Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(8)

“Oh, my lady. Even in the midst of hell, you've the voice of an angel,” Alys said, tears glistening in her eyes. The fine lines around her eyes etched deeper.

Lizzie managed a small smile, having always found it ironic herself that the girl with the stammer had been gifted with song. While she was singing, her voice had always been miraculously free of fumbling.

She put her arm around Alys and they huddled together, listening and praying.

Lizzie had never been so terrified. It felt as if every nerve ending, every fiber of her being, were honed to a razor's edge on what was happening. Everything felt as if it were moving too quickly: her mind, her pulse, her breathing. But strangely, at this moment of extreme danger, she'd never felt more alive.

But for how long?

The handle to the door rattled, and she jumped. A menacing face appeared in the window, and her heart lurched forward, slamming into her chest, and then came to a complete stop.

Alys screamed. Lizzie wanted to, but though her mouth was open, the sound wouldn't come out. She couldn't breathe; all she could do was stare at the face in the glass. At the wild man. His hair was long and unkempt, his features hidden beneath the dirt and hair that covered his face. All except for his eyes. They were glaring at her with hatred. It was like looking into the face of a feral animal. A wolf. A beast.

For the first time, it occurred to her what these men might do to them if they were taken. The thought of him touching her … Bile rose at the back of her throat. She would slit her own throat first.

The door started to open. Lizzie grasped the handle from her side and pulled hard, finding an unexpected burst of strength as she engaged in a battle that she was sure to lose. “Help me!” she yelled to Alys.

But before Alys could move to do so, another shot rang out, and the man jerked and froze in a state of momentary suspension. His eyes went wide, then wider, right before his face smacked hard against the glass with a horrible thud. As the dead weight of his body pulled him down, his nose and mouth dragged against the glass, stretching his features into a hideous mask of death.

The muscles she'd been clenching released. Her breathing was hard and quick as air once again tried to get into her lungs. The immediate threat was past, but Lizzie knew it was far from over.

Her heart was still racing, but her mind was oddly clear, focused on one thing: keeping them alive.

That an attacker was able to get so close to them did not bode well for their guardsmen. She looked out the window again, trying not to think about the dead man lying right below them, and weighed their options. They had only two: Stay put or try to hide.

The carriage that had felt safe a few minutes ago now felt like a coffin waiting to be lowered into the ground. It was worth the risk. She turned to Alys. “We need to go.”

“But where?”

“We'll hide in the forest until it is over.”

Alys nodded, too shocked to argue. It was clear to both of them that even without deference to rank, Lizzie had taken charge.

“Are you ready?”

The older woman nodded dumbly.

Lizzie could tell that Alys was hanging on by a very thin thread—ready to slip into panic at any moment. “Stay close and follow me.” She paused. “And whatever you do, don't look.” Tears of understanding swam in Alys's eyes. “Promise me,” Lizzie said more forcefully, taking her shoulders and giving her a hard shake.

“I promise.”

“Good.” Taking a deep breath, she lowered the handle and pushed open the door. When it was wide enough, she poked her head out to get a look around. The acrid smell hit her first—of gunpowder and the unmistakable metallic scent of blood. It filled her nose and burned the back of her throat. She coughed, covering her mouth and nose with her hand against the urge to retch.

Though she wanted to follow her own advice to Alys, Lizzie knew she had to look.

She braced herself, but it wasn't enough to prepare her for the shock of what she saw. Dead men littered the forest floor, strewn in awkward positions. Bellies slit open. Holes torn in chests. Unseeing eyes. Blood. So much blood.

The horror would have paralyzed her if she'd allowed herself to look at their faces, for some were men she knew. Instead, she forced her eyes from the dead to the living. To the men still engaged in battle.

It was as she feared. The Campbells were outnumbered. The surprise attack had worked to immediately lessen her guardsmen's numbers, giving the MacGregors the advantage. She counted only a handful of Campbells and almost twice that many MacGregors, who were easily identified by their Highland clothing and barbaric appearance. Unlike the leather doublets and breeches worn by her cousin's men, the MacGregors wore leines and dirty, tattered plaids belted at the waist. Their hair and beards were long and unkempt. Only a few wore the added protection of a cotun, and none had armor. They were armed with pikes, swords, and bows, and she even saw an old ax, but they carried no guns. Not that it would help her cousin's men. Though they were well armed, when the battle drew close their guns had become virtually useless against the great Highland claidheamhmór.

The clang of steel on steel rang in her ears. She was just about to turn away when she stilled, catching sight of Alys's Donnan. He was holding off a particularly large MacGregor, but it was clear that he was overmatched. The MacGregor warrior didn't let up but kept striking and striking, wielding his sword with vicious brute strength, if not finesse.