“I don’t know,” Patrick said with an exasperated sigh. Finally looking at them, he shook his head, then met Ciaran’s gaze. “I wish I did.” His attention drifted off behind Ciaran. “It seems too coincidental for them not to be connected to the attacks.”
“Aye, and the MacLeans refusing tae join us makes more sense now.” Angus bobbed his head as if to say I told you so.
Someone, Douglas it sounded like, grunted in agreement.
Sighing, Ciaran shook his head. “We dinna ken if the MacL—”
“What is that?” Patrick’s brow furrowed, and he lifted the spyglass, but he was turned the wrong way, looking past Ciaran to the right rather than down and in front of them.
A cloud of black smoke rose up over the mountain. It appeared in the distance, among the foothills of Blae Mountain in the area they called the Pass, or possibly farther in the valley between the highest peaks.
Ciaran frowned. Had lightning struck something? But what? There was nothing but grass, rocks, and heather over there. In order to see, they would have to backtrack toward home and skirt past Grom Peak.
A drop of water landed on Ciaran’s arm. He glanced up and was hit by another on the cheek. Skirting past Grom Peak was beginning to seem like a good idea. It would keep them at a lower altitude.
The workers grabbed their equipment and took shelter in a small cottage nearby.
“They are leaving,” Ram said.
Lightning flashed, jarring them from their observation. Everyone moved at once, heading for their horses, which waited in a grassy patch, several yards below and behind them. Once they got to their horses, they all stopped.
“What now?” Ciaran asked over the wind. “We need someone tae watch them at all times.”
“Agreed.” Patrick nodded.
“Come back tae Lochwood with us. It’s closer.” Ciaran swung up into the saddle.
Around him, Ram’s and Angus’s horses danced around as Ram and Angus mounted.
Patrick shook his head. “We need to get back and tell the laird about this, and I promised Marcus that I wouldn’t be long.” His eyes had the same haunted look he got whenever anyone asked about his past. Patrick never spoke of his former life, but from the few hints he’d dropped when Ciaran lived with him, Ciaran knew it wasn’t good. He was going home to discuss what he’d seen here with Marcus. “I’m going back to the keep to dispatch men for surveillance. Meet me here tomorrow at noon.”
Ciaran nodded and raised his voice to be heard over the weather. “I’m going tae see where that smoke is coming from.”
The rain came down, soaking into his bones and drenching him within a matter of seconds.
A particularly loud clap of thunder sounded and rumbled through the mountain, and Angus’s horse bucked his front feet off the ground about a foot. Angus patted his neck, but the horse continued to prance around and make snorting noises.
“Ciaran, we need tae get tae lower ground,” Angus shouted.
“Go! I’ll catch up.” Ciaran waved Angus, Greer, and Ram away, then looked back at Patrick, who was just getting on his horse. “What arenae ye telling me?”
Patrick shook his head like he always did when Ciaran asked about their technologically advanced enemy. Totally dismissing the question, he dug into his saddlebag, pulled out a leather pouch, and tossed it at Ciaran. “You need to come by the cottage sometime. Marcus misses you.”
“What is this?”
A stray lock of blond hair blew across Patrick’s face, and he batted it away. He smiled, but still the weariness around his eyes did not dissipate. “Shortbread.”
Ciaran grinned and stuck the pouch into his own saddlebag. Marcus and his sweet tooth. Marcus couldn’t cook to save his life, but he was quite skilled at sweet-talking the Campbells’ healer into baking for him. He had always had biscuits waiting for Ciaran and Ram after they spent the day in the lists. Ciaran missed him. “I’m surprised it made it all the way here.” Marcus usually hid the sweets from Patrick, claiming Patrick had a sweet tooth worse than he did and that there’d be none left—which was usually true.
With a chuckle, Patrick shook his head. “You don’t know how much there was when he packed it. Get out of here.” He turned his horse, ready to leave.
Douglas and Robbie waved and started toward the Campbell stronghold.
Ciaran lifted a hand in farewell, but then called out, “Patrick, wait.”
Patrick wheeled his horse back around.
“Does all of this have tae do with ye past?”
For a moment, Ciaran was certain he wouldn’t answer, but then Patrick shrugged. “I can’t find any evidence that it does.”
“But ye think so.”
“Yes.” His voice was low, but Ciaran heard it over the storm, and it was more haunting than the whistling wind.
As Ciaran watched his mentor ride away to meet his clansmen, he couldn’t help but think that this situation was about to get so much worse. They were already fighting for their lives, but something told him they might also be fighting for their freedom.
CHAPTER TWO
“Blankets should never be worn as clothing.”
—Timothy on fashion.
If this planet had buzzards, they would’ve already started circling by now. Bannon looked back at the billowing black smoke over the gloomy gray horizon. It was like a death knell, announcing they were going to perish just as surely as the pilot and the delegates had. Skye had a harsh beauty best viewed from a painting, and the fact that he didn’t want to be the one to capture the scene in paint was a testimony to his pain and fear. Timothy, his muse, was suspiciously quiet at a time Bannon could use him most. He needed something to take his mind off the harsh reality of their situation and the impending doom they faced, even if it was just his own fanciful thoughts.
Louie tugged on his arm. “Come on, Bannon, w-w-we have to keep moving.”
Did they? This place was desolate, and everything looked the same. Maybe they should’ve stayed by the wreckage. At least the burning ship would’ve offered warmth if they could stomach the stench of charred flesh and the fumes from the fuel didn’t suffocate them. Walking wasn’t getting them anywhere, because the waist-high grass and thistle made progress slow, and the craggy ground made it painful. The high-peaked mountain looming like an angry giant in the not so far distance presented a whole other challenge, assuming they actually made it that far. No buildings, no bridges, not even a large tree for protection against the wind.
A drop of something landed on his cheek. He couldn’t tell if it was cold—his face was already half-frozen from the brisk wind. Come to think on it, he couldn’t feel his feet anymore either, but in all fairness, that could be due to pain rather than cold. It was a contest to what he did more, shiver or sniffle. Blood oozed from a cut stretching from shoulder to elbow on his left arm, and his knee hurt something awful, having been wrenched the wrong way in the wreck. He tried hard not to limp and scare Louie, but it got more and more difficult the longer they walked.
Bannon looked down at her hand gripping the wool of his morning coat.
Her knuckles were pale and crusted with blood.
Covering them with his palm, he tried to warm them, but it was no use with the wind, so he pulled her against his side. “This… isn’t good, Louie.” He kissed her forehead next to a wide gash matted with her long dark hair. It had come out of its neat bun and slapped them in the face with strands that smelled of smoke and lavender with every gust of wind. He swallowed a lump in his throat. When he’d found her several yards from the twisted metal, unconscious and lying facedown, he’d feared her dead. He could safely say that was the worst moment of his life.