Highland Moonlight (25 page)

crossbows. I could not get close enough to their camp to tell for certes they

do not have more.”

He nodded again. “We must take out the lookouts. ‘Twill lower the

number they have greater than we to two instead of six. ‘Twill also allow us

to survey the camp without threat of an alarm. We must know for certes what

we face before we face it.”

The men nodded.

“This is what must be done—”

Alexander flexed the muscles of his shoulders to ease their tension.

Hugh and Douglas would have worked their way to the north entrance by

now. He watched William and Bruce ease their way beneath the two men

posted on the rise. Only moments before, James and Robert had taken

position at the south entrance.

The twittering of a bird signaled the men at the north entrance were

ready. Seconds passed as Alexander focused on the shaggy pelts the

lookouts wore as protection from the cold. It made it impossible for them to

identify clan affiliation.

He raised the spanned crossbow to his shoulder, aware of Duncan

crouching at his side in readiness. He trusted his brother’s skill as well as

he did his own. They rose as one, sighted the men, and loosed the bolts.

The quick hiss of the arrows was the only sound. They struck their targets.

The men toppled toward one another. Bruce and William quickly dragged

them from the knoll and took their places.

No hue and cry split the air and Alexander drew a deep breath of relief.

He and Duncan moved forward to just below the men.

“Hugh and Douglas are in place,” William said at once.

“There are thirty horses and five pack animals,” Bruce added. “They

are roasting meat and preparing weapons.”

“‘Tis twenty-five men I reckon, but I can not see beneath the edge of

the creag,” William said.

He and Duncan turned their attention to the two dead guards. They

searched the bodies. Duncan held out a leather cord with a metal disk

suspended from it. Etched into the medallion was a fist grasping a sword

above a three-tiered castle.

“‘Tis a MacDonald crest!” Alexander exclaimed.

“Aye,” Duncan agreed.

Alexander’s jaw clenched with anger, his uneasiness increasing. He

tucked the medallion away then motioned to one of the men to signal them

below in case the company of men mounted to leave the valley.

He and Duncan worked their way down to the rest of the men below.

“They will change the look outs soon,” Duncan said.

“Aye, and be four more men short,” Alexander nodded. “‘Twill be then

we will have to attack.”

No fires could be lit so the men clumped together in small groups to

share their warmth. They talked softly among themselves to pass the time

though the tension of the coming confrontation did not lend itself to levity.

“I do not care for this waiting,” Duncan complained after a slow hour

had passed. He shifted impatiently against the rock he leaned on.

“Father once told me ‘tis not strength or skill that makes a good

warrior but the patience to know when to use them.”

“For your patience alone, you deserve whatever makes you content,

Brother,” Duncan said, his gray gazed focused on him.

Aware Duncan spoke of more personal matters, Alexander remained

silent though his thoughts turned to Mary as she had been earlier that morn.

She had sought his touch in rubbing the ache in her lower back. She had

nearly purred with pleasure beneath his administrations though she had

blushed when she realized what she was doing.

The startled look in her blue eyes had both thrilled and amused him.

His wife was beginning to awaken to being a woman. He believed it would

not be much longer before she accepted him as a lover.

“To earn what one desires, brings with it a respect and regard that

would be difficult to attain if ‘twas achieved without effort,” he said with

conviction.

The twittering of a bird, their signal, had him tensing and rising to his

feet. “‘Tis time.”

The archers worked their way up to the top of the rise and took

position. The rest of the men mounted.

The three men captured during the changing of the guard were bound

and gagged, bruised and battered, but otherwise unhurt. The company of

twenty Campbells rode past them to the entrance.

“Did they claim their clan, Gabriel?” Alexander asked as the large man

rode up to join them.

“Nay. One wore a tartan much like those worn at Lochlan,” he

answered.

Alexander’s uneasiness increased. “MacLachlan or MacDonald,

whichever they be, they will no longer be stealing our live stock, nor

trespassing upon our land.”

“We will not be warning them we are coming,” Alexander cautioned the

men. “Let us attack before they know we are here.” He drew his sword then

signaled them forward.

The narrow neck of the canyon required them to ride through two at a

time. The hillside curved around blocking the view of the camp until they

were upon it.

Mayhem broke out among the trespassers as the alarm came too late.

The men drew their weapons and raced for their horses. Arrows from above

gave them pause until Alexander’s men had blocked off access to their

mounts and crowded in around the camp. The men froze weapons in hand.

“Let him who leads you step forward,” Alexander commanded, in a

tone that carried well around the site.

A single pelt-draped figure stepped forward, sword in hand. Stone gray

eyes glared at him out of a narrow face marred by a livid scar that ran from

cheekbone to jaw.

“For nigh a week you have trespassed upon my land and slaughtered

my livestock. ‘Twould please me to know what clan you hail from, before we

exact payment for such thievery,” Alexander said.

“It does not matter what clan we be from. We will still send you to hell.”

The man’s signal sent his men forward, their battle cry rending the air. Five

men fell beneath the aim of Campbell bows above on the hillside. The other

eighteen men swarmed the Campbell forces.

Still astride his horse, Alexander blocked the thrusting sword of the

man on the ground. The other’s gray gaze burned with hatred as he

chopped and thrust from below.

“You will be buried upon Campbell soil without benefit of your

MacDonald kin,” Alexander taunted as he parried a thrust.

A growl of rage emitted from the other man’s throat as he swung his

sword wildly. Alexander blocked the blow before his horse could be injured.

