HIGHLAND PROMISE (THE SONS OF GREGOR MACLEOD)

Chapter Twenty-One

The woman's scream sounded eerily in the distance. Darach reigned in his mount and looked southwest, across the glen the men rode through on their way back to the castle. Unease crawled up his spine. Cloud sensed it and snorted beside Darach. He laid a calming hand on the stallion's nose and listened, hoping to get a fix on the woman's location.

The other Lairds had heard it as well and unsheathed their swords as they spread into a defensive position. Lachlan was closest to Darach. "That couldnae be more than a mile away. Maybe by the summer field. Do you have cattle up there?"

"Not yet." Darach spurred his horse, and the others followed. They had to proceed with caution, Darach knew it could be a trap, but his gut told him to ride like hell. What if...? Nay, Caitlin was back at the village. Safe.

He urged his horse faster.

The field wasn't that far away as the crow flies, but they had to traverse a mountain river that was still high and swift with the spring run-off. Finding a place to cross would add another twenty minutes to their journey. The woman, whomever it was, might be dead by then.

Not. Caitlin.

When they finally reached the summer field, a good forty minutes had passed. Darach's stomach was cramped with worry and his lèine drenched in sweat. He couldn't stop picturing Caitlin in the grass, her head bashed in or an arrow through her heart – horrible images that he knew weren't true. Couldn't be true.

They approached the field cautiously on foot from the north, spreading out amid the trees to minimize their vulnerability should there be an attack. It would be a boon for his enemies to kill all six Lairds at once. Especially one as powerful as Gregor. But if there was an attack, Darach couldn't have asked for better warriors by his side. Gregor had taught them well.

Scanning the field from his concealed position, Darach saw a woman lying on the ground near the trail that wound up from the east. Sunlight glinted off long, red hair, and the relief that rushed through him was so intense, he was almost ashamed of himself. A MacKenzie woman lay injured, possibly dead, and he was overjoyed it wasn't his wife.

He composed himself and strode quickly along the tree line toward her. She lay face down on the blood-soaked ground. He turned her over and frowned.

"That's the woman from yesterday. She rode in with us," Gregor said from behind him.

"Aye. Wynda MacIntyre. Her throat's been cut." He reached down and closed her wide, lifeless eyes. She'd died within minutes. Even if he'd been here sooner, he couldn't have saved her. Maybe she'd stumbled upon some of Fraser's men who'd managed to get through the MacKenzie defenses.

He'd known they would come, he just hadn't thought it would be so quick. What else hadn't he thought of?

"Darach!" Lachlan's voice yelled at him from down the trail.

His heart pounded in response. He could tell by Lachlan's voice it was bad, and the fear for Caitlin rose again. His feet couldn't move fast enough as he ran toward his brother. Lachlan was at the bend in the path about two hundred paces away. He held someone up.

Hope soared for an instant and then crashed with heart-stopping anguish as Darach recognized Dearg, the head of Caitlin's guard. He was hunched over, grimacing with pain, but his eyes were filled with regret as he looked at his Laird.

"I'm sorry," he said.

Darach threw back his head and howled.

~ ~ ~ ~

Darach raced on his horse along mountain streams and game trails in the moon-lit night. Branches scraped his skin, but he never felt it. Beside him, Lachlan rode with twenty other MacKenzies who'd been waiting at the border with fresh horses and supplies. They'd been alerted the attack on the Frasers had begun when Darach had blown his battle horn a few hours earlier.