Gather the Stars

  "Leave me! Gavin, get away!"

  He only leaned low over Manslayer's side, one arm hooked out to catch her by the waist. His heart thundered with the certain knowledge that if he failed in this attempt, it would be too late for both of them. Dunstan would reach them, his soldiers twenty-some lengths behind.

  His arm slammed into Rachel's waist, the muscles screaming in pain from the beating Wells had dealt him. Still, Gavin strained with every ounce of will he possessed to pull Rachel up in front of him.

  Her skirts billowed, setting Manslayer rearing and plunging, but Gavin held on. It seemed as if it had taken forever, but suddenly her shoulder knocked against Gavin's chest, her buttocks jammed against his spread thighs. A soft whistle from Gavin sent the horse thundering once again down the road as Rachel struggled to settle herself, skirts and all.

  Blast, Gavin thought grimly. With Rachel in his arms he was crippled, unable to raise so much as a sword in her defense. If Wells caught up, they'd both be slaughtered.

  Another volley of pistol fire rang out, all but obliterating her breathless sob. "You should have... left me!"

  "Not for all the world," Gavin said, driving the beast to its limits. Manslayer's hooves struck the rocky ribbon of a twisting path that wound up the hill, the final ascent to the bridge. In the moonlight, Gavin could see the weather-beaten structure ahead—thick wooden braces strung across a steep, stone-studded drop-off that would break even the most accomplished horseman's neck should he dare attempt to plunge down it.

  The bridge was bathed with silver light thirty horse lengths away, trees stripped back far enough to give the moonshine sway. But what Gavin saw there filled him with stark foreboding. Three figures stopped their laboring at the far side of the bridge, staring at the procession racing up the rise. They were men, Gavin could see that much, one with his face swathed in dark cloth, another thin as a reed stalk, and the third hauling what looked like a keg on bearlike shoulders. They gaped at him for a moment, then scrambled wildly to whatever task they were about.

  Were they Sir Dunstan's men, making some kind of repairs on the bridge? Gavin wondered, his stomach twisting. If they were, he and Rachel were doomed. Even so, there was no turning back now. The road behind them was blocked by troops, and God knew how far they'd have to ride to find another crossing. Wells would overtake them long before they could search one out.

  Gavin clutched Rachel tighter and rode toward the bridge, hearing the ominous thud of the hooves of Sir Dunstan's mount behind them, closer, closer. From the corner of his eye, Gavin could glimpse the thin, evil blue of the knight's blade against the night.

  Helplessness and fury poured through Gavin, the knowledge that he couldn't lift a hand in Rachel's defense driving him mad. Images of her hurt, dead, at the mercy of Wells filled his head, the most hideous torture he could ever endure. Still, better to die quickly by bullet or sword thrust than to endure the hell of execution before a jeering crowd.

  Manslayer's hooves slammed into the wood of the bridge, a hollow sound echoing through the darkness. But at that instant, moonlight spilled onto the face of one of the men working so feverishly on the far side of the bridge.

  "Adam?" Gavin said the name in disbelief. As if things weren't bad enough! "Run, damn you!" he bellowed, his warning half lost as Sir Dunstan's horse thundered onto the bridge, his own troops twenty-odd lengths behind. "Half the army's behind us."

  But no one raced for the horses. The masked figure raised a flaming brand, Adam shoving something bulky beneath the bridge's support posts. What the devil?

  "Hurry, Gav!" Adam bellowed. "Ride, blast you!" The orange flame flared beneath Manslayer's hooves as the stallion plunged off the wooden bridge, Adam and the other two men running toward an outcropping of stone, diving behind it.

  Gavin glimpsed the white smear of Sir Dunstan's horse to his left, surging forward, Wells's saber slashing in a murderous arc.

  At that moment, the world shattered, a deafening explosion reverberating through the night. Red, gold, and crimson, shards of the bridge hurtled through the air, that frozen instant seeming to stretch on and on. Horses neighed in terror as the soldiers were trapped on the far side of the chasm. Manslayer plunged wildly away from the flames. Rachel screamed, torn from Gavin's arms, as he was flung from the beast. They crashed to the ground in a rain of flaming splinters that seared Gavin's skin.

  Sweet Jesus—they'd blown up the damned bridge! The realization streaked through Gavin as he instinctively dove for Rachel.

