No use wishing for things he could never have now. A heavy sense of loss kicked him in the stomach and memories of their younger years haunted him.
Damnation! Don't think of it.
The one thing he was determined to have now was Jessie. He simply had to convince her of his worth and devotion.
A scent caught his attention—smoke and roasted meat. He halted, holding up his arm so those behind him would stop. "Smell that?" he asked, his voice hushed. "Their camp is close."
"Aye," Erskine whispered.
Sudden loud clanging and war cries resounded through the rocky crags. A rag-tag group of warriors wielding swords and targes stormed from behind boulders. But Torrin was ready, and the men who stood with him appeared ready as well. Blade clashed against blade.
Arrows flew down from the cliffs above. Torrin lifted his targe to deflect them. A skinny, blond-bearded man wearing ragged trews charged Torrin. He easily warded off the younger man's blows. The miscreant bared his teeth and launched a more determined attack. After landing a few blows against Torrin's blade, the man had worn himself out.
Torrin went on the offense. With two strikes, he drew blood, and with the third, dealt a killing slash. The daft lad had chosen the wrong opponent.
The next man to meet his gaze was McMurdo. A quick glance at the warrior lying unmoving and bloody at his feet stopped Torrin's breath. Erskine? Torrin charged forward, intending to run McMurdo through, but the gray-haired bastard fled with uncanny agility up the rock-covered ravine along with the rest of the surviving outlaws after Haldane had shouted the order to retreat.
"Get him! He's killed Erskine," Torrin yelled at the MacKays and chased McMurdo up the mountainside. The smoking campfire came into view, along with Aiden, sitting at the entrance to a cave, a brawny man with a sword guarding him.
"Bring him!" Haldane pointed at Aiden.
The guard picked up the lad, tossed him across his shoulder and ran.
"Bastard," Torrin growled.
Aiden wriggled and fought his captor, but it did no good. The man weighed twice as much as the lad.
Arrows rained down on Torrin and the MacKays, forcing them to use their targes for protection overhead and dive for cover behind boulders; their targes could not shield the whole of their bodies. Once the outlaw archer had stopped shooting, Torrin charged forward again.
"They're getting away!" Torrin sped up but the outlaws were twenty yards ahead. "Give me your bow and an arrow," Torrin ordered the young MacKay archer.
The bow was about the length of his own. Torrin threw down his other weapons, took the bow in hand and nocked the arrow. He aimed, praying he wouldn't shoot Aiden, but if he didn't get that whoreson to release him, he'd likely be dead soon anyway. When the outlaw turned a bit, his side facing Torrin, he released the arrow. The broad-head stabbed into the outlaw's ribs and he fell to his knees. Aiden slammed to the ground as well, but tried to scramble from beneath the injured brigand who was yanking at the arrow and growling like an enraged wolf.
The rest of the outlaws dashed out of sight, but the one he'd downed grabbed for the sword he'd dropped.
Aiden stumbled and fell amongst the rocks.
"Aiden! Come on!" Torrin tossed the bow back to its owner, grabbed his sword, and sprinted forward to help the lad.
Aiden shoved to his feet and loped toward him, while the injured outlaw lumbered forward, growling, his teeth bared.
Another arrow stabbed into the knave's chest. He dropped like a rock and writhed upon the ground, howling in pain.
Torrin quickly glanced back to see that the MacKay archer had fired the shot.
Reaching Aiden, Torrin grabbed his arm. "Hurry. We have to get you out of here."
Aiden was gasping for breath as he stumbled forward. Torrin glanced around, checking for lingering outlaws, but thankfully saw none.
"Help him down the mountain," he told the MacKays.
"Come on, cousin. I've got you." Conall's burly son, Dougal, picked Aiden up on his back and carried him. "Are you hurt?"
"Nay." Aiden huffed and puffed. "I thank you. All of you."
Torrin retrieved his targe and dirk from the ground, where he'd tossed them earlier, and followed.
Minutes later, Aiden insisted on walking, and they rejoined the rest of the search party.
"Aiden!" Conall yelled, his face red. "Are you daft? Leaving the keep that way? You could've been killed. Erskine's badly injured."
"He lives?" Torrin asked, his gaze scanning over Erskine's bloody, unmoving body and closed eyes.
Iain, crouched next to Erskine, glanced up. "Aye, indeed."
"Thank the saints! How bad is it?"
"'Tis a deep sword gash. He's lost a lot of blood."
"Bastards," Torrin growled. "We have to get him back to Dunnakeil." He wanted to tell Aiden he should be whipped for putting himself and the clan in so much danger. But he was the chief's brother. 'Twas Dirk's place to reprimand him. Or Jessie's. He was certain she would rake Aiden over the coals.
Upon seeing Erskine's bloody wound, Aiden squeezed his eyes closed. "I'm sorry. I ken 'twas my fault."
"Aye," Torrin agreed with a glare at the lad.
If Aiden was his brother, he might cold cock him, but they weren't family yet. Instead, he turned his attention to Erskine and knelt beside him. His face was ashen, and he was out cold.
Iain removed his shirt and used it, along with one he'd gotten from one of his men, as a makeshift bandage around Erskine's abdomen, trying to staunch the flow of blood. "We have to get him out of here."
"Indeed." Torrin stood, his gaze searching the craggy granite mountainsides to make sure no outlaws had returned, then the ground closer to him. Two outlaws, besides the one Torrin had killed, lay dead. Their weapons caught his attention. "'Tis my sword and Jessie's dirk," he muttered, snatching up the weapons and shoving them into his scabbards.
One of the MacKays approached with a wood and linen litter. He must have retrieved it from one of the horses, further back, to transport Erskine on.
Torrin prayed they made it back to Dunnakeil in time for the healer to help him.
***
Jessie paced back and forth in the cobblestone bailey, praying Torrin, Aiden and the rest of the men would return soon. They'd been gone all day, and gloaming was imminent. Sunset streaked the sky overhead with pink and gold.
"They're coming, Lady Jessie!" one of the guards called out from the battlements and pointed toward the east.
"Oh, thank the saints." She rushed to the portcullis. Minutes later, upon hearing the clomp of horses' hooves and men talking, she stepped back several paces. The guards raised the portcullis.
Torrin and Aiden entered the bailey first, leading horses. Joy that they were both alive and well near overcame her. Tears burning her eyes, she grinned and rushed forward to greet them. But neither of them was smiling. Instead, they appeared morose and worried.
"What happened?" she asked.