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“Whip her, Lord!”

“Whip her for whoredom!”

“Kill her!”

“Get her off of the island!”

The cries made Jenny dizzy. All that hatred, all that rejection. She’d never felt anything like this in her life—not this humiliation, not this judgment. And so unfairly. She was just trying to help. Part of her wanted to give up, do anything to get away from here.

She was in hell.

She turned to Bhatair, who eyed her with furious contempt. “Is she running a fever again?” Jenny asked. “Just let me look at her. I promise you, I know what I’m doing. If she develops pneumonia, she’ll need antibiotics…”

Bhatair’s nostrils flared. “Ye’ve done enough, whore. Laird, do something. Listen to yer people. Ye canna let her go around lying and promising people empty cures when she canna truly do anything.”

Jenny glanced at Aulay. She should have gotten on his good side by now. She should have made him like her…believe her…help her. Aulay’s dark eyes were on her. There was a glimmer in that darkness that she didn’t understand. His jaw muscles worked, but he didn’t say anything. Then when the uproar reached the next level, he turned to his people and raised his hands to the sides.

He opened his mouth to say something, but a horn sounded from the wall.

“Attack!” cried a voice that brought a chill to Jenny’s bones.

CHAPTER 10

“To the walls!” Aulay yelled as he ran down towards the gates. “Close the gates!”

Who was attacking? What was happening? His blood was still pumping hard from the maddening kiss that Jennifer and he had shared, then by the danger she seemed to be putting herself into.

And now this.

Following his men, he climbed the stone stairs leading to the wall gallery. They should have trained harder. They should have made the repairs to the birlinns that still needed them.

It was too late.

The English? The Irish that had found the English treasure ship before them? Another Lowland clan siding with the enemy?

Who was it?

When he stood on top of the curtain wall, his heart dropped.

The sea was calm and empty, no one headed down to the secluded Lagavulin Bay. The ships floated peacefully. But in the village below, people ran towards their houses.

And then he saw it.

From the woods behind the village, a band of men charged towards them. Swords and axes were drawn, shields at the ready. And they were well armored: chain mail coifs, helmets, breastplates, and boiled leather. Not léintean-cròich—thick, quilted coats—like most of Highlanders had. The English. The unmistakable yellow surcoat with three red lions flashed between the gray rock of the houses.

Must be about five dozen of them. He muttered an oath and looked around. Colum and Seoras were there, so was Beathan.

“Archers, ready!” he commanded, and twenty archers pulled the strings of their bows. They had time to shoot at the enemy while they were still running towards the village through the open field. “Shoot!”

A swarm of arrows flew into the air with a swoosh. Some of the enemy fell, but most kept running. “Ready! Shoot!” he roared.

They repeated the shooting until the enemy was too close to the village.

“Swordsmen!” He turned around and unsheathed his claymore and stabbed the air with it. “Down to the village!”

The men down below in the bailey waited. Every MacDonald warrior knew when that horn sounded, they had to be ready to fight. As Aulay hurried down the stone stairs, he scanned the inner bailey. Jennifer stood a wee bit away, her face worried. He felt his expression harden. She could try to get away in the chaos and get herself in danger.

“Beathan,” he said over his shoulder, “go and lock her in my bedchamber, then return to the battle, aye?”