  "Rachel!" he called out, struggling to reach her, to roll her beneath him to shelter her from the falling debris. He froze midway, his gaze locking on his enemy. Wells had managed to stay on his horse. The knight was rounding on them, his naked sword gleaming, poised, death blazing in his eyes.

  Gavin shoved himself to his feet, his sword hissing as he pulled it from the scabbard. He barely flung it up in time to block the slash of Sir Dunstan's as the knight thundered down on him.

  One of the other men grabbed Rachel. Adam attempted to jump into the fray, his hand gripping his sword.

  "No, Adam!" Gavin roared as Sir Dunstan wheeled again to make another pass. "He's mine."

  Feet braced apart, every muscle in his body tense, ready, Gavin stood frozen as Dunstan charged toward him, hoofbeats echoes of countless battles, the thunder of Gavin's self-doubts pounding in his head. Wells let out the battle cry Gavin had heard in his own worst nightmares, his face brutal, thirsting for the kill.

  For the first time in his life, Gavin tore open the bars that caged the beast inside him and let it rage, savage, feral, at the man who had dared torture his brother and threaten the woman he loved.

  Wells swung his sword again, but Gavin ducked beneath the flash of steel, then dove for Wells's arm, capturing it in a viselike grip.

  Wells struggled for balance, swearing, fighting to remain mounted as the horse dragged Gavin alongside it, but Gavin gave a mighty pull, and Wells plunged from the saddle, crashing to the ground.

  The sword flew from the knight's hand, landing three arm lengths away. Gavin's hand ached with the need to drive his own blade into Dunstan's chest, to end it. Instead, he stalked over to where Wells's sword lay as the knight struggled to stand. Sir Dunstan glared at Gavin.

  "Traitor. Coward! You don't dare to fight me."

  "You're much mistaken. I dare. In fact, I welcome the chance." Gavin grasped the hilt of Wells's sword, then flung it at the man's feet. "I've been looking forward to this for a long time. You and I have met before, Wells."

  Wells eyed him suspiciously, then snatched up the weapon. "Where?"

  "Prestonpans." Gavin raised his sword, ready, waiting. "Adam, whatever happens, stay back."

  "Gav, for Christ's sake—" Adam started to protest.

  "No. Not for Christ's sake. For Willie's."

  "Prepare to die, coward," Wells spat. "I'll kill you for what you've done. Traitor to your country. And her, you turned her into a Jacobite harlot as well, didn't you? Rachel, if your father were alive, he'd spit on you! As I do! But you'll not have your coward lover for long."

  He charged Gavin like a demon, slashing with the practiced savagery of a master swordsman, his eyes burning with contempt. Gavin parried thrust after thrust, the impact jarring his bruised body, his muscles afire with the effort it cost him to withstand Wells's onslaught. What Gavin lacked in skill, he made up for in passion, channeling into each blow the fury of every nightmare, the horror from every battlefield, the rage he'd felt as he'd been helpless against the evil Wells had set loose upon the Highlands.

  Blade clashed with blade; swords bit into the night, seeking blood. Exhaustion permeated Gavin's muscles, his bruises screaming in agony as he struggled to fight. But as skilled as Wells was, his contempt made him careless, so he underestimated Gavin time and again. Gavin's swordtip bit the knight's thigh, slashed a stroke across his breastbone.

  Twice, Sir Dunstan almost slipped past Gavin's own guard to pierce flesh, but Gavin dove out of the wa
y, using instincts so hard won in battle. Death hovered between them like a dark angel, waiting to claim one of them as its prize.

  "You think... that you can save Rachel from what she's done?" Wells demanded, his lips drawn back over his teeth. "I'll kill you, and then she'll have nothing, no one between her and a traitor's death. Any... man in the king's uniform... will hunt her down... traitor whore..."

  Bile rose in Gavin's throat at the knowledge that Wells was right. Rachel's only hope was escape from Scotland, fleeing England. If he died, she'd be flung into a world of which she had no knowledge, life as a fugitive in some unknown land—life in some rugged colony with no one to defend her.

  No. Adam would take care of her for his sake. Adam would guard her.

  Gavin leapt backward, evading Sir Dunstan's thrust, but his heel tangled in a pile of shattered wood from the bridge. He stumbled, crashed back, pain shooting through his arm as a jagged lance of wood pierced the sleeve of his shirt and jabbed the flesh beneath.

