Pride of the Clan by Anna Markland

had to watch, had to be sure Rheade was victorious, despite the turmoil in her belly.
    One of Logan’s friends was pulled from his horse as the two sides came together. He dropped his broadsword, but managed to unsheathe his dagger. He and his assailant struggled beneath the flailing hooves. Logan jumped from his horse and went to his aid, running Stewart’s man through with his sword.
    Margaret gasped when Rheade was finally able to urge Dubh past the remaining opponents. He reached the Earl, ducked when Atholl swung his sword, and kicked him off his pony. The auld man fell heavily, and lay still for a moment. When he got to his feet, he clutched his elbow and fell back to his knees, his fur cape askew. His injured arm held only the hilt of his broken sword.
    Logan and his comrades had overwhelmed the others who lay motionless. They encircled the Earl, swords pointed at their quarry. He bowed his head in surrender. Robert Stewart took advantage of his grandfather’s capture to attempt an escape. He fled at a gallop towards the mountains, sword in hand.
    “Coward,” Margaret shrieked.
    Rheade went in pursuit. She gripped the stone ledge, urging him on as Dubh closed the gap. Her throat constricted. Her heart was beating too fast. What if Stewart killed Rheade? She’d track him down and tear him limb from limb. The vehemence of the hatred coursing in her veins shocked her to the core.
    Her lungs stopped working and she feared her trembling knees would buckle when Dubh drew level with Robert’s pony and Rheade leapt at the traitor. The sword went flying. They tumbled to the ground, two men locked in mortal combat, too far away to see who held the advantage.
    The fist fight seemed to go on and on, but suddenly they stilled. Margaret didn’t breathe again until one man came to his feet. She exhaled and laughed out loud, almost choking as a result. It was Rheade.
    He hauled Robert up. The fool swayed, seemingly having difficulty staying upright. Coughing had made Margaret’s eyes water. She wiped away the tears with the back of her trembling hand, suddenly realizing her fingers were torn and bloodied by the shattered glass.

PRISONERS DELIVERED

    Rheade was a warrior. He’d fought in many a skirmish to protect what was near and dear to his clan and his country. But the desire to kill had never seized him as it did now. Aye, he thirsted to plunge his dagger into Robert Stewart’s heart, not only for the king’s murder, but for the suffering he’d brought to Margaret’s door.
    He gulped air, his lungs on fire. Pain arrowed through his fingers and he wondered if he’d broken a bone or two lacing into his quarry. Bees buzzed in his head. He swatted them away with one hand until it came to him it was anger fogging his wits.  
    And mayhap relief…and elation . Tannoch itched to be the one to capture the Stewarts. His brother would be furious. Rheade chuckled as he hauled Robert to his feet.
    “What’s amusing?” his prisoner rasped, his face bloodied and bruised, his nose badly broken.
    “Ye are a fool,” Rheade replied, pulling his opponent’s dagger from its sheathe and flinging it with all his remaining strength.  
    “The tyrant had to die,” Stewart murmured.
    Rheade was struck by the half heartedness of the assassin’s claim. He pitied this man who’d likely been influenced as much by his grandfather as by his own convictions. A poor husband for Margaret. “I’m nay talking about that,” he growled. “Ye’ve implicated an innocent young woman in yer plot.”
    Robert stared at him, trying to staunch the blood dripping from his nose with the back of his filthy hand. “I’d forgotten Margaret. What in God’s name is she doing here?”
    Debating morals with Stewart was a waste of time. Rheade mounted Dubh. “March,” he commanded, making sure Robert felt the heat of his stallion’s breath on the back of his neck as he limped back to the castle.
    They hadn’t gone far when he noticed the