The Pride of Lions (47 page)

A quarter mile away, Alex thought he detected a smile on the cruel, twisted lips. MacSorley touched him on the shoulder, beckoning him away from the rocks, and the three men raced back through the narrow gulley to where their horses were tethered. They galloped down the rutted slope, stopping several hundred yards beyond a wide avenue carved into the rock and scrub. It was the perfect spot for an ambush. Where the trail cut through the tumbled boulders, it was just wide enough for two men to ride abreast. The banks on either side were chest high and covered with a wild hedgerow tall enough and thick enough to conceal a man. The overall gloom—if the sun obliged by delaying its appearance into the world from behind the slow-moving bank of clouds overhead—would make discovery unlikely until the full troop of Campbell’s men was bottled in the avenue.

Knowing this was undoubtedly the same place Malcolm Campbell would have chosen to set up his own ambush, Alex took particularly primitive delight in the
loading and priming of his steel-butted dags. Aluinn was hunkered down beside him, gently massaging his stiffened shoulder, his gray eyes calmly watching without comment as the paper cartridges were torn open and measures of black powder poured into each barrel. The actions of the long, lean fingers were steady and precise—almost loving—as if the man tamping down the wadding and balls knew exactly where each solid round of lead shot would be placed.

“There are twenty-five of them,” MacKail remarked dryly. “Only eight of us.”

“Aye, well,” Struan commented from behind, “they’re only Campbells. We have tae gie ’em some kind o’ advantage, else they’ll run off bleatin’ like stuck pigs.”

Aluinn crooked an eyebrow. “Still, it wouldn’t hurt to have a man up higher in the rocks with spare rounds of ball and powder. We will have only a few seconds of surprise wherein every shot will have to count.”

Struan chuckled grimly. “Dinna fret yersel’. I’ve a wee surprise already planned f’ae those deservin’ o’ a quick an’ painless death. Mind, there are ithers who warrant nae such mercy.”

Alex stared at the battered face, knowing his own was hardly in better shape. “Malcolm Campbell is mine,” he said quietly. “I am still holding you to your bond.”

MacSorley’s eyes narrowed. It had nearly killed him fifteen years ago to pledge on his honor not to hunt Malcolm Campbell down like the dog he was and finish the job Alex had started. A score of times he had sucked the last drop out of a whisky jug and staggered off in search of vengeance only to turn back, cursing his own words. But making that pledge had been the only way he could coax Alex to relinquish Annie’s small, lifeless body after a ten-hour vigil that had bordered on madness.

“Aye, lad. I made ye that promise. An’ he’s yers … but I’ll be directly ahind ye, tae be sure he disna cheat Auld Hornie again.”

“Fair enough. Aluinn—” Alex turned to MacKail. “As
soon as the first man falls, they’ll know it’s a trap and they’ll be turning their guns on Catherine.”

Aluinn nodded. “I’ll get to her first, don’t worry.”

“Aye,” Struan grunted. “An’ I’ll be directly up
yer
arse as well, count on it.”

A shrill whistle from the lookout warned the men of Campbell’s approach.

Forcing his mind to go completely blank, Alex ducked into position. He placed his musket beside him on the rocks and checked to make sure his sword was belted securely around his waist. He waited, both pistols cocked and ready, and out of the corner of his eye he could see the other clansmen crouched in their places, not a muscle or hair twitching to betray their presence. Every instinct was tuned to the stillness of the air, every breath was held lest a rising puff of mist betray them.

The first of the riders entered the cloistered avenue, the slow, plodding hoofbeats echoing off the hard ground. Alex raised both pistols and curled his fingers around the triggers. He waited until the flanks of the lead horses were directly in line with his barrels before he leaped to his feet and discharged both flintlocks point-blank into the startled faces of the Campbell clansmen.

They were not the faces he wanted to see, but Alex did not stop to question the whereabouts of Malcolm or Gordon Ross Campbell. He flung the empty pistols aside and snatched up his musket, remembering to suck in his breath and brace himself for the tremendous recoil of the Highland firing piece as he pulled the trigger. The cloud of smoke from the exploding powder stung him blind for a few precious seconds, but by then he had also discarded the musket—it would take far too long to reload—and was leaping down from his perch on the rocks, his sword flashing in his hand.

