He would see Donald pay for this as he had never paid before. Alasdair had let things go on far too long—the murders, the ambushes. And now this, killing the innocent people of his clan…women and children.

No more. No mercy for the MacIrwins.

He prayed for rain to pour from the cloud-filled sky and death to all the murdering MacIrwin men.

He’d dispatched five of the enemies thus far himself. His men had taken out several more.

Most of the villagers had gone to the relative safety of the barmkin and tower. But some had already lost their lives in either the fires or the battle.

His cousin Fergus approached on horseback. “The MacIrwin wants Mistress Carswell and her son back,” he shouted. “He claims we’ve taken them hostage.”

Alasdair faced him, his rage escalating. “That hell-hated bastard! He will kill them if he so much as sets eyes on them. I would never make them go back.”

Fergus wheeled his horse and charged a MacIrwin approaching from behind.

Pounding hooves and a war cry shot toward Alasdair from the shadows.

Determination rushing thorough his veins, he tugged on his mount’s reins and turned about to meet the threat, head-on. The horse reared and near unseated him. He wrestled the temperamental animal under control just in time to strike out. The blade of the MacIrwin warrior clashed against his own.

Alasdair slashed and thrust. His spooked horse reared again, catching him off guard. He toppled over the horse’s hindquarters, slammed against the stony ground but maintained a hold on his sword. Damnation! Though the pain in his hip near blinded him, he scrambled out of the path of the MacIrwin’s horse.

Lachlan stormed into the fray, engaging the enemy and running him through.

“Are you all right, brother?” Lachlan called over the roaring fires of the cottages.

“Aye, just busted my arse.” Coughing, he rose and turned about in search of his horse. He could hardly see through the smoke and brightness of the flames.

“You should return to the tower! You’ve scarce recovered from the last skirmish,” Lachlan said.

“You’re wasting your breath, mother hen.”

Riding away, Lachlan found Alasdair’s horse, slapped it on the rump and sent it trotting to him.

Once mounted, Alasdair cursed at the fresh wave of MacIrwins invading the village, on foot and horseback, slashing at anything that moved.

“Murdering bastards!” Alasdair gripped his basket-hilted sword and joined Lachlan to fight beside him.

***

Shaking and almost out of breath, Gwyneth approached the village from the shadows. The roaring of the flames chilled her to the core. How many had already died in the fires? How could Donald do such horrid things?

Heaven help me, if Rory dies, I’ll personally kill Donald myself, even should his men strike me down after I do the deed.

She’d been to the cottage where Rory was staying once and hoped she could find it again. But, dear heavens, all the cottage roofs were on fire.

The heat singed her skin. The bitter smoke choked her. Coughing, she yanked her plaid over her head and pulled the small dagger from her bodice.

Her attention ahead, her foot caught on something. Saints! A fallen warrior…three of them. Whispering a prayer, she skirted around them.

Near the first burning cottage, two men on horseback broke into a sword-slashing duel. Sparks popped off their clashing blades.

She circled back and approached from the rear. In the light from the fires, she now saw that one of the men was Alasdair, his smoke-blackened face a mask of fury.

“Dear God, protect him,” she whispered.

Alasdair’s injuries of a few days ago hadn’t slowed him down. He skillfully parried and thrust against his opponent.

A tiny child ran screaming from behind the row of cottages near her and blindly headed toward the fighting warriors. A surge of strength jolted Gwyneth. She darted forward and snatched the child from the ground. He wasn’t Rory, but he was someone’s baby.

A MacIrwin foot soldier wielding a two-handed sword, chased the child, quickening his pace when he noticed Gwyneth. Skin prickling, she dashed in the opposite direction, toward the tower.

I have to get Rory.

Halting, she glanced back at the same moment Alasdair struck his mark, his sword sliding with deadly accuracy into the mounted MacIrwin clansman’s chest. The man shouted and toppled from his horse.

The other beast, chasing her on foot, shouting taunts in Gaelic, and waving his claymore about, didn’t let up.

Clutching the wriggling child, she faced forward and ran. She would take him to the tower and come back to search for Rory, if she could get this barbarian off her heels. Hooves clattered on the earth behind her. A hoarse battle cry erupted, blades clashed.

Afraid she’d stumble and fall on the rocks, Gwyneth could spare no time to glance back. The sound of a blade slicing against bone met her ears, followed by a man’s scream. She cringed.

“Go to the tower and stay there!” a man yelled. Was that Alasdair’s voice?

She stopped and turned. The villain who’d been pursuing her lay in a heap on the ground.

“Gwyneth? Is that you?” Alasdair rode closer on his big black warhorse. “God’s teeth, woman! Get inside the gates and don’t come back down here!” His hair hung wild about his soot-blackened face, and his fierce expression brooked no argument.

“I must find Rory! He was with your cousin, Colin, and his wife.”

“I sent Rory to the tower with Fergus some time ago, along with Colin’s family.”

Gwyneth almost sank to her knees in relief. “Is he well?”

“Aye. Go back. Now!”

“I thank you. God keep you,” she called out, though it was pitifully little and did not convey what she wanted to say. She wished to drag him off his horse and bring him back to the safety of the tower with her.

“Don’t worry. Now go!”

She turned and climbed the road up the hill even as the first drops of cool rain fell. When she glanced back, he was still watching her, guarding her.

Once she was inside the gates, Alasdair wheeled his horse about and galloped away.

May God protect him.

Still carrying the screaming child, she glanced about for Rory inside the barmkin. The summer rain shower increased, drenching her and everyone around her in a chilly downpour.

“Rory!” Gwyneth called. Alasdair had said Rory was here, so he had to be. But where?

“Och, wee Kean!” An elderly woman approached Gwyneth and gently took the child from her arms. “Thank you, mistress.” Rain washed through the soot on the woman’s wrinkled face.

“You’re welcome. Do you know Rory? Have you seen him?”

The woman shook her head.

“He was with Colin and Grace.”

“Mayhap inside the castle.”

Gwyneth raced up the spiral tower steps. How had she missed Rory’s arrival?

In the great hall, women, children and elderly men moved about or sat on benches. Her gaze searched each child’s face.

“Ma! Ma!” Rory, soot-covered and ragged, dashed toward her.

Thank you, God. She dropped to her knees in relief and caught her precious child in her arms. “Oh, Rory. Sweetheart, I’m glad you are well.”

Now, if only Alasdair were safe too.

***

Hours later, Alasdair stood beside his horse on a small rise, overlooking the village and the activity there. He and his men had cleared the area of live MacIrwins, but several dead ones remained. Their bodies would need to be returned to their clan.

Though Alasdair had lost only two of his own fighting men in the skirmish, the loss was great to him. And he didn’t yet know how many of the villagers had perished. Each member of his clan was family, whether by blood or friendship.

He still couldn’t believe Gwyneth had been in the village—damn her daft hide—right in the midst of the fighting. He should string up the guards for allowing her beyond the walls. And he’d rake her over the coals as well. Of course, nothing would hold her back from saving the life of her son. Thank God she hadn’t gotten herself killed, and Rory was safe, too.