The devils' weapons stabbed through the grey of the murky fog. Pleas for mercy resounded. Still, Marcus remained rooted to the spot, watching until the last MacGregor fell.
A Campbell glanced at him, the first to acknowledge his presence. The man smiled, stepping on the head of a vanquished enemy and grinding the skull with his foot. As if magically freed from unseen bonds, Marcus lunged at him. They crashed to the ground, Marcus's grasp closing around nothing. He leapt to his feet, seizing another Campbell. He, too, vanished. One by one, they disappeared each time he grabbed their necks. His mind sought for purchase within the ghostly battle, his senses reeling with the echo of laughter that rose from the curling mist.
Finally, every Campbell gone, Marcus stood, his breath coming in labored gulps. Torn and twisted bodies lay scattered about him—the ruin of his clan. A cry broke the silence. He whirled. Elise lay on the ground, a trembling hand raised to him.
Marcus rushed to her side. He fell to his knees, lifted her head, and cradled it in his lap. Tears streamed down his cheeks, splashing onto her lips. With gentle fingers, she wiped a tear from his cheek.
"Shh," she murmured. "It's not your fault." Her hand fell away and her eyes closed.
He tightened his grip but she vanished, causing him to tumble forward. Her garments twisted in his hands. He shoved and kicked, trying to dislodge himself from the fabric. Leaping up, his fingers closed around a post—
Marcus stood in darkness, gasping in heaving gulps of air. His grip on the bedpost tightened as he looked about wildly in the darkness. No moon shone overhead. No bodies lay around him—a soft chime sounded—a clock. A shudder reverberated through him and he fell to his knees on the stone floor of the bedchamber. The cold of the floor against his knees contrasted the sweat that beaded his forehead. A drop trickled along his hairline. A dream. But Elise's kidnapping had been no dream. Had she not escaped… Marcus bowed his head, the cold barely noticeable to his naked body, and he touched the tear trailing down his cheek.
The clock chimed again. Four gongs this time.
His heartbeat had slowed and his body chilled. Fingers still wrapped around the bedpost, Marcus pulled himself onto shaky legs. He gathered his kilt from the floor near the foot of the bed and wrapped the plaide around his waist. Brahan Seer lay but half a day's ride away. Marcus paused.
A dream.
To return home before visiting the young MacFarlene chief would be foolish.
A dream.
His heart rate increased. A dream where everyone he loved had perished. Where Elise had perished. He grabbed his belt from the chair, then halted. He had left the keep well-guarded. He would wake his man Kyle. One day for Kyle to ride to Brahan Seer and make sure all was well, then meet them tomorrow at the MacFarlene holding.
Marcus studied the men gathered in the MacFarlene great hall, then returned his attention to Langley, the young MacFarlene chief, who stood beside him at the massive hearth. Marcus set his glass of scotch on the mantel. "No sign of Campbells on your land?"
Langley nodded to one of his men. "Nay." He finished his scotch, then placed the glass next to Marcus's. "If I had, they would be buried—and King George would never find them."
Marcus well remembered Langley's uncle, Cory MacDonald. The MacDonalds had not forgiven the Campbells for the Glencoe massacre over a hundred years ago. MacDonald blood flowed as hotly in Langley's veins as did MacFarlene blood.
"Ye have a spy, MacGregor."
Marcus's attention snapped back to the young man. "What?"
"How else do you explain their success in creeping about your land? You say Shamus was killed in Montal Cove. That isna' MacGregor land. I remember hearing about Katie MacGregor. She was in MacLaren territory when they attacked her." Langley regarded him. "Before this last incident, how long since they were seen on MacGregor land?"
"Two months." Marcus stilled. "The night I escorted Elise back from Michael's."
"The same lass they made off with?" Langley grunted. A young woman carrying several bottles of whiskey wound her way through the crowd. "Brenda," he called. "Bring me one of those bottles, lass."
She turned and hurried forward. He took a bottle from her tray. She glanced at Marcus.
"Off with you," Langley said.
With a flash of a smile for Marcus, she sauntered away.
Langley opened the bottle, filled their glasses, then set the bottle on the mantel. He took a large drink before wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Two months ago, you say?"
"Aye," Marcus replied.
"What came of it?"
"Nothing. They were gone when I returned."
"A shame, and a little strange, wouldn't you say?" Langley finished the drink, reached for the bottle, and refilled his glass.
"They may have heard me passing by and ran, or luck might have been with them."