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with the single-handed sabre designed to use either the razor edge or the point. And it was the point that Sir William chose, just because it was… well, pointing in the man’s stomach. But just for good measure, he pulled it out with a sideways cut, opening up the man like a side of beef.

  The Campbell looked down, but died before his mind registered the horror of his intestines spilling out over his kilt.

  Sir William stepped over the dead man and strode to where Calum was facing seven Campbells, but still smiling. To hell with chivalry. He rammed his sabre into the kidney of the nearest man, raised his foot, and pushed his body off the blade.

  For a whole second, the rest of them were stunned by the sudden appearance of the Englishman. In that second, Calum put his sword through one man’s sternum, flicked it out, and opened the throat of the man next to him, while the general brought his sabre up and over in a lightning-fast short arc that took off a man’s arm below the elbow and had him screaming and spraying blood.

  One of the last three remaining attackers fancied himself as a swordsman, and had proved it several times against drunks and farmers. He held his broadsword out in front of his waist, the tip moving in small circles to distract Calum.

  The general took a step towards the other attackers, but they suddenly turned and fled. Proving them to be the brightest of the bunch.

  “I’m going to stick you like a pig, Maclean,” the swordsman said, still waving his blade around. “Then I’m going to cook your heart and—”

  Calum’s wrist snapped out, and the tip of his sword flickered in the morning sunlight. Without a backward glance, he turned and strolled over to where John and James Campbell were facing off.

  Sir William frowned and almost called out a warning, but then saw the blood flowing from beneath the swordsman’s kilt like a spilled jug of red wine. If that was not enough, the look of absolute horror on the man’s face did the trick. The general chuckled.

  “I’ve never seen that move before,” he said as he watched the man’s broadsword sink to the ground. “Takes balls, though.” He laughed loudly.

  He left the man to bleed out and walked over to where Calum was waiting for James Campbell to break John in half. “The Campbell’s a big man,” he said quietly.

  “Aye, he is that,” said Calum, crouching and wiping his sword on a dead man’s kilt.

  “Are you going to help him?”

  Calum stood up and sheathed his sword. “Who?”

  Sir William pointed at John.

  “Oh,” said Calum, “I thought you meant Campbell.” He saw the general frown. “He’s the one who needs help.”

  Sir William looked at the two men standing three feet apart and glanced quickly at Calum. James Campbell was at least three inches taller than John and had a longer reach by at least that much. He decided to stay out of it until John was down, then kill the ambusher.

  James Campbell threw a looping right hand that had felled many a good man in the past, and there was no reason to expect anything different now. Except his fist crashed into John’s open hand and stopped.

  John smiled at him. And crushed the fist as if it was a dried twig. The man screamed like a girl and fell to his knees. John grinned at his friend and then raised his boot and pushed the fallen man away.

  “Always the same with the big uns,” he said, turning and still smiling. “They think strength is all—”

  Calum casually pointed, and John turned in time to catch a left to the cheek. It staggered him, but he stayed on his feet. Just.

  “You talk too much, John. You know that?” Calum said.

  James lowered his head and charged forward, intending to—to do something stupid. It didn’t happen. John simply stepped out of the way and let him charge right on by. He raised his hands questioningly, but Calum just shrugged.

  James Campbell circled slowly, starting to learn that this Mackintosh wasn’t going to break in half as easily as he’d expected. His right hand was recovering a little from the crushing, and he threw it as a feint so that he could deliver monster left hook to the jaw.

  John should have blocked the feint, leaned back, ducked, or at least done something defensive. Instead, he kicked the man in the kneecap. Not sporting, but massively effective. Campbell staggered forward as his leg gave up trying to support him, and fell onto his hands and knees, then rolled onto his back and hugged his leg.

  Sir Williams sighed heavily and shook his head, then turned to Calum and put out his white-gloved hand. “I owe you my life, sir.” He nodded once. “I am in your debt.”

  Calum looked at the glove, glanced at John and winked, then shook the general’s hand. “I’ll not stand by and watch a man murdered in cold blood.”

  “Even an Englishman?”

  Calum shrugged. “I have no argument with the English.”

  Sir William nodded. “Will you tell me the name of the man who saved my life?”

