Part 2 (2/2)

”Wow, tea! I'd love tea!” Gina said. ”You'd love tea, too, Toni!” Gina grabbed Toni's hand. ”And we'd love for Laird MacNiall to join us so we can explain about how and why we rented the place.. .talk about all the work we've done here, and find out about Laird MacNiall, while we're at it?” She looked at him hopefully.

”Since you've been so kind to let us stay while we get to the bottom of this, would you be willing to join us, Lord MacNiall?” Thayer asked.

”Thanks. I had a long flight in today, a lot of business and a long drive, only to find out that the castle had been...inhabited,” MacNiall said. ”I'll just retire for the night, if you don't mind. Please feel free to enjoy your tea, however. And the hospitality. Until Monday.”

”Until Monday?” Toni said, and her reward was a final jab from Gina. This time she protested, staring at Gina. ”Ow!”

”Good night!” Gina said, ”And thank you.”

”Your papers,” MacNiall said, handing them back to Gina.

”Thank you,” Gina said again. ”And thank you for...for letting us stay until Monday. Until this is all straightened out. I don't know where we'd go, especially at this hour.”

He inclined his head. ”I sympathize with your situation,” he said. ”Good night, then.” He took one long last look at Toni and turned away.

Toni opened her mouth, about to speak, but Gina clamped a hand over her mouth, desperately whispering, ”Just say, 'Good night, Laird MacNiall!'”

MacNiall looked back, all six feet three inches of him. His eyes now appeared to be more of a true blue, and as sharp as a summer's sky. Something strange ripped through Toni. She was caught, frozen. She felt as if she knew him, knew the way that he looked at her.

Had known him before.

And would know him again.

A tremor ran down her spine. Ice. Fire. She had invented him!

He was just a man, she told herself--irritating, superior and angry that they were in his house.

Not true. If his hair were a little longer, his clothing a bit different, just a bit different...

”Good night,” he said.

The ice and fire, and a feeling of foreboding so intense she trembled, became too much, far too intense. She turned herself and hurried down the stairs. Ran.

Yet a voice whispered to her all the while.

You can't run away. You can't run away.

And something even softer, an afterthought.

Not this time...

*Interlude*

*When Cromwell Reigned*

From his vantage point, MacNiall could see them, arrayed in all their glittering splendor. The man for whom they fought, the ever self-righteous Cromwell, might preach the simplicity and purity one should seek in life, but when he had his troops arrayed, he saw to it that no matter what their uniform, they appeared in rank, and their weapons shone, as did their s.h.i.+elds.

As it always seemed to be with his enemy, they were unaware of how a fight in the Highlands might best be fought. They were coming in their formations. Rank and file. Stop, load, aim, fire. March forward. Stop, load, aim, fire....

Cromwell's troops depended on their superior numbers. And like all leaders before him, Cromwell was ready to sacrifice his fighting man. All in the name of G.o.d and the G.o.dliness of their land--or so the great man preached.

MacNiall had his own G.o.d, as did the men with whom he fought. For some, it was simply the G.o.d that the English did not face. For others, it had to do with pride, for their G.o.d ruled the Scottish and Presbyterian church, and had naught to do with an Englishman who would sever the head of his own king.

Others fought because it was their land. Chieftains and clansmen, men who would not be ruled by such a foreigner, men who seldom bowed down to any authority other than their own. Their land was hard and rugged. When the Romans had come, they had built walls to protect their own and to keep out the savages they barely recognized as human. In the many centuries since, the basic heart of the land had changed little. Now, they had another cause the return of the young Stuart heir and their hatred for their enemy.

And just as they had centuries before, they would fight, using their land as one of their greatest weapons.

MacNiall granted Cromwell one thing--he was a military man. And he was no fool. He had called upon the Irish and the Welsh, who had learned so very well the art of archery. He had called upon men who knew about cannons and the devastating results of gunpowder, shot and ball, when put to the proper use. All these things he knew, and he felt a great superiority in his numbers, in his weapons.

But still, he did not know the Highlands, nor the soul of the Highland men he faced. And today he should have known the tactics the Highlander would use more so than ever. For MacNiall had heard that these troops were being led by a man who had been one of their own, a Scotsman from the base of the savage lands himself.

Grayson Davis--turncoat, one who had railed against Cromwell. Yet one who had been offered great rewards--the lands of those he could best and destroy.

Like Cromwell, Davis was convinced that he had the power, the numbers and the right. So MacNiall counted on the fact that he would underestimate his enemy--the savages from the north, ill equipped, unkempt, many today in woolen rags, painted as their ancestors, the Picts, fighting for their land and their freedom.

Rank and file, marching. Slow and steady, coming ever forward. They reached the stream.

”Now?” whispered MacLeod at his side.

”A minute more,” replied MacNiall calmly.

When the enemy was upon the bridge, MacNiall raised a hand. MacLeod pa.s.sed on the signal.

Their marksman nodded, as quiet, calm and grim as his leaders, and took aim.

His shot was true.

The bridge burst apart in a mighty explosion, sending fire and sparks skyrocketing, pieces of plank and board and man spiraling toward the sky, only to land again in the midst of confusion and terror, bloodshed and death. For they had waited. They had learned patience, and the bridge had been filled.

Lord G.o.d, MacNiall thought, almost wearily. By now their enemies should have learned that the death and destruction of human beings, flesh and blood, was terrible.

”Now?” said MacLeod again, shouting this time to be heard over the roar from below.

”Now,” MacNiall said calmly.

Another signal was given, and a hail of arrows arched over hill and dale, falling with a fury upon the ma.s.s of regrouping humanity below.

”And now!” roared MacNiall, standing in his stirrups, commanding his men.

The men, flanking those few in view, rose from behind the rocks of their blessed Highlands. They let out their fierce battle cries--learned, perhaps, from the berserker Nors.e.m.e.n who had once come upon them--and moved down from rock and cliff, terrible in their insanity, men who had far too often fought with nothing but their bare hands and wits to keep what was theirs, to earn the freedom that was a way of life.

Clansmen. They were born with an ethic; they fought for one another as they fought for themselves. They were a breed apart.

MacNiall was a part of that breed. As such, he must always ride with his men, and face the blades of his enemy first. He must, like his fellows, cry out his rage at this intrusion, and risk life, blood and limb in the hand-to-hand fight.

Riding down the hillside, he charged the enemy from the seat of his mount, hacking at those who slashed into the backs of his foot soldiers, and fending off those who would come upon him en ma.s.se. He fought, all but blindly at times, years of bloodshed having given him instincts that warned him when a blade or an ax was at his back. And when he was pulled from his mount, he fought on foot until he regained his saddle and crushed forward again.

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