Pride of the Clan Read Free

He’s got a strange feeling something’s not right.”
    “Poppycock,” Uncle Davey shrieked. “The man canna speak more than two words. How could he tell ye such a thing?”
    Margaret shivered and not only from the cold. Her late father had respected what he called Joss’s sixth sense . The man had hinted at dire tidings before news came of her brothers’ drowning.
    “How much further?” Aunty Edythe whined. “I am frozen to the bone.”
    Margaret looked to Shaon, but wished she hadn’t. The usual half smile was gone. He brought the wagon to a stop. Joss gripped his brother’s arm, his face ashen. Uncle Davey ambled on, until he seemed to realize the wagon had halted.
    Everyone looked down the rutted road. In the near distance, a horde of men marched in formation toward them. Two mounted warriors led them.
    “Highlanders,” Shaon said. “Don’t seem to be in no hurry.”
    Uncle Davey wheeled his mount and came level with the wagon. “Remain hidden,” he growled to the women. “I’ll deal with this. Probably the Earl’s men patrolling the environs.”
    Butterflies took wing in Margaret’s belly. For a sennight they’d met no one. Now with Blair Castle in sight—
    She rolled the bottom of the canvas up far enough to allow her to crouch down in the wagon and spy on what was transpiring. As the newcomers came closer, she grew more nervous. The stern set of every jaw and the quantity of weapons each man carried spoke of an army on a mission. “They seem heavily armed,” she whispered to Aunty Edythe. “And angry.”
    Her aunt pulled her away from the canvas. “Keep out of sight,” she urged.
    Margaret sensed remaining hidden would be impossible.
    One of the leaders of the approaching column was a youth. Abruptly, the other man called a halt, as if he’d just noticed them.
    Her heart careened around her ribcage. The men-at-arms who’d worked for her father were mostly strong and rugged, many of them mercenaries. But they had proven to be men with no loyalty who’d quickly abandoned the Ogilvie estate after Duncan’s death.  
    None had ever taken her breath away. The tall man studying their wagon had a mischievous face, but in her imaginings devils were dark. This Highlander’s long, sandy hair cascaded over his broad shoulders. His stubbled chin suggested he hadn’t shaved for a day or two.
    She wriggled out of the blanket, suddenly overheated.  
    Edythe scowled. “Wheest!” she hissed, gathering more of the wrappings around her legs.
    Margaret had no notion of how many minutes went by. It was as if they were opposing sides frozen in some peculiar game of chess on a rocky landscape. A rickety wagon, driven by two auld men and escorted by an elderly knight mounted on a tired gelding, faced off against a heavily armed band of warriors led by a tall, well-muscled Highlander on a black warhorse.  
    Cold seemed to be a word he was unfamiliar with, though his saffron léine had ridden up over his knees. His feet were shod in leather boots, his calves sheathed in woollen socks. She soon regretted noticing his knees as every drop of saliva mysteriously disappeared from her mouth.
    She should look away as he separated from the pack, but her gaze seemed to be locked on the long, powerful legs hugging the horse’s flanks.
    A warm-looking woollen brown plaid draped over one shoulder was held in place at his breast by a distinctive brooch, the like of which she’d never seen before. Gold by the look of it, clover shaped.
    Surprisingly, her uncle didn’t flinch as the warrior approached, followed closely by the younger man. The youth had similar features and coloring. Possibly brothers.
    Edythe whimpered, her face buried in the blanket.
    “Greetings,” Uncle Davey rasped when the Highlander reined his impressive stallion to a halt in front of him.
    The devil narrowed his eyes at Davey, then turned his attention to the wagon. “ Fàilte ,” he finally responded in the welcome of the Gaels, but there