Chapter 1
His side and the back of his head throbbed with pain and the sound of flowing water filled Niall MacNeill's ears. Where in God's wounds was he and what had happened to him? He opened his eyes to low morning light—made grayer by a thick mist. His mind, cloaked in a hazy fuzz, finally cleared enough for him to realize he was on his belly beside a river. He groaned, his head pounding, and he recalled the Murray clansman striking the blow that had knocked him out.
But Niall wondered where in the world he was.
He stared at the river, his thoughts so groggy, he couldn't think straight. The… the Scottish Lowlands. He must have been left for dead.
The back of his head and his side burned.
Gunnolf.
He twisted too quickly to see if his Viking friend, raised as a brother, was nearby. Pain jabbed Niall where he'd been injured—a glancing sword wound in his side, and his head felt like it would split open if he moved again. He moaned a curse.
"Gunnolf," he called out low, trying not to call attention to himself if any of the Murray clansmen were still about.
Gurgling water slipped over the stones near his head, the rushing sound of the river in the deeper part, but he heard no voices. No sounds of human movement. Just the river's flow and birds twittering in a nearby tree.
He prayed Gunnolf was well and not worse off than Niall was. Or worse… dead.
His head throbbed with a perpetual dull ache now. Reaching up, Niall felt the back of his skull. A sticky wetness covered his fingers. Blood. His blood. His thoughts jumbled, he could barely remember how he came to be here.
Ambushed! The brigands had struck right after he and Gunnolf had washed in the river, dressed in fresh clothes, and intended to sleep the night. The Clan Murray, he thought coldly, after they'd run into them earlier in the day and asked one of the men if he knew anything about a Frenchwoman living in the region.
Another ragged jab of pain radiated through the wound in his side, and he reached out to scoop up some water in his hands and splashed it on his face, the cold river jarring him from his stupor. Devil take the bastard who’d cut him and struck such a blow to his skull that the man had knocked him out. The man most likely believed him dead.
But where was Gunnolf? Niall had to find him as soon as he was able.
He thought he heard the bleating of sheep off in the distance in the glen and roused himself to a sitting position. Pain in his skull and side stabbed him so sharply, he fought drifting into a cave of blackness again. The groan he heard, he belatedly realized, was his own. Somehow, he managed to conquer the dizziness and focus again on his surroundings.
Woods, green hills, jagged gray stone topping taller mountains in the distance, and the blue river behind him filled his view.
Sheep meant a sheepherder would be nearby, and he could seek his help. As long as the man wasn’t one of Cian Murray's men. Though, he didn't think it could be as the Murray Clan had settled farther west, mostly living in the Highlands.
Niall surveyed the brush and trees along the river, his gaze fixing on his sword half hidden in the long grasses and heather. He smiled darkly. He could lose most anything else, but he couldn’t live without his sword. Although not having his horse provided more of a challenge also. He needed him back just as much.
Niall attempted to stand, and every move filled him with excruciating pain. He fought an overwhelming lightheadedness and the blackness that threatened to overcome him. After finally standing, listing to the side a little, he retrieved his sword and sheathed it. Then he began the slow walk in the direction of the sheep’s calls, remembering the task his cousin, Laird James MacNeill, had put before him. He and Gunnolf were to accompany the Chattan brothers and their kin on the way to see their McEwan cousin and his ward. During the journey, Niall and Gunnolf were to split off from them and continue on their way to the Lowlands, to the area around Banbh. There, they were to locate a French lady whose father had once saved James's life in combat during the Crusades and now needed the MacNeill’s protection—without alerting anyone as to their business.