  “Aye,” said Calum, throwing another look at John, who was shaking his head urgently. “I am Calum Maclean of the Clan Chattan.” He paused for a moment. “And I tell you who I am because these men—” He pointed at the bodies littering the clearing “—pretend to be Chattan but are Campbells.”

  The general’s eyebrows rose in surprise. “I believe the Clan Chattan fights for the Pretender.”

  Calum watched him for a long moment. “Aye, the clan fights for the… Pretender.” He met the general’s steady look. “I fight for no man.”

  “Unless he has gold coin,” said John with a grin.

  “Aye, that’s true enough,” said Calum. “And we call Charles Stuart the Bonnie Prince.”

  Sir Williams smiled. “Yes, I’m sure you do.”

  James Campbell groaned, and John remembered he was there and bent and lifted him to his feet with one hand. “What do you want to do with this one?” he asked Calum. “Shall I stick him?”

  Calum stepped up close and looked the man in the eyes. “Maybe.” He let him think about it for a moment. “Unless he tells us who sent him to take this Englishman.”

  Campbell glared at him, but it wasn’t convincing. “I am nay afraid of a Maclean.” He shifted his glare to John, but couldn’t hold it. “Nor a Mackintosh.”

  And that was a lie.

  “Do you want this man, General?” Calum asked.

  Sir William shook his head and strode away.

  “Then kill him, John.” Calum walked away with the general.

  Campbell struggled, but he was caught like a rabbit in John’s powerful grip. John drew his dirk and examined the point to ensure it was good and sharp.

  “Wait! Wait!” Campbell shouted.

  Calum and Sir William exchanged a look, smiled and turned, and waited.

  “If I tell you, will you let me go?”

  As if Calum would say no, even if it was so. Not much of a bargaining opener. He thought about it for a moment. “You’re nothing to me. You can go.”

  He nodded at John, who released his grip and let the man stagger and catch his balance. Fear and a boot to the knee can severely interfere with a man’s equilibrium.

  “Do you know who this man is?” Campbell said, pointing at the general. “This is Sir William Richmond.”

  Which meant pretty much nothing to Calum, and it showed.

  “He is one of the richest men in England,” Campbell continued. “And we—”

  A musket fired from the cover of the trees, the lead ball narrowly missing the general, who brushed his arm and tutted. “They do seem determined to ruin my best tunic.”

  “I think that this Campbell would be sorry for that, General,” said Calum. “If he wasn’t dead.”

  The general looked back from scouring the shadows to the body crumpled on the ground. “Someone will be sorry for being such a poor shot.”

  “I think you will find the shooter hit what he was aiming at,” said Calum.

  Sir William looked at the trees and nodded slowly. “I believe you are correct. He would have told us why someone is keen to see me dea
d.”

  “If they’d wanted you dead, General,” said Calum, “you’d be dead.” He pointed at the bodies of the guards. “It’s not likely they missed you by accident.”

  Sir William nodded. “Yes, I thought that too. Then it was for a ransom.”

  Calum shrugged. “Perhaps.” He doubted that. There was more to this than greed. “We’ll never know now.”

  Sir William started to turn, then stopped. “I am free to go, am I not?”

  Calum pointed his sword at the bodies. “I think the Campbells will be back and with more of their clan, don’t you?”

  Sir William walked quickly to his horse and swung up into the saddle.

  “Just one small point, General,” said Calum.

  Sir William stopped and looked back over his shoulder.

  “The Campbells are on your side, are they not?” He followed John out of the clearing, chuckling.

 

 

  It was late afternoon and August, but the candles were lit, and there was a roaring fire in the hearth at the end of the long hall. Colonel York was heartily sick of this damp, cold country and spent many miserable hours thinking of home in London.

  Dragoon Colonel Richard York was barely in his twenties, had smooth-faced schoolboy features, hard hazel eyes, and the permanent sneering look of superiority bred into him at the finest schools money could buy. He could trace his family right to the throne of King George, not that it did him any good. A mere colonel is all that he’d been given by his grandfather. A colonel. His cousin was already a major-general. And he was at court, or in France, or anywhere other than this god-forsaken place. But that would change. That would surely change. And