  Wells closed for the kill, diving with his sword aimed at Gavin's heart. But at the last instant, Gavin rolled aside, Wells's sword biting deep into the wood. Sir Dunstan yanked it free, then wheeled, but Gavin was ready for him. He lashed out, the point of his sword catching the quillion that curved about Dunstan's hand. Both palms closing hard on the hilt of his sword, Gavin yanked with all his strength, sending the weapon flying from Dunstan's hand. It tore free to the sound of Sir Dunstan's furious roar, arcing, silver-blue against the darkness. Gavin glimpsed it, flipping end over end, disappearing down into the dark ravine. The sword broke on the rocks, the sound like the crack of splintering bones.

  Gavin heard the soldiers on the far side of the chasm roar in defeat, knew that they dared not fire, lest they be the ones to deal Sir Dunstan death.

  Gavin held their commander at the point of his sword at last. Here was the sadistic animal who had caused so much destruction, so much pain, the enemy he'd fought for so long. Hate surged and pulsed, poisoning every fiber of Gavin's soul. It stirred the ashes of his memories until they flared in bright, searing tongues: Willie dying in his arms, the village that had burned, the destruction of Lochavrea, from which he'd plucked a handful of children—the only ones who had survived.

  Sir Dunstan had been the source of all that agony. And God knew how much more.

  Gavin's arm trembled, his fingers gripping the hilt of his sword so hard spears of pain shot into his shoulder.

  "You should die," he said between clenched teeth. "You deserve to die for what you did—to Willie, to so many others."

  Across the void, the soldiers went silent, watching as if mesmerized, and Gavin could feel Adam's and Rachel's eyes on him. He expected Wells to snarl out defiance, but suddenly, the knight who had struck terror in the hearts of the Highlanders since Culloden Moor was stark white, trembling. His eyes fixed on the point of Gavin's sword.

  Wells's throat worked, and Gavin could hear a low croak. "Don't."

  "What?" Gavin demanded, brows lowering.

  "Don't... kill me," Dunstan said. "I don't want to... die."

  Pleading? From Wells? Gavin reeled, staring down into that pale face, stripped of its savagery, its pride, its arrogance. The warmonger, the commander who had cast hundreds to their deaths, was trembling. The man who had presided over the destruction of countless villages, who had trapped the wounded who had surrendered to him in wooden buildings and burned them alive, now stood at Gavin's mercy, sweat beading his face.

  "Kill him, Gav," Adam urged. "He deserves it after what he's done."

  Gavin's jaw worked. How many times had he imagined this? Wells at his mercy, Wells begging for his life the way Willie had before a pistol blast obliterated his face.

  "Do you remember the last time I fought you?" Gavin asked softly. "It was at Prestonpans. There was a boy there, a drummer boy named Willie Burke, an unarmed boy."

  "I can't remember. It was a battle. How can you expect me to remember one boy?"

  "He was begging for mercy. So scared. But you didn't give a damn. You rode down on him as if he were the very heart of the battle."

  "Damn it, I don't remember! It was the thick of battle."

  "I'm sure you wouldn't remember Willie. But you might remember me from the scars on your left shoulder."

  Gavin saw Dunstan scouring his mind for memories; he saw the dawning of awareness. "What was it you used against me? No sword, no pistol."

  "I grabbed up a slane, a tool some Scots crofter had left behind when he fled in the face of the oncoming battle."

  "You fought me with that thing, that—that shovel, until I knocked it from your hands, and then... you threw yourself over the boy, didn't you? When I made a second pass. I remember charging down on you, pistol one hand, sword in the other—"

  Gavin heard Rachel gasp. "The scars. Of course they weren't from running away. Oh, Gavin, they were from attempting to shield someone else."

  "I had run, Rachel. Hid. Until I saw this monster charging down on that helpless boy."

  Gavin's mind seethed with the images, Willie, so terrified, Sir Dunstan glorying in the kill, merciless, relentless, the pistol shot exploding. Was there any punishment on earth brutal enough for what this man had done?

  Gavin's gaze held Sir Dunstan's long moments, then suddenly inspiration swept through him, sweet, sweet poison. His voice dropped, silky soft. "Get down on your knees."

  "My—my what?"

  "On your knees," Gavin said. "I want your men to see you for what you are. See that you're a coward when you don't have an entire regiment to bloody themselves for you, while you yell battle cries and send them to their deaths."

