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in command, stepped beside him. “Running sorties, will we?”
    “Aye. We’ll make a point of sailing past MacDonald lands flying the king’s pennant. Let them know we’ve come to stay for a bit.”
    “And how long do you think that might be?”
    “Who knows?” Eoin looped his thumbs into his belt. “With luck, the MacDonalds will realize they should be happy King James didn’t rob them of all their lands.”
    Fergus smirked. “’Twill be a cold day in hell when that happens.”
    Eoin shrugged. “One day the MacDonalds will give up their feud and realize they cannot win a war against Scotland.”
    “Only after half of them are dead,” said Willy, a skilled man with a mace and targe.
    “Bloody oath,” Fergus cursed. “They’d best not be taking us to Hades with them.”
    “Wheesht. ’Tis why we’re the best fighting men in Scotland. We’ll not be escorting the MacDonalds to hell. They can find the way on their own.” Eoin drew his dirk and held it high. “But we’ll be glad to show them the path.”
    “Och aye,” the men bellowed, pumping their fists in the air.
    “Let us see to our nooning, then we’ll meet the bedraggled MacIain guard in the courtyard and determine if they ken how to handle their weapons.”

Chapter Four
     
     
    With his arms crossed, Eoin stood beside the MacIain Chieftain in the courtyard, surrounded by thirty-foot curtain walls. During the midday meal, he’d opted to stop by the kitchens for a bit of bread and a hunk of cheese. He couldn’t bring himself to step into the great hall and watch Aleck MacIain preside over the throng. Nor did he care to put himself in the middle of banter between young bucks flexing their muscles.
    He turned his attention to the sparring warriors. As he’d thought, the MacIain men lacked in skill, though most were solid lads. If Eoin had a year, he just might be able to turn them into soldiers.
    “Every one of my men is near fourteen stone,” Aleck gloated.
    Eoin kept his sights on the nearest pair, fighting with swords. “Aye, you’ve amassed yourself a great deal of meat.”
    The overstuffed chieftain puffed out his chest. “Brawn, mind you.”
    “Brawn?” Eoin raised his eyebrows and then cast his gaze to the clouds. “I’ll give you that, they might even be good at slaying dragons.”
    “Watch yourself,” MacIain growled.
    Eoin inclined his chin toward the man sparring with Fergus. “Your man there is sizeable, but he wields his sword like he’s chopping wood.”
    “Pardon me? Grant is my best warrior. He’d beat your man in a fight any day, hands down.”
    He wouldn’t .
    Eoin had a mind to place a wager on Aleck’s claim. But he wasn’t there to prove his men superior—the MacGregors already had distinguished themselves to king and country a hundred times over. The king asked Eoin to train and fight alongside the MacIains because of their reputation. He opted for middle ground. “Grant shows promise, but in general, your men lack discipline.”
    Aleck faced him. An edgy challenge reflected in his in his steely black eyes. Eoin didn’t budge, in no way intimidated by a glare from an arrogant chieftain. “My men are the best in Ardnamurchan.”
    Eoin smirked. “I’d hope so.”
    Aleck circled his palm around the pommel of his dirk. “You’re a smug bastard.”
    “I disagree.” Eoin watched Aleck’s hand with his side vision. If the cur drew his damned dirk, he’d be on his back before he could blink. “I’m simply better at fighting. So are my men.” Ballocks to the middle ground .
    MacIain turned beet red, his eyes bulging. “I’ve had enough of your gloating claim to greatness. You and the Campbells are tarred with the same brush. You all think you’re superior to the rest of the fighting men Scotland.”
    An acerbic chuckle escaped Eoin’s lips. He’d endured a fortnight of listening to MacIain’s boasts and his ears could take no more. “Nay, we do not think it, we know it.” Anticipating