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“I see,” he said quietly.

“Good. You see?” she confirmed brightly.  “You can't fight.”

“But I must fight.”

MacColla felt her body go rigid.

Her mouth sputtered mutely for a moment. Finding her voice, she said with dangerous quiet, “What did you say?”

“Still yourself, love.” He sat up, watching as the storm in

her eyes  grew darker.

For once in his life, he'd rely first on reason, not passion.  “You tell me there's an enemy out there who'd shoot me in my back?”

At her stiff nod, he continued, “If I don't get this man now, he'll come for me another day. It may be in Ireland, mayhap in Scotland, but he will come.”

Haley nodded again, reluctantly. “Yes, but ”-

“We can work this through. But you have to tell me

everything.”

MacColla helped her sit up to lean against the wall. He draped his plaid over Haley's chest and legs.

“Fret not,
 
leannan
. We shall beat this blackguard at his

own game.”

Chapter Thirty-Four

MacColla savored fighting a battle he knew he'd win. And such a commanding triumph it was. Haley had told him of his victory on the Hill of Knocknanuss, but he hadn't imagined such a sweet rout.

The lass had wanted to watch, and he'd flatly refused. It was only after she resorted to threats of withholding what she called her
 
charms
, that he conceded to letting her hide in wait amidst a thick tangle of trees.

He admitted he appreciated having her musket guarding his back. It was a
 
decent
 
musket he'd given her this time, with a wheel lock and plenty of powder.

He'd considered the other ways in which he could change the day's outcome. He'd been sore tempted to warn  that fool Taaffe not to abandon his command, but he couldn't trust that the unseasoned lord might not turn tail at the last moment, and repeat history all over again.

MacColla had decided the best course would be to live out

the day as he would, trying to clear his mind of all else.

It was critical he sniff out his assassin. He assumed it

would be a Campbell man. One who'd find MacColla sooner

or later.

He preferred sooner.

But damned if he wasn't nettled by the wait. He'd just dismissed the messenger.  Knocknanuss Hill was at his back and his soldiers were long gone, racing ahead, chasing the last of the Parliamentary soldiers.

Most men didn't know the moment of their death, yet here he stood, alone, waiting for his fate to unfold.

In an instinctive gesture, MacColla lifted his hand to touch the sword grip at his back. He'd a great affection for the

weapon.
 
Claidheamh da laihm.
 
The name he'd told Haley

what seemed a lifetime ago.

He looked to where she hid in the trees, praying the blade would deliver  him this one last time.

Distant movement caught his eye. Four Parliamentary cavalrymen emerged, not far from where she'd taken cover.

Four men
, he thought distantly, hoping there wasn't some other force at work that had already set destiny's top to spinning.
 
She'd said five.

The men posed their challenge. MacColla knew: If this same scenario presented itself for him to live and relive in some mad eternity, he'd always ever make the same choice.  And he slashed and spun, cutting the horsemen one by

one.

He heard the click of the cocking pistol at his back.
 
Pistol.

Not musket.

“If you'd be so kind as to hand over your blade.”

MacColla stilled. He knew the man who was left standing.  He'd sized him up at once. Standard-issue honor, with boots shined and brass polished. This particular soldier

didn't frighten him.

It was the mysterious fifth man who made MacColla wary, the one he predicted would appear from behind.

“'Twill be a tale for my children's children to tell,” the  soldier crowed. “How their Grandfather O'Grady offered the  great MacColla quarter.” He paused and released his  prisoner's arm. Reaching to the scabbard at MacColla's  back, the man issued a stern rebuke, “I asked for your  blade, man.”

MacColla heard a rustle, and knew.

“I'll avail myself  of your prisoner, O'Grady.” a voice said.

There's the bastard.

He needed to act fast. Though Haley couldn't tell him how much time he'd have, she'd described this scenario, these men in these very poses, and he reckoned it best not to tease the situation out too long.

O'Grady seemed a decent enough sort. He'd offered  MacColla quarter, and MacColla felt compelled to do the

same.

“Sorry, lad,” he muttered. Seizing his captor's hand where  it reached for the hilt at MacColla's back, he elbowed the

soldier hard in the gut. “You've been an honorable enemy.”  O'Grady doubled over, and MacColla followed with a swift  blow to the back of his head, knocking him out cold.

He spun, his claymore extended, to face his would -be killer.

The   man   was   disappointingly   ordinary,   with   an unremarkable face, riding an unremarkable horse.

The musket in his grip gave pause enough, though, and  MacColla watched as his hand twitched supporting the long barrel.

Shaking his head, the man smiled slowly, and slid a hand to cock his weapon.

A loud shot cracked behind him, and MacColla flinched despite himself, so ready was he to face this man's bullet.

Haley.
 
The lass must've emerged from her hideout. And though her shot went wide, it was enough to spook the man's horse.

The beast reared just as the man fired, and his bullet skewed high off the mark.

Cursing, the man scanned the land behind MacColla, reaching to the powder flask at his belt. Thinking better of it, he threw his musket to the ground, jumped from the skittish horse, and  stalked to MacColla.

Who stood still as granite, waiting.

“I'd know the name of the man who'd shoot me in the

back,” MacColla snarled.

“Purdon,” he replied cavalierly, unsheathing the sword  from his side. The two men began to circle each other.  “Major Nicholas Purdon.”

He carried a cavalry saber. A strange, foreign thing, likely brought back from the warring on the Continent. Though an elegant weapon, the ridged steel was no less sturdy for its slight curve.

