Then, as the cheerful yellow sunlight of afternoon reached its peak, she heard in the distance faint, hoarse shouts and the muted crack of muskets firing. She slid her hands into her pockets and groped for the reassuring feel of cool metal.
The men muttered; moved about, shuffled their feet as if longing to be out and into the fray.
“Stay at your posts, lads,” one of the guards commanded. “The laird said we must stay.”
“Aye,” Fiona heard them say, “Aye,” and was impressed by their instant obedience.
Suddenly, startling her, there was a commotion from within, protests from the men, and Fiona caught the high-pitched sound of a woman—a girl—laughing.
Oh, Lord in heaven, no, she thought angrily, standing up.
Floating to her from across the vast stables came Janet Reid’s voice, gay and vibrant.
“Move, you dolts! I saw them from my window! I’m going to show the laird that I’m just like Scáthach!”
The sound of rapid hoofbeats. A triumphant peal of laughter.
“Marston, get your horse, quickly, man, and you, Waldroup, get my own!” barked that same guard, “the rest of you stay here,” and for a few seconds, Fiona was so furious at Janet she considered the simple expedient of doing nothing. But she remembered her own words to Alasdair Penhallow—I don’t suppose she can help herself, especially given how monstrously her parents indulge her . . . And she’s so young — and thought of her little sisters, and in a flash she had pulled open the stall door, thrown a bridle over Gealag’s head, was on that broad white back, astride it, and riding after the foolish, the terribly foolish Janet Reid.
Fiona burst into bright sunlight, and saw ahead of her Janet on a raw young piebald too strong for her. Nor was Janet a capable enough rider to be on him without a saddle. The piebald bolted, veering toward a cluster of men in ragged tartans, their faces painted blue and all of them wielding muskets and swords. Janet screamed, a high, desperate sound that carried all too clearly over the shouting, and to her right came an answering shout from—quickly Fiona glanced to the side as she bent low over the racing Gealag—Alasdair Penhallow, riding fast on his bay toward Janet, a large group of his men right behind him.
Fiona saw him say something over his shoulder to the men, and several of them immediately separated, making straight toward the blue-faced men, and he continued toward Janet, whose screaming seemed to go on and on, as frantically she pulled on the piebald’s reins. Behind Fiona came hoofbeats from the stable, but not quickly enough; she herself gained on Janet, got closer, but when she was about fifty feet away, watched helplessly as the piebald, plainly resenting the desperate rider sawing clumsily on its reins, twisted its mighty head and reared up on its hind legs, sending Janet tumbling to the ground, where she lay very still.
Within seconds, Alasdair Penhallow was there, had leaped from his horse, knelt down by that unmoving form. There was a whoop from behind him and a crack, and Alasdair abruptly pitched forward. One of the Dalwhinnies, some thirty paces away, grinned and dropped his musket, then reached for the other one strapped across his chest. He cocked it. Aimed it at Alasdair. Wanting to be sure the laird was dead.
But he hadn’t reckoned on Fiona, who had swiftly brought Gealag to a halt, slid to the ground. Pulled out from her pocket one of her pistols, and without hesitation shot the blue-faced man in the heart. Looking surprised, he dropped the musket and crumpled to the ground. Fiona pulled out her other pistol and held it steady, keeping watch, waiting until Alasdair’s men had killed—been killed—and captured any remaining Dalwhinnies, and it was all over.
It wasn’t till much later, when Fiona was alone in her bedchamber, that she cried, covering her face with hands that still smelled of gunpowder and steel.
Cried without making a sound, and for a very long time.
Then, slowly, carefully, she washed her hands. Dried them, and her face, too.
And she went to find Janet’s parents, to see if she could do anything to help them.
Chapter 5
Dr. Colquhoun had come and gone, telling Alasdair he must remain in bed for several days longer, for though the wound in his shoulder was healing well enough, infection remained a danger, movement could set him to bleeding again, and the fever still flared from time to time.
“You’ve lost enough blood as it is, laird,” the doctor had sternly said, “and if you don’t eat more of that good bone broth, I’ll come and feed you myself.”
With his sound arm Alasdair now waved away the bowl his manservant Grahame was proffering. “What day is it?”
“It’s Wednesday, laird,” answered Grahame.