His throat vibrated with the roar of a battle cry as old and savage as his Highland ancestry. All along the curve of the avenue the
cath-ghairm
was echoed as his men flung themselves out of the cover of the bushes and met
their enemies head-on. The first volley of gunshots had been effective—half of Campbell’s men lay either dead or dying beneath the panicked frenzy of horses’ hooves. From the rear of the avenue, high on the rocks, came Struan’s surprise: a steady stream of wickedly barbed arrows that proved to be deadly efficient in adding to the carnage of writhing bodies and thrashing horses.

Alex slashed his sword across the saddle of the next man in line, cleanly severing an arm at the elbow. The man’s sword, with his hand still gripped around the hilt, flew off into the rocks, spattering them red with blood. A second slash went to MacSorley’s aid, relieving the man—who was about to shoot the Highlander—of both his pistol and his life.

“I’m that glad tae see ye’ve no’ forgotten how tae fight!” MacSorley roared, baring his teeth with fearsome glee as his
clai’mor
split open the skull of an Argyleman. “But I’d no’ be worryin’ so much on ma back as on yer own!”

Alex whirled and lunged out of the way only moments before a terrified horse bolted past him. He had barely regained his balance when a second animal thundered toward him, this one driven by a screaming, sword-wielding Campbell. He ducked as the blade hacked down in an arc across his shoulders, and was never certain if it was his own sword that brought his attacker crashing to the ground or the well-placed arrow that skewered cleanly through the man’s throat.

Alex dashed a hand across his brow to keep the sweat from rolling into his eyes. He vaulted over two writhing bodies and ran down the avenue. No more than a minute had passed since the first shots had been fired, but already the ground was red underfoot, the air was choked with dust and acrid smoke. Horses were rearing and blocking the lane in their confusion, their screams adding to the general chaos that had erupted. He saw a flash of yellow hair up ahead and pumped his legs faster, but a sword came at him from nowhere and he spun into the rocks, his blood splashing the stone as he turned.

* * *

When the shooting began, Catherine was trapped in the middle of the column. She felt the arms of her captor go limp as a carefully placed shot tore away the back of his skull. As he slumped forward she pushed him to the side to free the saddle, but his foot caught in the stirrup and he hung grotesquely over her thigh. Too terrified to stop and think what she was doing, she leaned over and began to tug and pry at the stuck foot. It would not budge, and the dead weight was beginning to pull her off balance when a pair of strong, lean hands came to her rescue. Aluinn freed the foot and shoved the body off the pony, but before he could give Catherine more than a brief smile of reassurance, he was turning away, reacting to her screamed warning.

Aluinn spun like a dancer, his sword flashing as he brought it up to block a thrust from Gordon Ross Campbell’s
clai’mor
. Campbell’s blow was deflected with a sharp ringing of steel, but since his weapon was much heavier than the elegantly thin saber, he lost valuable seconds recovering his momentum to strike again. Aluinn’s cut was faster, his blade slicing across the younger man’s throat before he could finish screaming the Campbell
cath-ghairm
.

Catherine’s pony shied from the spray of warm blood, and she scrambled to hold on to the reins, to keep her seat as he reared and pawed the air. A hoof flayed wildly in Aluinn’s direction, catching his shoulder in the same place the bullet had torn through the flesh. He fell back, his lips frozen around a cry of agony, and staggered heavily to his knees, his hand clutching at the wounded shoulder.

Catherine wheeled the horse around and managed to slip out of the saddle before the animal bolted into the clashing mêlée of swords. She ran to Aluinn’s side, but he was beyond movement, beyond feeling or knowing anything apart from the blinding pain in his shoulder. He did not feel the slender arms circle his chest and try to
help him to his feet; he did not see her spin away or hear her strangled cry as a pair of trunklike arms reached down and dragged her up onto the back of yet another short, stout garron.

Malcolm Campbell wrapped his arm tightly around her waist and thrust the snout of his pistol sharply up beneath the curve of her chin. His first thought was to kill her then and there, but he knew the moment he did so he would have no leverage against the stinging flights of arrows or the slashing swords. As he watched the last of his men fall to the ground beneath the Cameron onslaught, his anger rose in his throat. Images flashed in disjointed sequences across his mind—a stable turned from one moment to the next into a bloody battleground; his brothers Angus and Dughall split open and spilling their guts on the straw; his own hideous wounds; the first time he had dared look into a mirror …

He roared again, and this time there was an answer.

“
It’s over, Campbell! Let her go!
”

Malcolm’s head swiveled in the direction of the hated voice. It was him. It was the black-eyed devil responsible for his pain, his disfigurement, his
humiliation
!

