Page 48 of The Guardian
“No.”
The path narrowed until it was a ledge barely as wide as her foot. They sidestepped over loose stones with the rock face at their backs. Beyond the toes of her shoes was nothing but air—and the gray swells and white foam far below.
Sìleas’s heart pounded in her ears as she scanned the sheer cliff below for shrubs growing out of the rock that she could grab hold of if she fell.
And then her heel slipped on the loose rock, and her foot shot out from under her. She screamed Ian’s name as she fell to her death.
She continued screaming as her feet dangled in the air.
“I’ve got ye,” Ian said, his voice strained.
She stopped screaming and looked up. Ian’s knees were bent, and he had one arm spread across the rock wall for balance; his other hand still held her wrist. His jaw was clenched, and the muscles of his neck were taut with the effort of holding her.
With a grunt, he hoisted her back up onto the path. Her knees were shaking so violently she would have fallen again if Ian was not holding her up.
“We can’t stop here,” Ian said, looking hard into her eyes. “I told ye I would not let ye fall. Ye need to trust me.”
She nodded. Ian had a firm hold on her arm; he would not let her go.
“Just a wee bit farther, love,” Ian said, coaxing her along. “I can almost see Teàrlag’s cottage now.”
Sìleas’s heart was in her mouth, but she moved with him.
“That’s a good lass. Three or four more steps is all.”
When the footpath finally opened onto the clearing behind Teàrlag’s cottage, Sìleas wanted to sink to her knees and kiss the grass.
“For that, ye owe me a good deal more than kisses,” Ian said, wiping his forehead with his sleeve. “Now we must find Connor and Duncan.”
They ran into Teàrlag’s cottage and found the two men sitting at her table eating stew from large wooden bowls.
“Time to run, lads,” Ian said in a dead calm voice. “Hugh and twenty armed men are coming up the road.”
Connor and Duncan were on their feet before Ian finished speaking.
“We’ll be in the cave,” Connor said, as he strapped on his claymore. “Make some noise to warn us if they start down to the beach.”
“I will,” Ian said. “Just go.”
“Sorry, Teàrlag,” Connor said over his shoulder, as he went out the door.
“Save my stew,” Duncan said, as he grabbed an oatcake. He waved it at them as he followed Connor out.
Sìleas sank into the chair that was still warm from Connor sitting in it.
“Where’s your whiskey, Teàrlag?” Ian asked.
“I’ll get it,” the old woman said.
Sìleas’s limbs felt melded to the chair as she watched the other two go about their tasks with quick, controlled movements. In a blink, Ian dumped the stew from the bowls into the pot hanging over the hearth, wiped the bowls clean with a cloth, and set them on the shelf above the table.
While Ian did that, Teàrlag unearthed a jug from beneath her mending in the basket in the corner and poured a healthy measure of it into two cups on the table.
“Drink it down,” Ian ordered Sìleas and tossed his own back.
Sìleas choked as the fiery liquid burned down her throat.
Ian wiped the cups clean, set them back on the shelf, and took the chair beside her. “Now, we are here having a nice, relaxing chat with Teàrlag.”
