Chapter 11: The Hunter

Niall turned his head and saw him.

He did not move like a man.

He moved, and the window exploded inward in a spray of glass.

The hunter came through it feet first.

He was lean and quick, in a long leather coat, with a dark beard and a hat tied under his chin with a cord.

The stake in his fist was a yard of ash wood shod with black iron.

"There he is," said the hunter, in a flat, pleasant Edinburgh voice.

"The laird of the glen."

"I'd begun to think the old fellow was a story."

Niall pushed me behind him.

I was half dressed, my skirts still rucked around my waist.

I tore them down with one hand and grabbed a pan off the shelf with the other.

"You are trespassing," said Niall.

"Aye."

"Mr. Gow paid me forty guineas to trespass."

"Twenty now, and twenty when you're dust."

The hunter's eyes slid to the cup on the kitchen table, visible through the open pantry door.

"And the cup."

"He was very particular about the cup."

"Over my dead body," I said.

"I'd rather not," said the hunter, and lunged.

I have never seen anything move like Niall.

He took the first thrust on his forearm, and I heard the crack of the bone.

He spun inside the man's guard and got a hand around his throat and slammed him into the oatmeal sacks.

The sacks burst.

White dust filled the air.

The hunter dropped the stake and drew a knife from his boot.

He slashed upward across Niall's ribs, and the blade came away red.

Niall grunted.

He did not let go.

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