“Cameron, ye
bastard
!” He screamed and cocked the hammer of the flintlock. “I’ll kill her! So help me Christ, I’ll kill her here where ye can watch her brains fly up tae feed the bluidy ravens!”

Catherine squeezed her eyes shut as she felt the nose of the pistol dig deeper into her throat. She had a hand clawed around his forearm, but it was like trying to scratch stone. Her other hand groped instinctively to maintain her balance, and her fingers struck cold metal. It took a moment for her to absorb and identify the shape—it was the hilt of a knife Campbell wore tucked into the top of his hose.

“Let her go,” Alex repeated calmly, evenly. “This is between you and me. It always has been.”

“If that’s so, then yer men will listen when ye tell them tae put their weapons down an’ move away back.”

One by one the Cameron clansmen looked to Alex for direction, and one by one they dropped their weapons and slowly shifted back against the rocks. Campbell watched them, alert for any sudden movement, and then his single rat eye flicked down to where the body of his son lay sprawled and still twitching on the blood-slicked mud.

“Ye’ve just added tae the price ye’ll be payin’, Cameron,” he hissed. “Ye’ve added tae it twofold.”

The midnight eyes did not waver from Campbell’s face. Ignoring the snarled threat, he directed his words, soft and low, toward the pale and trembling figure of his wife.

“It’s all right, Catherine, I’m here. Don’t be afraid; it’s almost over.”

She opened her eyes, but her head was tilted at an impossible angle that allowed only a view straight up into the sky.

“Alex?” she gasped.

“I’m here, love. I’m right here.”

Campbell’s voice echoed with fifteen years of seething hatred. “I must gi’e ye credit f’ae yer taste in lassies, Cameron. This one was just as sweet an’ soft as the ither. Aye, sweet an’ wet an’ bonnie enough tae please most o’ ma men, though I foun’ I had tae take her twice afore she stopped squirmin’ long enough tae take all the seed I gave her. A pity we had tae teach her manners, but the cuts an’ bruises were well-earned. She’s a rare hellcat, as ye must know.”

Catherine tried to turn her head to see Alex’s face, but the muzzle of the gun prevented it. She tried to call out to him, but could not manage more than a dry gasp past the terrible, aching pressure across her throat. Above her the clouds were drifting away from the sun. In a few moments it would burst free. She curled her fingers tighter around the hilt of the dirk and prayed the sunlight would blind her to the final pain.

Campbell grinned and nudged his heels into the garron’s flanks, easing the animal away from the avenue
and back up toward the mouth of the pass. Alex followed, step by rigid step, his hand clenched around the hilt of his sword so tightly the veins rose along his forearms like blue snakes.

Campbell waited until the last possible second, luring his enemy far enough away from his men so that his escape would be only a matter of a few galloped strides into the pass. When he judged Alex’s position and patience to be at their limit, he brought the pistol down from Catherine’s neck and aimed it toward the Highlander’s massive chest.

At the same instant the sun broke from behind the foaming white clouds and Catherine jerked her hand up, bringing the sharp little stiletto with it. Alex saw her hand move, and the cold shock of seeing the dirk clutched in her fist, coupled with the colder shock of realizing what she was about to do, brought forth a violent roar of fury from his throat. He launched himself forward just as Campbell pulled the trigger.

The horse reared as the gun discharged inches from his ear. Catherine slipped sideways and her aim missed … but so did Malcolm Campbell’s. Cursing, he flung the empty gun to the ground and kicked the horse in the direction of the pass, but Alex was by his side in three long strides, his fists catching the saddlecloth and hauling it back. Campbell’s arm was still around Catherine’s waist and she started to slash at it with the knife. She heard another loud curse explode in her ear, and the next thing she knew she was being shoved to one side and thrown to the ground, her fall breaking the grip Alex had on the saddlecloth.

The pony responded at once to Campbell’s furious commands and galloped up the hill, but before they had covered more than ten paces an arrow struck the animal’s neck, just behind the hard bone of the skull. Horse and rider went down hard in a crush of flailing legs. Campbell was thrown clear and did not attempt to stop his fall, but rolled with it so that he was on his feet and running as
the next arrow ricocheted harmlessly off the rocks beside him. He retrieved his broadsword and threw himself into the mouth of Hell’s Gate, mindful of the pounding steps that pursued him into the gloomy chasm.