A Hellion at the Highland Court (The Highland Ladies #9) - Celeste Barclay Page 0,105

rode in silence for nearly two hours before Brodie signaled that they would stop to rest the horses. There was no water nearby, but the animals and riders needed a break. Brodie helped Laurel off her horse and nodded when Donnan offered to escort her to a private place. Brodie and Monty met with their men.

The two leaders nodded as they learned the fate of five men. Two Rosses lost their lives falling over a precipice. One Ross and one Campbell died from arrows to the throat. The Lamonts captured the last man, a Campbell, and ran him through. But he’d given his life so both Ross and Campbell warriors could find safety. Monty and Brodie exchanged a look, both knowing they had many families to inform that their loved one wouldn’t return.

The mixture of Campbells and Rosses were an hour from Kilchurn when a Ross warrior spotted horses riding toward them. Laurel already rode in the center of the pack. She strained to see past the men to her left, but it was futile. She held her breath at the sound of swords being drawn from their scabbards. They rode until, inevitably, they had to stop and face the newest threat.

“Do not leave the center, Laurel. Trust that the men will remain around you, even if gaps form. They’ll shift. They know what to do regardless of their clan,” Brodie commanded. Laurel nodded, already knowing what to do but wanting to assure Brodie that she understood. She caught the concern in his eyes before he masked it. She reached out her hand before he steered his horse away. When she grasped his, she squeezed nodding again. She wanted him to know she wasn’t Eliza. She wouldn’t make the other woman’s fatal error.

“MacFarlanes,” Graham called out. The man’s eyesight amazed her since the riders were still miles from them. The guardsmen lowered their weapons but didn’t sheath them. Laurel squinted against the late morning sun as she tried to discern who led the clan’s warriors.

“Wonderful,” Brodie said, sarcasm lacing his voice. “Andrew Mòr and Andrew Óg.” Mòr usually meant greater or larger, but when used with a name, it signified older or senior. Óg was the opposite. The laird rode with his son. Brodie wasn’t certain if he was pleased to see either of them. Brodie drew away from the circle, Graham at his side. Monty and Donnan maneuvered their mounts a few feet behind the Campbell laird and his second.

“Fine weather we’re having,” Brodie called out once the MacFarlanes were within earshot. When they drew close enough to lock eyes, he added, “A fine day to come and kiss and be friends.” Brodie laid his sword across his lap, looking as though he rested nonchalantly. But he fooled no one. He might not look like the aggressor, but he was prepared to fight.

“I understand my son will be kissing your boots several times,” Andrew Mòr grumbled. He glanced at Laurel and scowled. “And Lady Campbell’s.” The older man sent his son a withering glare. Andrew Óg wisely remained silent, his expression justly chastised but his body held proudly.

“Now you’ve come to reconcile,” Brodie surmised. “Are you prepared to fight?”

“Would I have ridden this far if I wasn’t?”

“Are you planning to remain until it’s done?”

“Will you feed us if we do?”

“No.” Brodie grinned at the banter between the other laird and him. He liked Andrew Mòr, and he tolerated Andrew Óg, but he rarely enjoyed them together. His knuckles were white as he gripped his sword and reins, glad to have something in each hand lest he rip Andrew Óg apart with his bare hands.

Andrew Mòr glanced at his son and scowled again. He nodded his head in Laurel’s direction. Andrew Óg nudged his horse forward, but Laurel didn’t move. She wasn’t sure if Brodie trusted them, and she most definitely didn’t trust the younger Andrew. Her gaze was riveted on him, watching for any signal that he might attack.

“Lady Campbell, I did you grievous harm for which you have my humblest apologies.”

“But are you sorry?” Laurel asked without hesitation.

“Your pardon?” Andrew blinked at her.

“Apologies are all fine and good. I suppose you’d like praise for admitting you did something wrong. What I wish to know is if you’re actually remorseful. I doubt you are,” Laurel’s haughtiness harkened back to her days as the Shrew of Stirling. For that she felt no contrition. He’d been a party to men willing to kill her. “You showed you were without honor. You