, and I’ll find you some nice oats for your dinner.”
He led the horse in the direction of the copse of trees. They moved slowly and carefully. As predicted, the mist had thickened. It would be easy to become disoriented. To the righthe knew the cliff dropped away sharply. A wrong step and he’d surely fall to his death.
He squinted into the gloom, the movement of the shadowy branches in the distance barely visible. He hoped Iain was right and that there weren’t enemies about. Fighting in the mist was a dangerous endeavor. One to be avoided if at all possible.
Bram stopped, frowning into the night. Even the shadows of the trees had disappeared. Silence surrounded him, only the soft hiss of the horse’s breathing filling the air. He strained for some sign of the camp ahead. But there was nothing. No firelight. No neighing from the horses. Just the heavy weight of the mist as it swirled around them.
He led the horse forward again, their movements louder now as their footsteps rang against the stones, the sound still smothered by the mist. Each step was taken slowly, Bram’s eyes locked on the ground in front of him. He trusted his sense of direction, but even so, knew it was easy to lose one’s way in this heavy a fog.
Behind him stones rattled, and his horse reared in fright. Bram whirled around, pulling his claymore from the sheath against his back. The mist entombed them, the clearing gone quiet again. His horse skittered nervously, but held its ground. Bram waited, listening, and then chided himself for being so jumpy.
He slid the claymore back into its sheath and then picked up the horse’s reins. Best to get on with it, before Ranald and Iain came looking for him. He’d never hear the end of it if they believed he’d managed to lose himself in the mist.
He took a step forward. And then another.
Then something hit him hard from behind. He stumbled forward as the horse screamed in fear and reared again, hooves flying through the air. He tried to turn to face his attacker, but instead he felt himself teetering at the edge of the cliff. Stillreeling in fear, the horse pivoted and ran, the motion sending Bram backwards, arms flailing as he tried to find purchase, something—anything—to stop him from falling.
For a moment there was nothing but air, and then he felt the solid strength of an arm, fingers closing around his wrist as he was yanked from the precipice back onto firm ground.
Iain’s face swam out of the mist. “Steady on. I’ve got you, now.”
Bram released a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. “Holy Mary, mother of God, I thought I was done for. You always did have excellent timing.”
Iain grinned. “I aim to please.”
“How did you find me?” Bram asked. “You can barely see your hand in front of your face.”
“You’ve the mare to thank for that. We heard her all the way from the encampment. She sounded like a banshee. Which had to mean trouble.”
“I’m afraid she ran off.” Bram grimaced, turning slowly to search for the horse.
“Dinna fash yourself. Ranald and Frazier have gone to find her. And if they miss her for the mist, she’ll no doubt find her way to the other horses.” Iain frowned. “So what happened to spook the beast?”
“I canna say for sure. We heard rocks fall and then I’m fairly certain someone pushed me. Although it could have been the horse. You’re right. She was a wee bit crazed. In truth, I had no idea we’d gotten so close to the edge.”
“’Tis easy enough to lose your bearings in a fog like this.” He waved at the swirling mist.
