Page 421 of Wicked Highland Heroes

Bran poured the allium on Iain’s eyelid. Iain packed it down, halting the flow of blood almost immediately. Another instant, and he blinked the swollen eye.

“Where are we to meet Thomas?”

“A cottage on the east side of the village. You are on the outskirts of the village. Strange,” Bran said, “you would think they would keep you under closer guard.”

“Arrogance,” Iain replied. He peered cautiously out the door and found the lane their cottage occupied deserted. “We had best get there.”

Iain reached for his axe as Bran unsheathed his sword, and together they stepped outside. They hurried across the open lane and stopped at the cottage Iain had seen the men hurrying past earlier.

He cocked his head, listening. “There is fighting in the center of the village.”

He paused at the corner of the building and peered around the edge. A Robertson warrior lay dead between the cottage they hid behind and the one opposite it. Another man’s legs stuck out from the back of the far cottage. Iain pushed away from the wall and strode past the dead man. Bran glanced at the man and frowned.

“I am sorry,” Iain said.

“No need,” Bran said.

“You knew him?”

“Enough to know I did not like him.”

They reached the back of the cottages. Iain halted, leaned against the wall, and slowly looked around the corner. Men fought some distance down the lane.

“Bran,” Iain pushed away from the building and glanced over his shoulder at the boy, “come—” the words died at the sight of a Robertson warrior behind Bran, sword lifted.

“Bran!” Iain grabbed Bran’s arm, yanking him clear.

Iain lunged forward and swung his axe, slicing a furrow across the warrior’s midsection. Blood spilled from his gut. The man faltered, but continued the descent of his sword toward Iain. Iain swung again, his axe opening the man’s chest. Cool air met the warmth of his innards and steam rolled in large gusts from the warrior’s body. He fell onto his face, showering spurts of blood onto Iain and Bran’s boots. “Thank you,” Bran said as another Robertson flew around the corner. He bumped into Bran, bouncing off his large body. “Rory,” Bran growled. “I never liked you either.” Bran lunged, thrusting his sword through Rory’s belly. The man fell to his knees.

“Christ,” Iain said. “I pray you never have reason to dislike me.”

Bran gave a vicious kick below Rory’s jaw, sending him flying onto his back. Bran jumped forward and plunged his sword through the man’s heart.

Iain caught the look of bloodlust in Bran’s eyes as the boy leapt over Rory’s body and started at a run

toward the sounds of fighting. The shackle’s chain jangled as he followed.