Toran watched two dragoons who’d dismounted from their horses to take a piss. One shouted a jest over his shoulder to the other, who laughed as he gave the punch line. Something about a Scottish woman and three dragoons. Toran itched to grab for his dirk, to take aim and land the point in the center of the bastard’s head. For though he told a jest, the way they both laughed at the brutality of it, Toran was certain they’d have participated.
Alas, he needed a horse.
It was now or never. Steal the horse and make away at neck-breaking speed. Or steal both horses and let one go far enough away that they couldn’t catch up with him. Or kill or otherwise detain both of them, which he could easily do.
Two dead dragoons couldn’t tell tales.
Decision made, he pulled his dirk from inside his sleeve and another from his boot and took aim. He tossed first to the right, the thunk and cry startling the other man. But he didn’t move fast enough before Toran had sunk another one in him.
He removed his blades from the bodies, dragged them beneath some gorse bushes, and then searched their belongings for any clues as to Boyd’s plans or information he could use to barter for his siblings’ lives should the need arise. Sewn into the lining of one dragoon’s coat was a coded message, which Toran stuffed into his sporran. Once he’d made it Dùnaidh, he would try to decipher it.
Finished with his search, Toran took both of the dragoons’ horses and rode away at a clip that was only slightly slower than breakneck speed. He’d already wasted enough time on foot.
He was at least another hour’s ride from his great-uncle’s castle at Dùnaidh, and every second was agony until he finally spotted the turrets over the trees. But even the turrets weren’t as much of a relief as seeing the gray chimney smoke that signaled someone was in residence. He’d been fearful of arriving back to a pile of rubble. It wouldn’t be the first time the English had razed a house when they deemed the inhabitants to be traitors to King George. The Duke of Cumberland, youngest son of King George, had been given full authority over the king’s army and allowed his dragoons to run rampant in Scotland doing as they pleased.
Was Boyd waiting for him inside? Had he left the croft and headed straight for Dùnaidh? He’d have had enough time, considering how long Toran had been on foot. Had Boyd convinced his great-uncle to turn his nephew over to the English?
At one time, Toran would have said nay, but he knew his relation better than that. The man had been double-dealing for more than thirty years.
Ballocks…
Whether Boyd was there or not, had turned his great-uncle against him or not, it didn’t matter. Toran had no choice but to push forward. Camdyn and Isla were counting on him. And as soon as his chief found out that Toran had been the one responsible for the deaths of so many Frasers, to have betrayed Boyd while he was at it, he would do everything in his power to bury Toran—even if that meant using Camdyn and Isla as bait.
Toran urged the horses faster toward Dùnaidh, his uncle and Boyd be damned.
Just before he broke through the trees to ride across the heather-covered moor, he paused, searching the area for clues that the dragoons had already arrived. The grasses did not look more trampled than usual, the earth not turned into a hundred divots created by hooves.
When he was certain there were no English in sight, he slowly exited the forest, not wanting to alert the men on the wall with the rapid pace his pounding heart demanded.
Dùnaidh was not an overly large castle. The tower keep was only five stories high. It boasted seven chambers on the upper floors and a great hall above the kitchens. A wall surrounded the property, and within the wall were the stables and other outbuildings. A small village surrounded the wall, of which nothing seemed out of sorts.
As he drew closer, the guard on the wall shouted down, recognizing Toran even with the setting sun. The gates were opened, and Toran was welcomed into the bailey by men he’d known since he was a lad. He searched the faces for his uncle, but he wasn’t there—and neither were Camdyn and Isla, who normally shoved their way through the throng to greet him.