His patience at an end, he rode away a short distance and dismounted to

face his adversary on foot.

A shout arose and Alexander found himself facing three adversaries

instead of one. He parried the first blow then swung the flat side of his

sword against the other man’s head knocking him unconscious. The man

crumpled to the ground. The other two attacked. Alexander found Gabriel at

his side engaging the one while he concentrated on the leader.

“You can not win the day. Do not spill the blood of your men without

need, MacDonald,” Alexander urged. He would spare the men if possible.

“Have you lost your stomach for killing, Alexander Campbell, or have

you turned coward,” the other man taunted.

Alexander shook his head wondering how the man knew his name.

“‘Tis your choice to die then?”

The man attacked with a ferocity that taxed Alexander’s skill, and had

him falling back a pace. Having given him as much leeway as he intended,

Alexander returned the volley of strokes with a swift combination of his own.

The man staggered back beneath the barrage.

The sound of metal crashing against metal all around them echoed

throughout the canyon, as did the cries of the injured and the dying. Angered

by the foolish waste of the other leaders actions, Alexander beat the man

back, seeking to throw him off balance and end the conflict.

A movement to the right drew Alexander’s attention. He grabbed the

wrist of his adversary and jerked him forward in front of him. An arrow

caught the man in the middle of his chest and he crumpled to the ground.

From above, a hail of arrows struck the archer.

Their leader dead, the remaining men paused. A lone cry of rage rent

the air and a single man raised his sword and charged Alexander.

He turned to face the threat, his sword swinging to knock the warrior’s

blade aside. Alexander punched the man in the jaw, knocking him to the

ground. The pressure of heel to wrist pried the assailant’s hand open and

Alexander kicked away the sword.

He looked down at the lad at his feet, instant recognition giving him

pause.

“What is afoot, Alexander?” Gabriel asked.

“‘Tis the lad who’s arrow pierced me at Lorne.”

Alexander swung open the chamber door without knocking and

dropped the heavy wooden bar in place to lock the portal. His eyes

searched the room for his wife and settled on Mary curled on the large bed,

her back turned toward him. He approached her with long quick strides and

paused to look down at her.

Light brown lashes tipped with gold formed crescents of soft color

beneath her eyes. The hushed sound of her breathing, slow and deep, was

barely discernable. Alexander’s gaze traced the sleep-flushed curve of her

cheek and the rose tinted shape of her lips.

Desire settled like a stone in the pit of his stomach. A wry smile curved

his lips. The shedding of blood had made him hungry for other things. He

wanted to thrust himself into her sweet body and reaffirm the life that pulsed

in his veins by claiming her as his in every way. He ran his fingers through

his hair and drew deep breaths to ease the need.

His foot nudged Mary’s sewing basket next to the bed and he noticed

the partially stitched baby gown draped over it. He lifted the basket atop the

chest to prevent her from tripping over it when she arose. His fingers

brushed the soft cloth of the gown then his gaze swung to the distended

roundness visible through the linen shift she wore. A bit more than four

months would see her delivered of their child. He looked forward to, yet

dreaded the event. She looked too fragile to bear the strain of labor. What if

the bairn was too big, or turned wrong in the womb? He had seen it happen

in the past. She could die having the babe. He turned his mind from the

thought, unprepared for the hollow feeling it brought to his chest. She was a

strong lass, all would be well, he reassured himself.

Moving to the other side of the bed, he hung his scabbard on the

bedpost then withdrew his sword to clean the blade and inspect its surface

for nicks. Finding the edge unmarred, he wiped the blade clean with a cloth

and returned it to its sheath.

A pot of water, still warm on the hearth, awaited him and he shed his

clothing to bathe. He took some time to wash his hair and body to rid

himself of the blood tainting his skin. He sensed, rather than saw

movement behind him and turned as Mary stepped to his side to take the

wet cloth from him. She washed his back then dried it with a cloth.

He looped an arm about her waist and brushed a soft kiss across her

cheek then trailed his lips over her brow.

“I tried to wait for you,” she said, her voice soft and breathy as her eyes

traced his features. “Come to bed and seek your rest.”

“Aye.” He brushed her lips with his own, finding her too tempting to

resist. “The room is cool, Mary. You will take a chill.”

He watched as she wiggled beneath the pelts offering him an

uninhibited view of well-shaped legs and dainty feet before she covered

them with the thick fur.

An appreciative smile lingered on his lips as he blew out the candles

and found his place beside her. Her head settled in its customary place in

the hollow of his shoulder. Her hand moved over his chest in restless

caresses warming him and bringing him pleasure. She bent a knee across

his thighs and pressed closer.

The velvety softness of her bare skin rubbed against his bringing a

hectic beat to Alexander’s heart and instant heat to his loins.

“There has been more trouble?” she asked.

“Aye, we will speak of it on the morrow,” he answered. His hand found

her knee then glided up her bare thigh, pushing the fabric of the shift higher

as he rubbed her skin to bring it warmth.

He turned, displacing her so he could look down into her face. He had

a driving need to feel her skin beneath his touch, to feel the movements of

their child beneath the palm of his hand without barriers between them. He

ran his hand beneath the shift and traced the rounded curve of her stomach

raising the fabric.

Mary did not protest. She caressed his cheek, her touch making him

ache for more. “My belly grows rounder every day,” she complained. He

watched her throat work as she swallowed, the movement fraught with