Page 63 of Claimed by the Clan Chief

God, give me a good aim.

Stepping back, he kept his focus on the nest, drew out his dagger and with a fast flick of his wrist sent it upward.

It hit the centre with a crunch, direct hit, then fell to the ground.

Holding his breath, he watched as the contents of the nest tumbled out, a dusty mass that crashed to the ground beside an Englishman. Hornets circled wildly around their wrecked home in the tree and on the ground. The accompanying buzz was deafening.

“What is that?” The duke stared upward as did his soldiers.

“We have to get out of here,” McTavish said in Gaelic. “Now.”

As he’d spoken a black swarm hovered between him and the English.

“You bloody idiot.” The duke pointed his pistol at the hornets.

“I don’t think that will work.” McTavish stepped backwards, his hand on his sword again. “Though feel free to give it a try.”

One of the Englishmen let out a yelp as the black cloud surrounded him. “Argh! Help.”

“Go.” McTavish turned. “Get the hell away.”

“Good plan.” Callum broke into a sprint.

Raif did the same as did the other two Scots.

McTavish hesitated. His attention landed on the duke who was also being surrounded by the swarm. Perhaps it was their bright red coats attracting the insects.

The duke spotted McTavish, swung his pistol around and took a shot.

The bullet landed in the ground beside his right boot, a pile of leaves burst upward.

Another fired and hit a trunk to his left, splintering off a chunk of bark.

McTavish decided enough was enough. He turned and took off at a fast pace, following in the footsteps of his men.

The sounds of screams and shouts echoed in his ears as he pounded the forest floor. Several hornets accompanied him the first hundred yards then he outran them.

* * *

Isla stood at the window of Caerlaverock cradling her son. The copse of trees in the distance were turning red and gold as fall approached.

McTavish had been gone for five weeks now. Longer than he’d anticipated and she missed him desperately.

And for the last twenty-four hours she’d had a bad feeling about the forest her husband was in. Not that she knew for sure he was in woodland, but the vision of a dark, leaf-littered ground and the scent of mulch had lingered in her nose. Plus her attention had kept returning to the trees surrounding their home.

The distance between herself and her husband was wide too, she could sense that in her bones. He’d journeyed a long way south—a long way into England, which wasn’t good for a Jacobite.

She moved to the fire and with one hand tossed another log onto the flames. She could have rung the bell and had a servant do it, but she was perfectly capable of keeping a fire aglow.

And she still hadn’t quite gotten used to being Lady McTavish of Caerlaverock and the status that gave her. When she’d been on the road with her husband and his men, she’d slept on the ground if they had, or in barns of sympathetic farmers, or inns with all manner of interesting clientele. But the moment her belly had swollen with child, McTavish had taken her to his home—a very grand home near Inverness—and insisted she stay there safe, and with some of his men acting as guards at the entrance.

He’d been around mostly for her pregnancy and for the weeks after the birth, but this trip to finally meet with the Duke of Cambridgeshire was too important for him to miss.

So she’d been instructed to stay home under the watchful eye of five of his men and with a staff of three to tend her and baby Conner’s every need.

It was a beautiful home too. With large rooms decorated with tapestries, fireplaces big enough to stable a small horse, and polished furniture from both Scotland and France in every room. The garden pleased Isla too; it was well stocked with herbs and flowers, meaning she could continue to source the potions she needed for healing.

Right now wee Conner had marshmallow root and thyme balm on his chest as he’d been coughing in the night. It was helping and he was sleeping peacefully, his rosebud lips parted and his dark eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks. He was so beautiful, perfect in fact. She loved him with every beat of her heart. Her child was the most precious thing on Earth to both her and McTavish. And she loved her husband all the more when she saw him with their son. His big hands were tender, his smiles quick, and he spoke of the future he wanted for his son in Scotland now, and not just of Scotland—becoming a father had made her husband all the more determined to seat the worthy king on the throne.

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