was being teased. “I just didn’t get around to it.”
“Well, it was easy to be hospitable to the likes of them,” Ian said. “You must be proud of them, being as they are kin, and all.”
“The truth to tell, Ian, is that we are not that much kin. I had never even heard of them until Andrew sent me the letter. But they are good people, and ’tis proud I am to claim kinship with them. I very much enjoyed the time I got to spend with them while they were here.”
Ian glanced up at the clock, something he had done several times over the last few minutes.
“Are you that anxious to close for the night that you have to check the clock every few minutes?” Duff teased.
“You’ve noticed, have you?”
“You have looked at the clock so many times ’tis a wonder you haven’t looked the hands right off the face.”
“’Tis wondering, I am, what might be keepin’ Skye,” Ian said.
“I thought you said she had gone home because of some emergency.”
“Aye, but she said she was coming back to help me close. ’Tis ten-thirty already. I’ll be closing at eleven.”
“No doubt she and her mother found even more emergencies to work on,” Duff suggested.
“Knowing m’ wife and m’ daughter as I do, I’m sure you are right,” Ian said. “And I think I would rather her be at home than out all by herself, in the dark o’ night.”
Duff finished his ale and put the mug down. “I tell you what—I will walk the path from here to your house. If she is home, I will tell her to stay there. If I see her, I will walk with her back to the pub.”
“Thank you, lad. ’Tis a good son-in-law you’ll be makin’ for thinkin’ of my worry like that. I must confess it would be a comfort to me to see her come through that door now.”
“I’ll find her,” Duff promised, and he acknowledged the good-byes of the others as he left the pub.
It was quite pleasant outside. The night air was soft and warm, but not overly so, and redolent with a faint smell of the sea, as well as the perfume of aromatic flora. From somewhere close Duff could hear an owl, and in the woods, the song of crickets.
A loud burst of laughter rolled out from the pub he had just left.
Down the street a baby began to cry.
A two-wheeled cart, pulled by a single horse, passed by. The horse’s hooves echoed loudly, the wheels whispering softly on the dirt road.
“No, please, leave me be!”
It was Skye’s voice, and it came from across the road from beyond the shrubbery.
“Hold your hand over her mouth,” a man’s voice said. It was low and gruff.
Duff thought he could hear Skye’s voice again, but this time all she could do was squeak.
Duff dashed across the road, then through the line of shrubbery. Though it was dark, in the light of the full moon he could see Skye struggling with Donald and Roderick Somerled. The top of Skye’s dress had been pulled down and both her breasts were exposed, the creamy white flesh gleaming in the moonlight. Donald was holding her and Roderick, with a leering grin on his face, was unbuttoning his pants.
“Let her go!” Duff shouted angrily.
Startled by Duff’s shout, Donald let Skye go. Then the two men turned toward him. Recognizing him, both smiled, and both pulled daggers from their belts.
“Well now, if it isn’t Duff MacCallister come like an avenging angel to rescue his woman,” Roderick said.
“Aye, and himself without a barstool,” Donald added.
“Or a knife,” Roderick added. “We’ll be settlin’ our scores permanent.”
“Run to your father, Skye,” Duff said.
“Duff, they both have knives,” Skye said. She was busy pulling her dress back up to cover her partial nakedness.
“I’ll deal with them,” Duff said easily. “You get yourself somewhere safe now.”
“Aye,” Skye said, running quickly through the dark toward the pub.
Roderick made the first move, coming toward Duff with his hand extended, the knife held low. Duff leaped adroitly to one side. Then, with the side of his fist, he clubbed Roderick on the back of his head as he slipped by him. Roderick went down and Duff reached down to pick up his knife. Now, armed, he turned to face Donald.
Donald made a swipe at him, jumped back, then made a second swipe. On his second attempt, Duff countered, driving the blade of Roderick’s knife in between Donald’s ribs. Donald let out a whoosh as if he had been hit in the solar plexus, then backed up with the knife still in his side. He reached down and pulled the knife out, then covered the wound with his hand as the blood spilled out between his fingers.
“You . . . you have killed me,” he said, his words strained.
“You left me no choice, Donald Somerled.”
Donald took a few steps toward Duff, then he fell to his knees, where he remained but a moment before falling across the prostate form of his brother.
Roderick, who was just regaining consciousness, groaned in protest.
