Tempting the Highlander (Pine Creek Highlanders #4)

Chapter Four

R obbie spotted the low-hanging branch just in time to avoid getting his head knocked off. He ducked without breaking stride and scrambled down the bank to the stream, catching himself from falling by using his sword like a cane.

Mary called from somewhere upstream, her piercing whistle carrying through the dark forest in urgent echoes. Robbie splashed into the frigid water, slipping on the loose rocks, falling once and stubbing his bare toe on a piece of ledge.

The breaking limbs behind him sounded like gunshots as the four warriors closed in, their battle cries filling the night air with menace.

Robbie wiped the sweat from his eyes with the back of his sword hand, pressed his right hand more firmly against his throbbing side, and sloshed out of the stream and up the opposite bank, breaking back into a run.

He’d quietly been going about his nightly business of searching for Cùram’s tree when the attack had come, unprovoked and completely unexpected. The chase had been going on for over three miles now, and Robbie didn’t know if the ambushing bastards were merely out for a night’s sport or if they truly were as inept as they appeared. Either way, he was reaching the end of his strength, and if he didn’t turn and fight, the chase itself would likely kill him.

He stopped on a clearing of ledge and turned, planting his feet and lifting his sword, preparing to skewer the first man who broke through the trees.

He heard them floundering in the stream, heard them curse, then heard two separate shouts and a loud splash.

Robbie pulled his right hand from his side and rubbed his fingers together to see if the blood was congealing, then looked down at the deep gash on his hip, squinting to see it in the stingy moonlight.

Dammit, one of the ambushing bastards had tried to slice him in half and might have succeeded if Robbie hadn’t knocked his sword away just in time. He took a deep breath, tightened his belt to add more pressure to the wound, wiped the blood off his palm on his plaid, and used both hands to steady his sword.

Mary called again. Robbie looked up and saw the snowy flying through the trees toward the stream.

“Nay!” he shouted in Gaelic, automatically speaking the language he’d been using for the last three days. “You will not be part of this game, little one,” he said quietly, knowing she could hear him.

He stepped back into the forest, just off to the side of the path he’d made, and hid behind a large oak. Hell, if it had worked for the ambushing bastards, it could work for him.

The first warrior broke into the clearing, and Robbie let him pass unchallenged. The second and third men, both dripping wet, also ran by. Robbie stuck out his foot, tripping the fourth bastard, then used the flat of his sword to propel him into his comrades. And with a battle cry of his own, he sprang toward them, his sword aimed at the downed warrior. He checked his movement at just the last second, piercing soft skin and slicing upward until the man screamed in pain.

The other three appeared so surprised by the attack that they actually backed away. Robbie advanced, arcing his sword in an upward motion, then carefully slicing it across the chests of the two closest men.

The fourth bastard finally gathered his wits and brought his own sword up in defense, thrusting forward just as Robbie stepped to the side, slid his sword between the man’s thighs, and lifted. The shocked warrior sucked in his breath and went utterly still. Robbie raised his sword a little bit higher, just to make sure the man understood the gravity of his situation.

“Now, gentlemen,” he said in Gaelic, passing a warning glance at the other three men. “I’ve had enough sport for one night. What say we call it a draw?” He lifted his sword even higher, causing the warrior to whimper. “Or will you let your friend’s bed be cold and lonely from now on?”

It seemed none of them wished to address his challenge.

“Okay, then. Set down your weapons, while this gentleman,” he said, nodding toward his captive, “takes off his plaid.”

All four sets of eyes rounded in the stingy moonlight.

“Now!” Robbie snapped.

The warrior whose manhood was being threatened immediately dropped his sword and started undoing his belt. The bastard with the bleeding backside rolled away from his own sword and awkwardly scrambled to his feet with a groan. The other two, each clutching his chest with one hand, bent down and gently set their swords on the ground.

Robbie nodded. “That’s better.” He reached out and took the man’s plaid. “And now I suggest you start running back the way you came, just as fast as your sorry-ass legs can take you. And I want to hear your war cry, and it had better be moving away. Go!” he growled, dropping the tip of his sword and stepping back.

The two warriors with bleeding chests grabbed their buddy with the bleeding ass and quickly staggered back down the path toward the stream. The naked warrior, however, seemed unable to move.

“If I ever catch ya on MacKeage land again, I’ll have your balls hanging from our keep.”

Still the man didn’t move.

“Or would you rather I do it now?”

The bastard didn’t need to be told a third time and shot after the others, his naked white butt flashing through the trees and disappearing into the dense forest.

“I’m not hearing ya!” Robbie shouted.

Muted cries rose from the forest, along with snapping limbs and groaned curses as the four of them scrambled away. Robbie turned and kicked their swords into the trees, tossed the stolen plaid over his shoulder, and headed in the opposite direction.

He ran until the wound in his side made him stop. He stood bent over, his hands braced on his knees, panting against the throbbing pain. Mary silently glided in, landing on the ground in front of him. She folded her wings and stared.

“I know this isn’t where we arrived three days ago,” he said in a winded whisper, gingerly lowering himself to the ground. “But it’s as far as I’m going tonight.”

Mary sidled closer and nipped his shoulder.

“We didn’t ask the priest if I have to stand in the exact place I landed when I want to return,” he continued. “But what’s the worst that could happen? We’ll probably get back only a mile or two from the summit of TarStone.”

He lay back on the moss, spread his arms wide, closed his eyes, and sighed. “I just need to rest awhile,” he whispered. “The last three days here have been rather…eventful.”

Mary hopped up onto his chest, turned her back to him, and used her beak to tug on his belt.

Robbie let out a pained chuckle. “I do believe the bastards wanted to kill me.” He lifted the stolen MacBain plaid and laid it over the MacKeage plaid he was wearing, groaning when his wound twitched in protest. “There’s some irony in that.”

Mary finally tugged the cherrywood burl free.

“Soon, little one, once I get my strength back,” Robbie whispered. “If my own ancestors didn’t kill me, that godless storm likely will.”

Mary paid him no mind, holding the burl in her beak as she spread her wings to encompass his body. It began as a whisper of breath first, slowly building to a loud, roaring wind. The air thickened and churned above him as lightning filled the sky with gathering energy.

Robbie gripped the hilt of his sword, gritted his teeth, and closed his eyes against the blinding tempest. The weight of the snowy suddenly lifted from his chest and was replaced by the plop of the humming cherrywood burl.

“Nay!” Robbie shouted, trying to catch her.

The bird beat her wings, powering herself out of his reach, and let out a loud, shrilling whistle as she disappeared into the night forest.

The storm tightened around Robbie with a deafening roar, drowning out his own howl of anger. He collapsed back onto the ground, clutching his sword and the MacBain plaid to his chest. He gritted his teeth against the pain he knew was coming. He hoped like hell that Daar was right, that although he’d been here three hellish days, he’d been gone from modern time only one night.

Robbie’s last conscious thought, though, as the vortex consumed him, was of the Highlanders back home. The six MacBain and four MacKeage warriors who had disappeared ten years ago were now legends, and the war his papa had started was still going strong.

And Cùram de Gairn’s tree of spells did not exist.