Highlander Most Wanted (The Montgomerys and Armstrongs #2)(3)

“It looks like a bed linen,” he muttered.

“Aye,” Teague agreed.

“There are two of them!” Brodie exclaimed, pointing at the twin tower on the other side of the gate.

Sure enough, another linen was unfurled, catching the breeze and fluttering wildly from the wide window cut into the stone tower.

“They’re giving up without a fight?” Aiden asked in disbelief.

Bowen frowned. “Perhaps ’tis a trick.”

“If so, ’tis a stupid trick,” Brodie growled. “They’re vastly outnumbered, and even if the odds were even they would be no match for us. Even if they were able to take a few of us by surprise, they would be quickly annihilated.”

“There’s only one way to find out,” Teague said with a shrug.

He drew his sword and urged his horse forward.

Bowen dug his heels into his horse’s flanks and hurried to catch up to his brother.

Behind him, Brodie and Aiden let out a shout that was caught and echoed through the ranks of their men until the entire hillside roared with their battle cry.

When they were a short distance from the wide-open gate to the courtyard, a young lad stumbled outside the walls clutching a sword that was much too big for his small frame, and attached to the end was a crudely made white flag.

There was no need for him to wave it, because his hands shook so badly that the swatch of material flapped madly in the wind.

Bowen reined in his horse in disgust and stared in disbelief at the lad, who couldn’t have been more than six or seven years old.

“They send a child to confront an approaching army?” he roared.

Teague was without words as he stared, dumbfounded, at the sight before him. Aiden and Brodie looked to Bowen, shaking their heads the entire time.

“Cowards,” Brodie spat. “ ’Tis naught I despise more than a coward.”

“Please, do not harm us,” the child said, his teeth chattering as if he were in the dead of winter. “ ’Tis a flag of surrender we fly. We bear no arms against you.”

“Where is your laird?” Bowen coldly demanded.

“G-g-gone,” the lad stammered.

“Gone?” Aiden echoed.

The lad nodded vigorously. “Aye, this morning. My mum says he fled because he knew he was going to die for his sins.”

“Your mum was right,” Teague muttered.

Fear flashed in the lad’s eyes. “Many are gone. There aren’t so many of us left. We don’t want war and would pray that you are merciful in your dealings.”

He kept his gaze averted, his head bowed in a subservient manner, but Bowen could see the lad’s hands trembling and it angered him that this child would be sent into harm’s way.

“Ansel! Ansel!”

A woman’s voice rang strongly through the courtyard. It resonated with anger—and fear. And then a slight figure adorned in a cape that completely obscured her features from sight appeared through the gates.

She ran to the child and grasped his arm, quickly pulling him into the folds of her cape until he was hidden from view. Only his feet stuck out.

“Who sent you on this fool’s errand?” she demanded, looking down in the direction of the child’s head.

It was a question Bowen would very much have liked to know the answer to as well.

“Corwen,” the child said, his voice muffled by her cloak.

The only thing visible on the lass were her hands peeking from the long sleeves of the cape. Bowen studied them with interest as they gripped the child so tightly that they went white at the tips.

Young hands. Smooth. Nary a wrinkle in sight. The nails were elegantly fashioned and rounded at the tips, and the fingers were long and slender, pale, as if they hadn’t ever been kissed by the sun.

’Twas evident this was not one who worked in the fields. Or in the keep cleaning, either.

“Cowardly bastard,” she spat, startling all four of the men with her vehemence—and the base language. Not that any disagreed with her assessment.

“ ’Tis the lass who directed us to the dungeon where Eveline was being held,” Brodie said in a low enough voice not to be overheard.

The hairs at Bowen’s nape prickled and stood on end. Aye, ’twas so. When Graeme had despaired of uncovering his wife’s whereabouts, the shadowy, caped figure had appeared at the stairs and directed them below, where they’d indeed discovered where Eveline was being held prisoner.

“Is what the lad saying true?” Bowen directed at the lass. “Has Patrick McHugh fled, leaving his clan and his keep to fall as they may?”

The lass went still, her hands leaving the lad to curl into tight fists at her sides. If her body language was any indication, she was furious.

“Aye,” she said coldly. “All that is left are the women and children, those who are old and cannot travel, and the warriors who have wives and children they refused to leave. The others left at dawn.”

“And where are those who remained?” Brodie persisted.

“Inside the keep. Huddled in the great hall, wondering if each breath will be their last,” she said in a disdainful voice.

Something about the lass’s tone rubbed Brodie the wrong way, and it irritated him fully that she was hiding her face from him.

“Remove the hood, lass,” he ordered. “I’d know who it is I speak with.”