Still, MacColla taunted, “That's a pretty wee sword you have there, Purdon.” He stretched his claymore out further and grinned at the sound of his joints popping. “Shall I slice your belly or take your head, do you think?”

“Such   coarseness.   You   surprise   me,   Alexander

MacDonald.”   Purdon   tilted   his   head   in   mock

contemplation. “Head or belly? You offer me two evils and

no choice.”

“You'll call me by my Scottish name,” he growled. He  repeated Purdon's words in the Gaelic and smiled. “Dà
 
dhiù  gun aon roghainn
.” MacColla took two broad and confident  strides toward him. “Two evils, no choice indeed. And so I'll  do the choosing for you.”

He swung his claymore down, the thick steel slamming onto Purdon's saber with a resonant clang.

Curved cavalry blades weren't made for thrusting, and  Purdon slashed and slashed again, his strikes no match for

MacColla.

“Head, I think,” MacColla said calmly, slashing his own  blade down hard. The claymore's power was in its swing,  and MacColla went at the man mercilessly. Down at his  head, up from his legs, down at his head . Each strike was  met with a block from his opponent, forced to support his  blade with two hands to withstand MacColla's onslaught.

A sideswipe at Purdon's belly nicked flesh, and Purdon gasped. Stumbled back.

MacColla went at him with renewed force, luring him into a diagonal rhythm. Slashing up and down at angles. Up and down.

Until with a final grunt. MacColla changed his pattern, swiping a sudden and final strike from the side, severing  Purdon's head from his body.

“May you rot, bastard,” he said, using Purdon's coat to

wipe the blood from his blade.

Haley caught up to him not long after the Parliamentary soldier fell. She was frantic, but that didn't prevent  MacColla from swooping her up in an elated kiss.

“We did it,
 
leannan
.”

“You did it,” she  said, smiling and panting. She scanned  the valley nervously. “But now
 
we
 
have to get out of here.

Rollo should be coming along soon… ” she muttered, then decided, “but I don't think we can wait.”

She'd watched the familiar scenario play out, with a blessedly different ending. And she'd held her breath all the while. “There could be any number of other men approaching. It's anyone's guess what could happen next.”

“Aye. I'm of the same mind.” He gave a firm nod. Cupping  her chin, he gave her one last, long  look. “I've no care for  my own self, but I'd have your pretty hide up and away  from this place.”

He turned at once to coo and beckon to Purdon's horse, trying to gather the skittish mare.

“Wait,” she said suddenly. She stopped short, looking at

the dead  man's head with disgust. “I have an idea.”

* * *

“But I'm a fair spot taller than this lout was.” MacColla  circled round Purdon's dead body, eyeing him with disdain.

“Yeah, well… ” Haley shrugged. “He's even shorter now.”

MacColla's laugh boomed, and s he flinched, automatically shifting her gaze to survey the horizon. She spared him an edgy smile, but was anxious to get out of there. They'd already lost too many minutes while she tried to convince him of her plan.

“Seriously, MacColla.” She extended he r hand, gesturing  once more that he hand over his claymore. “People see  what they want to see. If everyone thinks you're dead, it'll  give us options.”

“Options?” He scowled. “Well, lass, I
 
opt
 
not to leave my

sword.”

“We'll get you a new one. We can't stage your death without  leaving that
 
particular
 
sword behind” she said, pointing  emphatically to the claymore in his hand. The ring at the  base of the pommel and its simple, unadorned design had  a whiff of Irish to it. But the sheer size pinpointed MacColla as its owner.

“I want Campbell's neck in my hands,” he groused, flexing

his fingers. “Not options.”

“You can't chase Campbell,” she said flatly. “Don't you see?  You're supposed to be dead. We can't change the course of  history.”

“And why not?” He shrugged. “We just did, aye?”

“Well, for one thing… ” Haley thought about it.
 
For one

thing, you could get yourself killed again.

“I'm Irish,” she said suddenly. “What if something we do  impacts my family line?” She flashed to all the sci-fi movie  cliches of  people blipping out of existence. “I'd never be

born.”

That gave him pause. He opened his mouth to speak, then promptly shut it again.

Haley hated not giving him a choice. She knew what it meant to him to conquer Campbell. She also knew he'd not be able  to sit still for long, and this would only be the first time they'd have this argument.

She had another idea. Brightening, she said, “Listen, you can still battle the Campbell.”

He looked at her, interest piqued.

“Your actions will be so much more devastating if Campbell

thinks you're dead.”

“What are you saying?”

She gestured again for his sword, and he finally relinquished it.

“I'm saying an anonymous enemy is the most dangerous  one.” Haley knelt to wrap Purdon's hand around the hilt of  MacColla's claymore, but froze, grimacing.

He gently shifted her aside to finish the work for her.  “You'll want to turn around, lass. If I plant my sword”  - he began to strip the man of his uniformboots and breeches  - “I'll need to plant my plaid as well.”

Turning, she continued enthusiastically. “Think how easily, and how deeply, you could penetrate Campbell lands.
 
The great MacColla is dead.
 
What have they to fear?”

She looked over her shoulder, assessing him. “You'd need to be disguised though. You're too recognizable. Too great a hero.”

“Och,
 
leannan
.” he grumbled playfully, tying his enormous

shirt between his legs.

He squeezed her bottom as he swung her up onto Purdon's horse. “Now you're just trying to flatter me.”

Chapter Thirty-Five