Quickly, Annie slid down the wall and placed the blade she was holding between her knees. Then, she used it to saw at her bindings. If John needed her, she wanted her hands free. After a frustratingly long time, the twine gave way. Sharp prickles of returning sensation made her wince, but she had no time to waste.
John had a cut across his belly where Skene had gotten lucky with a slash. But Skene was much worse off. The rat’s shoulder had two gashes, and his cheek was dripping from a long slice. The two men circled each other, both a bit unsteady.
She reckoned John was still feeling the effects of whatever Skene had used to drug them. How he’d managed to awaken and find her, she didn’t know.
Suddenly, Skene lunged forward, his knife aiming for John’s thigh. With another deep roar, John brought his dirk up into the rat’s belly. Skene gave a wheezing mewl and staggered sideways. He tried again to stab John’s leg, but his knife slid off the woolen plaid as though there were nothing beneath it.
John drove Skene backward. The rat wheezed and shook his head as John struck again, this time between the rat’s ribs. With a final, desperate slash, Skene managed to cut John’s forearm.
Annie gasped, shifting away from the two men and holding her own blade at the ready.
But she needn’t have bothered. In the next instant, her Englishman whispered something to Skene and gave a mighty shove. Skene tumbled backward through the broken window, unable to catch himself. His momentum, oddly, seemed to increase as he clawed at the frame. Then, as though he’d been shoved again by an invisible hand, he fell. A heartbeat later, Annie heard a dull thud from the ground below. Then silence.
Breaths sawed in and out of her chest. She stumbled toward her husband, who stumbled toward her. He wrapped her up tight, whispering her name.
“English,” she whimpered hoarsely. “Ah, God. Ye came.”
“Always, love.”
For long minutes, they held each other and breathed. Then, they began searching each other for serious wounds. Both of them had been fortunate, as the various slashes were thin and shallow. She explained why Skene had come for her, how he’d planned to use her against the MacPhersons. Gently, John asked what the blackguard had managed to do to her before he’d arrived. She set his mind at ease then explained how she’d escaped. How she’d fought. How she’d broken the window to give herself a weapon. Then, she remembered. She tugged away and rushed to the corner where she’d seen the bird lying still.
It was gone.
Frantically, she searched the shadows, kneeling and running her hands over the wooden floor. “Th-there was a bird,” she murmured. “I swear, English. It flew through the window. It attacked Skene.”
“A white raven.”
She froze. Pushed to her feet and spun to face him.
“It was Finlay, love.”
“H-how do ye—”
“I dreamt about him. He’s how I knew to come here.” John glanced down at himself then brushed the handle of the dirk he’d tucked between his waist and her plaid. “He’s how I knew you needed me.”
She wandered closer until she stood inches from her husband. “Ye spoke to him?”
He nodded. “I realized I’d seen him before, Annie. Last year, the day you and I spoke at the haberdashery. He was in the corner of the shop near the tartans, playing with the Cleghorn boy.”
A tear coursed down her cheek. “He loved tartans. And wee Ronnie Cleghorn.” She released a wet chuckle. “I cannae believe ye saw him.”
“I thought he was one of the village lads. I had no idea …”
She wrapped herself around him, resting her cheek over his heart.
He soothed her with long strokes of her hair. “I was sorry before that I dismissed your stories about him, love. But let me say again how much I regret the hurt I must have caused you.”
“Dinnae fash yerself, my bonnie Englishman. All that matters is that ye ken he’s real, and so do I.” She reached up to stroke his jaw. “After so many years of bein’ the mad one, it’s a pure pleasure to have company.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
TlU
A pre-dawn rainstorm followed by blazing August heat made the field west of the village a muggy stew. John wished he could blame his foul mood on the weather.
God, he hated losing.
“So ye lost the hammer throw.” Rannoch clapped a giant hand upon John’s shoulder. “Second place isnae so bad.”
“This was my best event,” John replied darkly, glaring at his youngest brother-in-law. “Your throw was longer by ten feet.”
“Aye.” Rannoch grinned. “’Twas a good day.”
John snorted. He’d already lost the weight-over-bar event and the loch swim to Alexander, the stone put to Campbell, and the foot race to Rannoch. Only the caber toss remained, and given his performance thus far, he held out scant hope for winning his wager with Annie.
“Bloody hell,” he muttered.
He’d already written the letter inviting his family to visit, though he’d waited to send it until after the Glenscannadoo Games. Likely he’d be waiting a good deal longer. Possibly months. A year, even.
John peered across the vast green to where the spectators gathered. Locals, visitors from neighboring towns, and guests of the laird stood in groups or sat on blankets enjoying their luncheon. He scanned the crowd for a familiar head of banner-bright hair.
“To the left, near the bagpipers,” Rannoch said. “She’s speakin’ with Lockhart’s sister.”
He found her. His glorious Highland lass. She wore a green, long-sleeved gown today with her tartan sash about her waist and blue silk ribbons on her straw bonnet. Her sleeves and gloves disguised the cuts that were still healing.
Thank God none of them had been deep. Thank God his wife was so strong.
He watched her laugh and converse with Miss Lockhart as though they were bosom friends. “She’s quite convincing,” John murmured, sliding his gaze several feet away to where Lord Lockhart stood with Laird Glenscannadoo.
“She’s motivated,” Rannoch replied. “If somethin’ is a matter of will, I wouldnae bet against Annie.”
John smiled. “No, indeed.”
A week had passed since David Skene had tried to abduct Annie. Constable Munro had asked a few questions about the man’s death, but not as many as John expected. Munro had appeared content to dispose of the rat and all the trouble he’d brought to the county.
Since then, John, Annie, and the MacPhersons had been preparing for the Gathering. Several times, Annie had ventured to Broderick’s house in the east foothills of MacPherson land. She always returned home sadder and in need of John’s comfort.
Broderick’s injuries had largely healed—at least as much as they were likely to. But he was simmering with a bottomless rage, and his isolation wasn’t helping. Annie didn’t know what to do. She often questioned the wisdom of involving Broderick in their plans to confront Lockhart. “How can we ask this of him, English?” she’d whispered only last night.