Much Ado About Highlanders (The Scottish Relic Trilogy) by May McGoldrick

Alexander answered. “You’re a brave lad. What’s your name?”
    “Jock.” He pushed the boat away from the shore and climbed in. He nodded at the brooch on Alexander’s kilt as he fitted the oars into the pins. “You’re a Macpherson. I’ve seen the crest on yer ships’ flags.”
    “Aye. And I can see you’re a smart one, at that.”
    Kenna searched the shoreline for any sign of anyone following them. None that she could see. A dense fog was rolling in from the northern hills out over the water. When she offered to take the oars and row, the boy bristled and then turned back to Alexander.
    “You’re too far south and with none of your people.”
    “True. But how about you? You are too young to be out on your own. Where’s your kin?”
    “Down the loch on the south shore. Knipoch. Before those accursed English came, my cousin and me fished up and down the bay. But one of them fen-sucking devils cut him down, day before yesterday.” He looked with loathing back toward the shore they’d left. “So I been watching them. Staying just ahead of ’em. Warning the crofters and the fishing folk when I know they’re coming close.”
    Kenna was relieved when the fog rolled in, enfolding them, shielding them from men or beast that might be lurking on the shores. The wound in Alexander’s side continued to bleed. She tore out a section of her shift and pressed the fabric against his wound. He pretended there was nothing amiss, continuing to talk to the boy.
    “How many have you seen?”
    “All told, more than twenty. That’s as much as I can count,” Jock explained without apology. “But they move in packs. Five or six, usual. Don’t know if there’s more inland.”
    “That was a Scot helping them.”
    The boy spat over the side. “Aye, devil take him. Word is a filthy Lowlander called Donald Maxwell leads ’em. Has other renegades fighting for him. But he has English gold, they say. It’s his people what’s doing the burning and killing, blast ’im.” He paused, glancing at Kenna. “And asking about a woman.”
    “What woman?” Kenna asked.
    “They’re offering English gold for the wife of Alexander Macpherson. A MacKay woman.” Jock looked at her. “They’re looking for you.”

    At the first bend of the road south of Oban, James found the MacDougalls waiting for them. Ten of them, all on horseback. Emily sat astride her horse in front. He’d been restless to leave, but he should have known that she wasn’t finished with their argument.
    The calm and compliant Emily MacDougall that he’d met at Alexander and Kenna’s wedding six months ago and again yesterday was gone. She was still beautiful to look at, pleasant to speak to, and there was an aloofness about her that kept James safely at arm’s length. Before, her spirit was subdued. Not the woman for him.
    Now, a day later, James didn’t know what to do with this hellfire. Actually, he knew exactly what to do.
    He spoke directly to Kester, the leader of the men sent to escort the laird’s daughter back.
    “If I’m not mistaken, you’re taking the wrong road.”
    “We’re coming with you,” Emily answered instead.
    He addressed the warrior. “You have orders from the laird. I suggest you escort Lady Emily directly to Craignock Castle.”
    Emily nudged her mare forward and positioned herself between James and Kester. “You will speak directly to me when your conversation involves me.”
    James studied her. The clear voice, direct look, the confidence. If there were a low-hanging tree in sight, he would have thought she’d struck her head once or twice, for she was even bolder than the woman he’d spoken to earlier at the inn. And if he thought she was beautiful before, Emily MacDougall was magnificent now. The protective shell was shattered. The real woman now sat before him.
    Fighting the urge to sweep her off her horse and drag her back to the inn, James looked off at the whitecaps checking the gray-green firth. The