‘Aye,’ the younger Cameron replied. ‘Only by a few minutes, but she is the elder.’ Those minutes mattered not when there was a son to inherit the titles and most of the wealth.
‘You fought well today,’ Brodie said. ‘Who taught you the sword?’
‘My uncle Niall trains the young warriors. I know you held back in the yard,’ he replied. ‘Your control was well honed. Who taught you?’
Brodie got to his feet and walked over to sit nearer the young Cameron. Others talked amongst themselves and he did not wish everyone to hear his every question. ‘My uncle Grigor,’ he said, sitting down on the log there. ‘I have heard the story of Niall and Grigor meeting in battle. Mayhap fifteen years ago?’
Malcolm shrugged and shook his head. ‘Where was this?’
Malcolm held out a skin of ale and filled Brodie’s leather cup and then his own. There had been skirmishes and battles between their families for generations and, unless this treaty was successful, there would be more.
‘On the other side of the loch,’ he said. ‘’Tis said the fight lasted a day and a night.’
‘Yet both survived?’ The brother’s eyes glinted with suspicion.
‘’Twouldn’t be a good story if they died,’ he said, laughing. Raising his cup, he cheered, ‘A Mackintosh!’
‘A Cameron!’ Malcolm added his own.
The others joined in the boisterous battle cries and then drank deeply. Caelan retrieved another skin and began to pass it around. This looked more and more like a drinking challenge each minute. Mayhap that was his uncle’s intent? After things calmed, he turned his attention back to Arabella’s brother.
‘So who taught her to ride that beast?’
If he had not been watching the man’s face, he would have missed the darkness that filled his eyes and the stark pain. But Brodie saw it and a tightness filled his gut for a reason he could not explain.
‘She wasna supposed to ride it. The horse nearly died at birth, but she nursed it to health. Then, when it grew to the size it is now, my—our—father forbade her to ride it.’ Malcolm drank deeply then, as though preparing for the telling of some terrible bit. ‘He tried to train it and decided to break it when it would not come to heel. That horse threw every rider that tried, so my father ordered it destroyed.’
‘What stopped him from doing so?’ he asked, almost afraid now to hear the answer, for he knew the lass was in the middle of it.
‘Bella did. She stood in front of the horse and refused to allow it. My father bellowed and shouted and threatened her and the horse, but she would not relent.’
‘What did he do?’ The Cameron was not known to be a soft man or one that would let a defiant daughter stand in his way. Or a defiant anyone.
‘He told her the only way to save the horse was for her to mount it or he would break both of them.’
Even though Brodie knew the outcome, he found himself holding his breath. He knew Euan to be a harsh man, but this surprised even him. From the tremor in Malcolm’s voice, he must have witnessed this.
‘So, she whispered to the horse, climbed on his back and claimed him as hers.’
‘I know him well enough to know that your father would not have let her disobedience go unpunished.’ Why he said that, Brodie did not know. He just needed to know.
‘He did not. She could not move or sit for more than a week.’
Brodie reached for the skin being passed around, filled his cup and emptied it. The wine did not ease his concern but it did send a burst of warmth through his body. Damn, the lass who seemed so compliant, so gracious and always smiling and obedient had a spine of steel.
He did not pursue anything more about her with her brother, for the wine affected him more than it did usually. The other questions he had dissolved in the face of its growing effects. The flames flared and the conversation grew louder and more boisterous. Brodie tried to rise, but his legs would not follow his will. Glancing around, he noticed that Rob’s head bowed in sleep, like the Camerons sitting nearest to him and Malcolm.
He shook his head, trying to clear his thoughts, fighting the dizziness and the need to close his eyes. Struggling against the growing lethargy, he called out to Caelan but his vision grew dark and he felt himself falling...falling...falling.
* * *
His head pounded.
His mouth felt as though filled with sand.
His eyes would not open.
Brodie lifted his hand to his face, trying to wipe away whatever kept him from waking. But his hand was wet and it did no good. Dragging his arm, his sleeve, across his face, he could finally see...
Blood. It was everywhere. His sleeve and shirt were soaked with it.
Was it his?
Pushing up on to his knees and then to his feet, he looked in horror at the body lying there.
Malcolm Cameron was dead with Brodie’s own dagger sticking out of his chest.
‘Christ! Brodie.’ Caelan’s voice broke into the thick haze yet filling his mind. ‘Why did you kill him?’ His cousin grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him fiercely. ‘What were you thinking?’ More shouting and more voices clamoured around the clearing as Brodie tried to make sense of the scene before him.
And he failed.
He remembered nothing of the night after talking with Malcolm about Arabella and then a dark void. Looking around, he watched as the others got to their feet. Rob shrugged at him. Brodie did not remember ever getting this drunk before—and he’d had many, many nights of drinking to try.
A large group of men swarmed into the clearing, surrounding all of them with drawn swords. As he staggered forward, unable to regain his footing, his father and the Cameron chieftain dismounted and strode towards him.
‘Why?’ Euan Cameron demanded, grabbing his throat and pulling him forward. ‘Why did you kill him?’
Brodie searched for words, searched for the truth of what had happened and could not find them. His uncle pulled him free and shoved the older man back.
‘We do not know what happened, Euan. Hold until we do,’ he ordered.
The Cameron dropped to his knees next to the bloodied body of his son, staring into unseeing eyes as they all watched. Brodie wiped his hands against his trews, trying to remove the blood there as he looked around at the others there. The only ones who appeared recovered were Caelan and his two friends.
‘What happened?’ he asked, his dry throat made his voice rough. ‘How did this happen?’ He gestured to Malcolm there. Caelan and one of his men walked closer.
‘You do not remember?’ his cousin asked. ‘Truly?’
Brodie squeezed the bridge of his nose and pressed against the throbbing pain in his forehead and brow. The aching there and the queasiness in his stomach forced all rational thought aside.
‘Nay, Caelan. I remember it not. Did Malcolm attack me?’
He had killed a fair number of men, in battle or other skirmishes, but he did not kill without thought. And he had no reason to this time.
‘Attack you? Nay,’ Caelan whispered so that only he could hear. ‘You asked him about Arabella. Then you began to argue. Daggers were drawn and you struck first.’
‘Take him,’ the Cameron ordered his men. ‘He owes his life for killing my son and heir.’ The Cameron men tried to surround him.
‘Nay!’ his uncle Lachlan called out, stepping next to him. The other Mackintosh warriors