the men sped their pace. Eoin and his band of warriors could continue all day, only stopping for water and food.
They’d traversed about six miles when the orange glow completely receded from the wisps of clouds above and the sun fully illuminated the path ahead. Eoin estimated they’d nearly reached the place where he’d planned to set a trap for the MacDonald reivers.
Ahead, voices rose in a battle cry. Had Aleck opted to wait until daylight? Most likely, the witless Highlander.
“It looks as if you’ll have your fight after all,” Eoin said, taking a deep breath.
Fergus chuckled. “At least…they’ll wear them down first.”
With any luck, the MacIains would send the MacDonalds running for their mothers.
But when they ran atop the ridge, Eoin’s wishes were dashed. Blood splattered everywhere. Some horses were down along with their riders. Clad in a full set of battle armor, MacIain spun his mount in the middle of the mayhem, bellowing curses as he wielded his sword like he was hacking with an ax.
The sheep-headed maggot is going to get himself killed. What the chieftain lacked in skill, he made up for with the pure aggression reflected in his technique. But no one could last long, brandishing a sword as vigorously as MacIain with such little effect. The men attacking him on either side dodged Aleck’s enormous blade each time it swung their way. As predictable as the tide, the chieftain didn’t even bother to change the cadence or direction of his swings. Above all, he could have benefited from a bit of training in the courtyard.
Eoin motioned for his men to fan out. “It looks as if the MacDonalds have the upper hand. We’ll not let them keep it.”
Bellowing their battle cry, the MacGregor warriors pounced like phantoms from the hills. If there was one good thing about Aleck’s dull-witted decision to ride ahead, it gave Eoin and Clan Gregor the element of surprise.
When the MacDonald men realized they’d been surrounded by yet another army, Eoin caught the panic in their eyes. Their movement became more urgent, exerting desperate strikes while they fought to gain any advantage.
Aleck remained mounted in the center of the fight, roaring like a wounded bull. Clearly tiring, he wielded his weapon with sluggish hacks. The two men attacking him on either side grew more daring. If Eoin didn’t reach him quickly, the MacIain Chieftain would be dead. But why am I saving his arse? Eoin battled his way toward Aleck. Because that’s what King James expects of me.
Mayhap if Eoin saved his arse, Aleck would be more humble—develop some respect for Clan Gregor. Eoin reached the chieftain just as a MacDonald drew back for a killing thrust of his sword. Eoin caught the assailant’s arm and used its momentum to throw the varmint to the ground.
“I do not need your help, MacGregor!” Aleck bellowed.
“Aye? Then stop chopping wood and bury that sword in someone’s gut.” Eoin spun and faced the man he’d sent to the dirt. With a bellow, the warrior charged—straight onto the point of Eoin’s razor-sharp sword. With a grimace, Eoin kicked him back and yanked his blade from the dying man’s flesh.
Aleck’s horse reared. Shrieking, the chieftain flew from the saddle, then crashed to the ground in a heap. A MacDonald man sprang over the MacIain with a high-pitched wail. Lunging, Eoin swung his sword up in time to deflect the man’s deadly blow.
The guard regarded Eoin with a grating chuckle.
The two circled, their eyes assessing one another. The MacDonald man sucked in heavy gasps, while he bled from the nose. “Ye come to be killed?”
“Nay. But you did.” Eoin sprang forward. Years of perfecting his trade had turned him into a lethal killing machine, and he quickly dispatched the man, and the next, and the next. When blood changed the dirt from brown to red, the MacDonalds turned tail and ran for home.
Eoin knelt beside Aleck and removed the big man’s helm. He was out cold, but still breathing. Eoin had seen far too much of the bastard whilst out cold—though he preferred comatose to the usual braggart. Beneath the lower vambrace plate, MacIain’s arm rested at an awkward angle. Aye, he’d broken the limb during his fall no doubt.
Eoin inclined his head toward his henchman. “Fergus, bring me a couple sturdy sticks. I must fashion a splint.” He then tore a bit of cloth from his shirt. The same one Lady Helen had recently stitched for him. He hated to do it, but Aleck’s arm