Page 73 of Cottage in the Mist
Lily watched as the three men talked in obvious camaraderie. The sun was almost gone, shadows lengthening with the advent of evening. The wind was cold, and she pulled her plaid closer around her, then carefully shifted Robby’s head so that it rested on the makeshift pallet they’d constructed of piled leaves covered with a blanket. It wasn’t much, but it was a far sight better than before they’d found him.
Robby moaned then mumbled something. Lily leaned closer to try and hear. He thrashed to the right and then seemedto settle, but his eyebrows drew together as he fought against something only he could see. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.
“Shush,” Lily soothed, laying her hand over his. “There’s nothing to be sorry for.”
“Nay,” Robby shook his head again, obviously lost in a dream. “Nay. ’Tis a sorry friend I turned out to be.”
“I don’t believe that,” Lily said, unable to stop herself.
“Traitor,” he whispered, his words dying away and Lily shivered, her mind suddenly presenting her with a memory. Bram telling her about his father’s death, and his friend’s. Robby. Surely then this was Bram’s oldest friend. And the man wasn’t dead at all. But what did he mean ‘traitor’? Bram had said that there must have been a traitor. Someone who helped Alec Comyn. Did Robby know who it was? Or worse still, was Robby the traitor?
She looked down at the man, discarding the thought even as she had it. When they’d first found him he’d mentioned being betrayed. Someone else was the traitor. And she’d lay odds he was responsible for Robby’s injury. Anger flashed through her. Bram had lost so much. And now the fate of his oldest friend lay in her hands. And honest to God, she had no earthly idea what she was supposed to do.
But one thing was certain; she sure as hell wasn’t going to give up.
The brush beneath the trees around the clearing rattled ominously. Shifting to protect Robby, she rose to her knees, watching as Fergus, William and Jeff reached for their weapons. Then suddenly, the clearing was full of men, all of them brandishing weapons. She reached for an arrow from her quiver, instinct alone helping her to lift and arm her bow. Pulling back, she centered her sights on a towering man holding a claymore.
For a moment the world narrowed to just the two of them. His green-eyed gaze met hers, his wild blue-black hair framing aface that was the masculine equivalent of her own. Air whooshed out of her lungs, but she held her position and stared defiantly into his eyes.
24
Moving on instinct alone, Bram pulled his claymore and sprang to his feet, dodging to the side as his enemy’s broadsword cut through the space he’d just vacated. The man, enraged at his failure, turned and swung again. But this time Bram was ready, countering his opponent’s parry with his own weapon, the jarring impact sending them both backward.
Circling each other now, Bram tuned out the sounds of battle coming from the campsite, concentrating on the man in front of him. He couldn’t help his cousins until he managed to rid himself of his attacker.
The man was taller than Bram and broad as a tree, but Bram was quicker, and he knew how to press his advantage. “Come on then, let’s see what you’ve got,” he taunted, breaking to the right. The man snarled and lunged. Bram danced to the left, out of reach of his attacker’s blade. Pivoting on his right foot, Bram swung the claymore, satisfied when it glanced off his opponent’s arm.
With a cry of rage, blood dripping, the man lunged again, his sword nicking Bram’s side. Looking down, he saw a fine line ofblood seeping through the linen of his shirt. Pain sliced through him, but it only served to increase his determination.
“You have the luck of the devil, but you bleed like a man,” his opponent taunted.
“No more than you.” Bram moved out of range as the man swung again. “Tell me who you are and I might just let you go.”
“Yer assuming you have the advantage.” The man thrust again and their swords hit hard, the sound ringing through the forest. “But ’twill be a cold day in hell afore a Macgillivray takes a Comyn.”
There it was then. By the man’s own mouth. “So yer Alec’s kinsman?”
“Aye, son o’ Macniven.” He moved as he spoke, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet.
“I believe I’ve met yer brother.”
The big man’s lips curled in a feral grin. “Ach, that you have. Canna say I’m sorry that he didn’t kill you, though. Seeing as how it left the task to me.”
Ignoring the pain in his side, Bram lifted his sword and feinted to the left, tricking the other man into following suit, and leaping forward. Bram lowered into a crouch and swung his sword, just catching the edge of Macniven’s shoulder.
The man howled in pain, his eyes narrowing as he lunged forward again, slicing his claymore through the air. Bram danced back, managing to miss the blow. Once more they circled, changing places, and then moving back again, eyes locked as each waited for the other to act.
Blood stained Macniven’s shirt and he was breathing hard, but Bram knew better than to assume an advantage. Macniven’s eyes narrowed and Bram swung, parrying the other man’s thrust. They circled once more and then a shout from the clearing behind Bram caught Macniven’s attention. Takingadvantage of the mistake, Bram moved back and to the right, his weapon arcing over his head in a full-blown attack.
The claymore cut through muscle and bone, and with a satisfied grunt, Bram pulled the weapon free. Macniven’s eyes rolled back as he fell to the ground, his last breath hissing from his lips.
“Take that, you bloody bastard.”
Again there was a shout from the clearing. Bram pulled his bloody sword free of Macniven’s body and sprinted toward the fighting, his thoughts turning to his cousins and the battle they were obviously waging. God willing, they too were winning the day.
Suddenly, off to his left, a second man came charging through the undergrowth, broadsword at the ready. Bram swung his claymore using both hands, the force knocking the other man’s blade free. With a second thrust the man was down, and Bram was running again.
He burst into the clearing, blood pumping, heart pounding.
