The other three appeared so surprised by the attack that they actually backed away.

Robbie advanced, arcing his sword in an upward motion, then carefully slicing it across the chests of the two closest men.

The fourth bastard finally gathered his wits and brought his own sword up in defense, thrusting forward just as Robbie stepped to the side, slid his sword between the man’s thighs, and lifted. The shocked warrior sucked in his breath and went utterly still.

Robbie raised his sword a little bit higher, just to make sure the man understood the gravity of his situation.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said in Gaelic, passing a warning glance at the other three men. “I

’ve had enough sport for one night. What say we call it a draw?” He lifted his sword even higher, causing the warrior to whimper. “Or will you let your friend’s bed be cold and lonely from now on?”

It seemed none of them wished to address his challenge.

“Okay, then. Set down your weapons, while this gentleman,” he said, nodding toward his captive, “takes off his plaid.”

All four sets of eyes rounded in the stingy moonlight.

“Now!” Robbie snapped.

The warrior whose manhood was being threatened immediately dropped his sword and started undoing his belt. The bastard with the bleeding backside rolled away from his own sword and awkwardly scrambled to his feet with a groan. The other two, each clutching his chest with one hand, bent down and gently set their swords on the ground.

Robbie nodded. “That’s better.” He reached out and took the man’s plaid. “And now I suggest you start running back the way you came, just as fast as your sorry-ass legs can take you. And I want to hear your war cry, and it had better be moving away. Go!” he growled, dropping the tip of his sword and stepping back.

The two warriors with bleeding chests grabbed their buddy with the bleeding ass and quickly staggered back down the path toward the stream. The naked warrior, however, seemed unable to move.

“If I ever catch ya on MacKeage land again, I’ll have your balls hanging from our keep.”

Still the man didn’t move.

“Or would you rather I do it now?”

The bastard didn’t need to be told a third time and shot after the others, his naked white butt flashing through the trees and disappearing into the dense forest.

“I’m not hearing ya!” Robbie shouted.

Muted cries rose from the forest, along with snapping limbs and groaned curses as the four of them scrambled away. Robbie turned and kicked their swords into the trees, tossed the stolen plaid over his shoulder, and headed in the opposite direction.

He ran until the wound in his side made him stop. He stood bent over, his hands braced on his knees, panting against the throbbing pain. Mary silently glided in, landing on the ground in front of him. She folded her wings and stared.

“I know this isn’t where we arrived three days ago,” he said in a winded whisper, gingerly lowering himself to the ground. “But it’s as far as I’m going tonight.”

Mary sidled closer and nipped his shoulder.

“We didn’t ask the priest if I have to stand in the exact place I landed when I want to return,” he continued. “But what’s the worst that could happen? We’ll probably get back only a mile or two from the summit of TarStone.”

He lay back on the moss, spread his arms wide, closed his eyes, and sighed. “I just need to rest awhile,” he whispered. “The last three days here have been rather… eventful.”

Mary hopped up onto his chest, turned her back to him, and used her beak to tug on his belt.

Robbie let out a pained chuckle. “I do believe the bastards wanted to kill me.” He lifted the stolen MacBain plaid and laid it over the MacKeage plaid he was wearing, groaning when his wound twitched in protest. “There’s some irony in that.”

Mary finally tugged the cherrywood burl free.

“Soon, little one, once I get my strength back,” Robbie whispered. “If my own ancestors didn’t kill me, that godless storm likely will.”

Mary paid him no mind, holding the burl in her beak as she spread her wings to encompass his body. It began as a whisper of breath first, slowly building to a loud, roaring wind. The air thickened and churned above him as lightning filled the sky with gathering energy.

Robbie gripped the hilt of his sword, gritted his teeth, and closed his eyes against the blinding tempest. The weight of the snowy suddenly lifted from his chest and was replaced by the plop of the humming cherrywood burl.

“Nay!” Robbie shouted, trying to catch her.

The bird beat her wings, powering herself out of his reach, and let out a loud, shrilling whistle as she disappeared into the night forest.

The storm tightened around Robbie with a deafening roar, drowning out his own howl of anger. He collapsed back onto the ground, clutching his sword and the MacBain plaid to his chest. He gritted his teeth against the pain he knew was coming. He hoped like hell that Daar was right, that although he’d been here three hellish days, he’d been gone from modern time only one night.

Robbie’s last conscious thought, though, as the vortex consumed him, was of the Highlanders back home. The six MacBain and four MacKeage warriors who had disappeared ten years ago were now legends, and the war his papa had started was still going strong.

And Cùram de Gairn’s tree of spells did not exist.

Chapter Five

Catherine Daniels satupright in bed when the lightning strike cracked so loud the cabin shook. She turned to check on her children and was both amazed and relieved to see they were still asleep. She climbed out of bed, felt her way across the cold floor of the rustic cabin, and quietly wrestled open the half-rotten wood door.

What in heck was going on around here? This was the second thunderstorm since last night, but the sky was filled with stars that faintly shone in the gentle light of dawn.

Maine had the weirdest weather. One day it was snowing, the next day raining, and the next day it was warm enough that they didn’t even need their jackets. And now thunderstorms but no rain and lightning without clouds.

She couldn’t wait to leave this desolate place, though for the life of her she didn’t know which direction to travel. She’d gone as far north as she could without bumping into Canada, and the thought of actually traveling to another country was simply too scary.

She’d been on the run two and a half months, since she’d received the letter from the parole board, and she still didn’t feel she’d run far enough. Ron had nearly caught up with them in Iowa, and it was then that Catherine realized she couldn’t go to her childhood home; she had to find the last place he would think to look for her. And Ron knew she despised cold weather and that she’d had enough of rural settings growing up on a ranch in Idaho. In fact, she was counting on him expecting her to find a crowded city, and she hoped he was hunting for them in Chicago.

She’d made the right decision to change course abruptly and come to Maine, though having her car die had certainly put an end to her options. And then she’d gone and lost her backpack and a good chunk of her money to that huge, frightening man who kept chasing her.

“It’s cold, Mommy. Close the door.”

Catherine turned and wrestled the door shut, careful not to tear it off its rusted hinges.

“Sorry, sweetie,” she said, lighting the candle on the table. The old one-room hunting cabin they’d stumbled onto six days ago filled with dim light, and she walked back to the sagging bed. “Did you sleep well?” She brushed the hair off her daughter’s face, feeling her forehead for a fever. “Your breathing sounded a lot better last night. I think your cold is gone.”

“Does that mean we can leave today? I don’t like it here, especially when you leave us alone.”

Catherine leaned over and kissed her forehead, then ruffled her hair. “Maybe tomorrow, sweetie. I still have to find us some new transportation.”