But she would miss the charming way his obsidian eyes sparkled when he was thinking of a bit of devilry. It had been years since a man had teased and complimented her as he had.

I am a daft woman, always a fool for a handsome man. They were all the same—pretending to be considerate one moment, and lapsing into hatefulness the next.

“’Tis better that he’s gone.” She strode into the byre again to clear away the last traces of his presence—the blanket and herbal supplies.

Rory skipped in, halted and scanned all the corners. “Where’d he go?”

“Home, I hope.”

“Oh.” A glum expression weighted her son’s features. And in the deepest part of herself, Gwyneth felt the same.

“I wish he’d stayed,” Rory said. “He was going to teach me to be a warrior.”

No, he will not! She glared at her son. With the education she was giving him, he would become a learned man, perhaps a scholar, steward or merchant. She wanted him to live a long and happy life. Not be killed in some senseless skirmish.

It was best for them all that Angus MacGrath was gone. And since no one else had known he was here, they’d be safe now. At least she didn’t think anyone else knew.

“You didn’t tell the boys at Finella’s about him, did you?”

Rory’s eyes widened. “Only Jamie. But he’s my best friend, and he won’t tell anyone.”

Dear heavens! What have you done?

***

Crouched behind the rock, hiding from the MacIrwin clansman stalking him, Alasdair tightened his grip on the spear. In his other hand, he picked up a stone the size of his fist and waited.

Strength infused his muscles as it did when he charged into battle. The pain slid away and his attention focused. He gauged the horse’s distance by the sound of its hooves among the rocks.

He sprang upright, aimed at his enemy and hurled the rock. It hit the hulking man on the side of the head with a thwack, toppling him from the horse.

The horse whinnied and scuttled sideways.

Alasdair prayed he hadn’t killed the man, but he had no time to find out. Pain lancing his foot, he limped forward. This MacIrwin was out cold, certain sure. Alasdair tossed his primitive spear, snatched the man’s basket-hilted sword, which he was far more skilled with, and heaved himself into the saddle. The animal shied from an unfamiliar rider. Alasdair controlled him with the reins, his legs and murmured Gaelic words.

He kicked the horse into a gallop across the moor and headed toward MacGrath land. No time to tarry. The MacIrwins would find their injured kinsman soon enough. The thin, cold mist dampening his face smelled of soggy peat and freedom. The horse’s gait over the uneven terrain snapped Alasdair’s teeth together. Clenching his jaw, he leaned forward.

Too late, he glimpsed a group of what appeared to be MacIrwins on a nearby trail, some on horseback. By St. Andrew, they’d already spotted him. His only option was to race toward his own land.

The men called out and charged forward on their horses. The wind whipping his hair into his eyes, Alasdair glanced back and counted five in pursuit. “God’s teeth!” He dug in his heels, urging his mount to a full run.

Two shots exploded behind him. He lay over the horse’s neck, expecting the lead balls to tear into him…but he felt nothing. Thank God the MacIrwins were bad shots and pistols were not as accurate as they should be.

A good warrior he was, but not against five, and him injured besides.

The horse beneath him was sweating and near winded. He hated to push the animal more, but his own life depended upon it.

He darted another glance back. The cursed MacIrwins advanced from the white mist, their swords poised to run him through.

“Iosa is Muire Mhàthair!” Kicking his mount’s flanks, he held his own pilfered sword at the ready. He could off two or three of them before they dealt him fatal injury. But the last two worried him.

They yelled curses, taunts and threats meant to undermine his courage. He oft used the same tactic himself.

Alasdair peered back and found one of the horses breaking away from the others, surging forward like an Arabian. The bearded, yodeling devil of a rider waved his broadsword overhead.

The fog thinned and the distant hills of his own land came into view. But he wasn’t there yet. The MacIrwin knave bore down on him. Alasdair easily understood the other man’s murderous threats, called out from a few paces away. The breath of his mount huffed within earshot.

His pursuer drew almost even with him on the left. Alasdair thrust his sword at the man’s abdomen in a quick, precise stab. The pressure on the blade’s point told him he’d struck his mark. The other man growled an oath and lashed out with his own sword.

Alasdair dodged away, guiding his mount to the right.

“A mhic an uilc!” the man bellowed, dropping back.

The renewed thunder of hooves approached. Alasdair glanced back to find the other four MacIrwins at twenty paces and gaining ground.

A hill lay before him. The horse beneath him would be hard-pressed to climb it. One thing stood in his favor—it was his hill on his lands.

Up ahead, battle cries rang out through the dusk. Through the drifting clouds, the faint light of the moon glowed off the pale shirts of a half-dozen of his clansmen descending the hill, some on foot and others on horseback.

He called out to them, slowed his horse and turned about to face the nearest MacIrwin. Alasdair raised his blade to deflect the enemy’s first blow. Metal clanged against metal. He struck out again and again at the other man with thrusts and slices.

“Alasdair!” His kinsmen joined in the skirmish. They unseated two of the MacIrwins and sent their mounts galloping. The remaining two swung their horses about and raced away, back down the hillside. The two on foot fled.

He’d made it. He released a shout of victory in the wake of the retreating MacIrwins.

His clansmen surrounded him and called out greetings. “Chief! You live!”

“We thought you dead for certain sure,” his cousin, Fergus, said.

He laughed. “I would’ve been without your help.”

At the hilltop lookout, he dismounted and slapped his borrowed horse on the haunch, sending it back to its owners. He would not be accused of horse thievery. A lone torch revealed a dozen of his clansmen gathered here, but some were missing. “Who died in the skirmish yesterday?” he asked, thankful to see his cousins Fergus and Angus hale and hearty.

Fergus named five men. Good, strong, noble men, the lot of them. Men he had grown up with and fought beside many times.

“Muire Mhàthair!” Alasdair felt responsible, for he should never have trusted the enemy’s word on anything. Tomorrow, he would visit their families and offer what help he could. But nothing would replace a husband and father gone forever. One way or another, he would see the MacIrwin pay.

“Glad we are that you made it back.” Fergus slapped him on the shoulder.

“No more glad than I. My skull was near bashed in.” Alasdair limped forward. “And I broke a toe. Smarts like the very devil.”

Despite the gloominess of the situation, they chuckled at him. Two hoisted him atop another horse.

He smiled at their good-natured ribbing about their formidable chief being brought down by his toe.

“Where’s Lachlan?”

“At the tower,” Angus said. “Hatching up a plan of attack on the craven MacIrwins. He’s madder than hell itself, thinking you dead. We all were. But I’ve never seen the lad so intent on revenge.”

Lachlan was the merry sort, and Alasdair hated to see him fash himself so. As second in command, he would be next in line to inherit the titles of chief and earl if something happened to Alasdair. Lachlan hated responsibility or being tied down and would likely find the position difficult to grow accustomed to.