Jerking my head toward where the guard should be, I sucked in a sharp breath. Fergus and Gideon were engaged in battle not two feet away. The tension left my body in a surge of relief, and I thanked God for Fergus Lockhart—our guardian angel.
Gideon shouted a jumble of accusations and curses. Flecks of froth appeared at the corners of his thin mouth as he swung his weapon with the appearance of superhuman strength. But the raving madman was no match for Fergus, who disarmed his captain with a deft movement and a great heave, then finished him off with a swift uppercut. Gideon crumpled to the ground, out cold.
“Kenna, are you okay?” I asked, rolling onto the grass.
“I’m fine, but you’ve been holding out on me.”
As we both sat up, I blinked at her in confusion. “What?”
A small smile formed on her lips. “I thought you said you were a cheerleader, not a ninja.” Her voice hitched, betraying the feelings behind her words.
I smiled, tears filling my eyes as she threw her arms around me. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Och, lass! Were ye trying to get both of you killed?” Fergus scolded as he squatted down beside us. “Next time, wait for my signal.”
“Yes, sir,” I answered as Kenna and I broke apart.
“Mackenna, are ye hurt?”
“I’ll be fine. No permanent damage—at least to me.” She absently rubbed the back of her head as she looked around.
“And you, Veronica?”
Meeting Fergus’s pale blue eyes, I searched for answers I knew he didn’t have. “I’m fine.”
“Go on and get back ta the trail. I’ll be right behind ye.” He picked up Gideon’s rag doll body and effortlessly hoisted it over his shoulder.
I picked my way down the rocky trail with care. How had those poor men died? The Doonians were certain the witch had no power here—but I was beginning to wonder. A conversation I’d had with Fiona after the tavern incident circled through my mind. There had been no crime in Doon before we came. No violent acts, no unexplained disappearances, no black petunias growing on dead ground, and certainly no murders—aside from the time long ago when the witch had bewitched a man into doing her bidding. What were the odds of Doon having a sudden crime wave at the same time the two American girls showed up?
My heart squeezed in my chest—everything Jamie thought of me could be true. It was possible that when we crossed the Brig o’ Doon we made the kingdom vulnerable to the witch’s influence. And if we didn’t find a way to stop it, more people could die.
The next morning, I sat curled in the alcove of the window seat and stared into the crackling fire, picking out patterns in the flames. It was hard work keeping my mind blank, but everything that’d happened in the last twenty-four hours hurt too much to contemplate. Kenna and I had been ordered to stay in the turret room—for our own protection, according to Fiona. But with a guard inside the suite, as well as outside the door, the confinement felt more like a prison sentence.
Kenna paced the other side of the bedroom, mumbling to herself. The occasional word reached my ears: “mob,” “pitchforks,” “dungeon,” “beheading.”
We’d both fallen into bed after dinner the night before, too exhausted to speak. Now, listening to my friend babble, I realized I couldn’t put it off any longer.
“Ken, please stop. We need to talk.” I patted the cushion next to me.
She flopped down, her arms crossed under her chest and her lip jutting out like a kid who didn’t get the last pink balloon at the fair.
“Yesterday in the meadow, what happened before I got there?”
“One minute I was urging Duncan to go to his father … and the next, I was lying on the ground surrounded by a bunch of dead guys.” Her eyes were silver with tears. “I have no idea what happened to those poor men.”
I nodded and took her hand. “It’s not your fault, you know.”