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asked questions. Or worse.
    Since there was no sign of a struggle,
MacGrath must have left on his own power. How could he journey with
a broken toe? He was a madman to think he could cross that many
hills and moors without a MacIrwin seeing him. She and Mora might
have saved his life, only to have him limp about like a clumsy toad
and get himself killed anyway. Such a blunder would put all their
lives in danger.
    Shaken, she ran to the nearby wood and
searched for him in the deepening gloom. Maybe he had staggered out
here and passed out again.
    No, she didn’t see him.
    Gwyneth hoped MacGrath was already on his
clan’s land. Perhaps he’d been wise to leave. At least she wouldn’t
be found guilty of harboring the enemy.
    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