She had no notion where the border to MacGrath holdings was, but surely they would reach it soon.

The birdcall echoed from the tree behind them. But this time the sound was different—an alarm. “Jesu!”

A horse galloped forth, a menacing black silhouette advancing from the white mist in the distance.

“Run, Rory!” She tugged her skirts off her shoes and broke into a sprint.

He dashed several paces ahead of her.

“Faster!”

She glanced back. Two horsemen thundered close behind, one chasing on her heels. Oh, dear God, protect us! She switched directions, gasping, lungs burning, desperate for more air.

Where is Rory? Her legs wouldn’t move fast enough. The air around her thickened like water, and she couldn’t get through it.

Spotting Rory, she chased after him. “Run!” She slipped in a puddle but righted herself before she fell.

They will kill us. They will kill my precious Rory.

More horses joined in the chase. They surrounded her, their demon riders yelling in Gaelic. Two hemmed her in. Trapped, she dashed headlong between them. Something caught her by the belt and yanked her into the air. Her legs flailed on nothingness. She landed hard on her stomach across the front of a saddle. The breath whooshed from her constricted lungs.

“Ma!” Rory yelled.

Chapter Four

“Rory!” God, help me, I must get to him.

Gwyneth’s vision grew fuzzy. How could she free herself from this rider without getting herself killed? She gasped for air that refused to enter her lungs.

The ground beneath the horse hurtled past at dizzying speed. She fought to escape, tried to grab her captor’s sword or dagger.

The kilted Scot—probably one of her own clansmen—shoved a strong hand against the back of her neck, restricting her movements. She couldn’t reach her own dirk either. Her throat tightened and tears streamed from her eyes.

Where was Rory? He still screeched nearby, though she couldn’t tell where with all the jostling. If one of these brutes hurt him, she’d take her dirk to the blackguard and damn the consequences.

The bare, hairy leg of the Scot flexed in front of her face. She could bite him. But this would only anger him, and he might toss her from the galloping horse.

More hooves pounded close-by, and eerie war cries resounded. Her captor yelled in Gaelic. The ding of clashing metal rang out.

What’s going on? The MacIrwin men wouldn’t fight amongst themselves. Were the MacGraths challenging them? Had she and Rory made it to MacGrath land? A ray of hope lit the thick blackness that had near smothered her.

Gwyneth turned her head and, upside down, watched the men slashing at each other in the misty dawn light. The pop of a pistol shot echoed. Her captor jerked and growled a curse.

He slowed the horse and unsheathed his sword. Steel blades clanged over and behind her. The man’s body tensed. The muscles of his legs under her bunched and flexed hard as iron as he engaged in swordplay with someone she couldn’t see.

The horse beneath them danced about, reared. Gwyneth’s head spun in the turmoil of movement.

Her captor shrieked. His body convulsed. The horse reared again. She slid with the man, but tried to grab onto the saddle. Her hands clasped air. With a scream, she tumbled over the animal’s hindquarters and hit the ground.

The hard impact jarred Gwyneth’s teeth and every bone in her body. Pain radiated from her left side. At least the man had broken her fall a bit.

The horse fled. She scrambled away from her captor—one of her distant cousins with red hair, a bushy beard and a grimace such as she’d never seen. He grabbed at his neck where blood gushed.

Glad to be free, but at the same time, hating to see anyone die, she rose and stumbled further away from him.

Pausing a short distance from the main skirmish, she frantically scanned the turmoil for Rory. The meager light revealed less than a dozen men on horseback and some on foot. They cut and jabbed at one another.

A man on foot, a good friend of Donald’s, spotted her and stalked her way. He wielded a claymore, bloodlust gleaming in his eyes.

Panic spurred her into a full run.

Where is Rory? Where is Rory?

A horse approached, chasing her. God protect me.

Yet again, a rider grasped her belt and yanked her off her feet. She screamed. Her new captor slammed her across his saddle. Pain throbbed in her abdomen.

She struggled to draw breaths. Her black-speckled vision cleared by slow degrees. This man’s kilt was of an unfamiliar tartan. She prayed he was a MacGrath.

Her strength drained away. Her whole body trembled with weakness.

I must find Rory.

The Scot urged his horse up an incline. They were not traveling toward Donald’s holdings. This territory was foreign to her.

“Ma! Ma!”

“Rory!” she yelled. Thanks be to God, he was alive. She glanced about upside down, but couldn’t see him.

At the top of the hill, the man slowed his horse. Other men surrounded them.

She squirmed, attempting to escape. “Let me down!”

“What do you have there, Fergus?”

“He’s gone out and captured himself a bonny bride.”

Masculine laughter erupted around her.

Her captor grasped her belt and dragged her backward. “Hold her.”

She slid toward the ground, flailed about, but strong hands caught her arms.

The blood rushed from her head. Dark spots obscured her vision, and she grew lightheaded. She swayed and jerked against the hands that held her. They tightened like ropes.

“Ma!” Rory called yet again.

Her vision cleared, and she glanced around in the pale dawn light. The man who’d snatched Rory handed him down to another.

Rory kicked, punched and screamed like a wildcat.

“Rory!” she warned, not wanting the man to hit him. With a trained eye, she searched his body for blood or wounds and thankfully found none.

Her son stilled, looking about wide-eyed.

“Shh,” she said when his gaze met hers. She turned her attention to the men around her. “Are you MacGraths?”

“Aye.”

She almost collapsed with relief and gratitude, but she still didn’t know what kind of reception she’d get.

Her rescuer, the one they’d called Fergus, dismounted and faced her. “Are you MacIrwin?”

His appearance startled her for an instant. He held a strong resemblance to the man whose life she’d saved days ago. His long dark hair reached his shoulders. He had a clean-shaven face and a square jaw, but his eyes were of a different shape and light color.

“I’m Gwyneth Carswell, and this is my son, Rory. The MacIrwins are trying to kill us. We seek refuge.”

“And why would they be wanting to kill you, Sassenach?” he asked in a derisive, disbelieving tone.

“They learned that I helped save the life of one of your clansmen, Angus MacGrath.”

Fergus frowned and glanced at another man. “Angus, do you ken this woman?”

She scanned the men standing about, expecting to see the man whose life she’d saved. Where was he? And why had he not stepped forward?

“Nay.”

She didn’t recognize the man who spoke. While he had the same dark hair as most of his other clansmen, he was fully-bearded and a decade older than the man she’d helped. She felt disoriented. He wasn’t Angus, unless there were two men named Angus in their clan, a definite possibility. “No, not him.”

“I’m thinking she means Alasdair,” another man said.

“What were his injuries?” Fergus asked her.

“A large knot on his head, a broken toe, and several cuts. Did he make it back safely?”

“Aye, by the skin of his teeth. That would be Chief MacGrath you’re speaking of. And grateful we are that you helped him.” Fergus gave a brief bow.