Page 7 of Highlander’s Mercenary Lass

"One wrong turn, an' yer throat is slit," warned the man, with what Andrew thought was a chuckle.

His blood boiling, Andrew thought fast. Without moving his head, he kicked back, knocking the unseen man over with a single push.

Wump!

The unseen assailant landed facedown in the mud, with his long sword clattering to the ground next to him. Andrew wasted no time in picking it up. Then, with the knife in his hand, he turned to the slumped shape on the ground.

Pressing the knife close to his head, he leaned over the fallen man. From behind, it was hard to glean too much, except that the bandit was older than expected, his shoulder-length silvery hair blowing about in the Highland breeze.

"Urgh," the man groaned, and appeared to be trying to turn. Andrew did not give him a chance; he placed his boot to his cheek and pressed down.

"Nay ye dinnae," he said, pushing the man to the ground.

The man on the grass writhed and moaned. His plaid was now almost completely covered with mud. Andrew held him helpless at his feet. However, the man was not giving up easily.

"I command ye tae let me go, by order o' the laird o' Duncan!" the man snarled.

Andrew stopped dead. These had not been the words he was expecting to hear.

"What?" he said, caught off guard. For a moment, he wondered if this was a ruse. Maybe the man had just said this to get him to back off. So, cautiously, Andrew held on to his sgian-dubh and did not remove the blade from the man's head. However, he did relax his hold of him.

Andrew raised his foot and allowed the man to move. Very slowly, he got to his feet, albeit with the blade of the sgian-dubh straight up in his face.

Only now, as the man got to his feet, did Andrew see his face. Like he thought, he was much older than he had expected. Not many bandits made it to old age. And by the look of this one, he was old. Andrew gazed in open disbelief at his wrinkled features and missing teeth. However, when he opened his mouth to speak, the man was surprisingly erudite.

"I said, ye’re going tae regret yer trespassing on the Duncan estate, laddie! So ye best drop that sword an' come wi' me, where ye can explain yersel to the laird!"

He delivered all of this with a slight twinkle in his gray eyes. Perplexed, Andrew watched him.

"Duncan," he said slowly. "This is the Kennedy lands, isnae it?"

The gray-haired man shook his head. "Nay, laddie, an' it's nae been for several months. Where have ye come from, London?" He split his aged face into a grin. "I can see I'll have tae reacquaint ye wi' the treaties. Dinnae mind, a spell in our jail can do that."

Andrew paused for a moment. "Ye mean that this is now the Duncan clan," he said, slowly getting his head around things.

"Aye, laddie. Ye’re slow tae catch on. Do ye want me tae draw ye a picture?" The man's smile pierced the corners of his cheeks, sending folds deep into his skin.

"Well, this is my clan, then," said Andrew, pausing to show the man his brown and blue plaid. It was a bit worn, not to mention muddied by his impromptu dip in a swamp. "I'm here on official business." He indicated his sword, which was carved with the Duncan clan figurehead,

a stag's head.

"I'm Andrew Caldwell, the laird's envoy. I come bearing messages—" Andrew stopped himself dead just then. He did not wish to say exactly which messages until he was more certain of the situation.

In front of him, the old man's face crumpled into a smile. "Well, why didnae ye say so, son?" he said, grinning broadly. "I am also on the estate o' the laird. So ye can put that thing down now," he added, in a sober voice.

The tip of Andrew's sword was still pointing into the old man's face. Apologetically, Andrew packed it away. Although even as he did so, his hands were hesitating. There was something very strange about this whole thing. He did not know why, but his instincts were screaming at him to be on his guard.

But there was no outward reason to be suspicious. The old man had also set down his arms in a show of friendship. And as far as he could tell, there were no other soldiers around. So very slowly, Andrew withdrew and then stood beside the man.

"Well, perhaps ye can help me," he said, glancing up at the man's gray eyes. Looking at him, Andrew did a double take. Truly everything about this man seemed to be gray. Even his tartan, which had started off blue and brown in the ceremonial colors of the clan, seemed to have been coated in a sheen of gray. However, the mud in the swamp below them might have accounted for that.

"Aye, son, I'd like tae help ye," said the man with a smile Andrew had never seen before. Watching him, he wondered more about this mysterious figure.

"I'm looking for a Paton Steward. Laird Duncan said I would find him here, but he didnae say where."

"Didnae he? Well, aye, I can help ye. Ye've found him!" The man smiled.

Andrew looked up, surprised. "Ye’re Paton?" he asked. He didn't know why this was so troubling. Just for some reason, this was not how he had imagined the counselor-in-chief. Maybe it was because he'd just been facedown in the mud, but this was not quite the image he had expected. The man seemed so bedraggled, somehow.