  Dunstan sent a wild glance to where the soldiers milled on the far side of the chasm, and Gavin knew the knight could feel each one of their gazes upon him. "I can't—don't make me— The ship—I'll still have the ship captured! Even now, my men are set to ambush—"

  "They're waiting in an empty inlet, Wells," Gavin said. "The ship was never landing there."

  Gavin heard Rachel's gasp at the revelation.

  "On your knees, Wells, or I drive this blade home," Gavin said between gritted teeth.

  "Damn it, Gav," Adam snapped, "there's no time for this—we've got to catch up with the others."

  But Gavin ignored him, locked in a battle of wills with the man before him. "What is it to be, Sir Dunstan? Cowardice or death?"

  Wells stared at him a moment more, pride warring with despair, hatred warring with fear of death. Gavin knew that if he'd done the deeds Wells had done, he, too, would be shaking at the thought of plunging into the arms of eternity.

  Then, slowly, Sir Dunstan Wells sank down onto his knees.

  An eerie hush fell. The soldiers, Rachel, Adam and the other men, even the horses were still.

  "Are you going to kill me?" Wells said, his voice quavering.

  "No." Gavin stared down at his nemesis, and his mouth tipped in a grim smile. "I condemn you to live. Honor, stripped away, can never be returned, Wells. You'll be stripped of your rank, shoved to some obscure outpost where your presence can't embarrass your commanders. Everywhere you go, the stench of cowardice will follow you. I've lived with the loss of honor. No one forgets. No one ever forgets."

  Gavin turned his back on Dunstan Wells and walked to where Rachel stood, her eyes filled with tears. And as she gazed at him, he saw a hero reflected in her eyes. "Oh, Gavin..."

  "Gav! Watch out!" Adam's cry made Gavin grab Rachel, fling her down just as a shot split the air. He rolled over, then turned to see Sir Dunstan Wells, knighted for bravery, scourge of Culloden Moor, holding a smoking pistol in his hand.

  Adam brought his own weapon to bear. "I'll kill you, you son of a bitch!"

  "No!" Gavin grasped the pistol barrel, pushed it down. He didn't say a word, just pointed across the chasm where Dunstan's troops stood, silent.

  Gavin could feel the revulsion shuddering through them, the cold, sudden shame.

  They had just watched their commander att
empt to shoot a man in the back, a man who had offered mercy when Dunstan Wells was at the point of his sword. Dunstan Wells had struck himself a death blow far more devastating than Gavin could have.

  The knight scrambled backward, shouting at his troops across the chasm. "Shoot them! Fire!"

  Gavin grabbed Rachel's hand, started to bolt toward where the unknown man stood, holding the reins of three horses. But he'd barely taken three steps before the first shot rang out.

  "Gav, look." Adam stood, in full line of fire, staring back across the silvery length of the chasm. Gavin hesitated, glancing over his shoulder at Adam's bidding. What he saw made him stop and turn to face the sea of soldiers across the looming divide. One by one, the soldiers were firing their weapons, not at Gavin, but at the untouchable rim of the moon.

  It was a tribute—one that made Gavin's chest ache.

  They were his enemies, men who had been whipped into a ravening frenzy under the lash of Wells's hate. He could only pray that after what they had just witnessed, their thirst for blood would wane. Was it possible to already see that inner sickness fading? That sense of reason returning after madness? Was it possible that these fighting men would spend the rest of forever regretting what they had done? If they did, it was possible that the madness would end.

  But Gavin knew with a sinking in his heart that he wouldn't be there to see it. There would be no more wild rides over the Scottish moors, no more bold schemes, no more children plucked from the flames by the Glen Lyon.

  Gavin mounted his stallion as the Glen Lyon for the last time and lifted Rachel into his arms. Only one challenge remained. Could they reach the coast, the final ship that was to sail, before it was too late? Could they capture one last chance at freedom?

  A hundred more soldiers, as thirsty as Wells for the Glen Lyon's blood, still waited in the darkness, hunting...

  The Glen Lyon turned his back on the ruin that was Dunstan Wells, and spurred his horse into the night.

  CHAPTER 20

  They had ridden without stopping, a wild race with the sun, keeping to the labyrinth of twisted paths that Glen Lyon's band had used to escape the hunting soldiers a thousand times before.