The Return of Black Douglas by Elaine Coffman Page B

saw us,” Elisabeth said in a low whisper. “Look at the expressions of fearful disbelief on their faces. Right now, I’d say they are trying to decide if we are witches.”
    Isobella whispered, “We’ve landed in the midst of some kind of clannish brawl. Highlanders were always fighting someone, including family members when no one else was about. Fighting and killing was like a national sport to them.”
    Unexpectedly, a cry cut through the air and three of the men rushed the others, yelling in unison, “Cuimhnich bas Alpein.”
    Elisabeth glanced at Isobella. “Any idea what that war whoop was all about?”
    “It’s Gaelic. Probably a battle cry. All I caught was something about Alpin.”
    “Who or what is Alpin?”
    “There was more than one Alpin, but they might be referring to the MacAlpin who was the Dalriata King of Picts and Scots in Ireland before they settled in Scotland.” She said nothing more for she was thinking that whoever the three men were, they attacked with such furor that the four men opposing them turned and hightailed it into the trees.
    “Do you think we should make a run for it?” Elisabeth was frowning now and looking around, as if searching for the nearest exit.
    “No,” Isobella replied with a shake of her head. “Men, like animals, chase anything that runs. If we made a run for it, they would think us guilty of something and give chase. And they would catch us. We would have more explaining to do than if we just wait to see what they do.”
    Elisabeth nodded. “I suppose you’re right.”
    “Well, we have no idea who they are, but we need to make contact with someone. We can’t stay here forever. If we hide, they will find us. If we run, they will catch us.”
    “And if we stay here, they will have us for dinner,” Elisabeth added, “Or dessert. I don’t see anyone who remotely resembles Sir Galahad among them. I will admit they do look grimly efficient.”
    “That is because they probably are,” Isobella replied.
    “How do we know which ones are the good guys?” Elisabeth paused, for the three men had now stepped out of the shade of the trees. Now they were standing in full sunlight, and Elisabeth’s jaw dropped.
    “Oh, my lord, I take back everything I said. Things are not looking so bad after all.” She turned toward Isobella and said, “Please tell me those are not Douglas men and our ancestors. I’m having very lascivious thoughts right now and would hate to find we are related.”
    With a flushed face and a dreamy expression, Isobella stared at the bodies, etched by the strength and stamina of the warrior caste. They were supreme examples of the godly mathematics of male beauty.
    “If they are Douglases, it would be our luck, wouldn’t it? I don’t think I’ve ever seen three men put together any better. Would you look at those biceps,” Isobella said, drinking in the sight of the slender, well-muscled upper body of the man she identified as their leader. There was something about the graceful proportion of form, the balanced turn of a well-shaped head, and the power of a warrior’s body when he moved.
    “They did not get those muscles lifting weights in the gym. They earned them the hard way. And have you noticed the size of those swords they were swinging? And they aren’t even claymores.”
    Elisabeth shook her head. “No, I was imagining the size of something else when you interrupted my thoughts. Only you would look at medieval weapons when you have three demigods to drool over. I could close my eyes and grab one and come out just fine.”
    “Judging from the expressions on their faces, it would seem they are thinking the same about us. Either that, or they haven’t eaten in a week,” Isobella replied. It was good to know that Elisabeth found the male bodies stimulating—and not in a medical way. She and Elisabeth might be polar opposites, but rugged Scots were something they both approved of.
    Instead of coming toward them, the men quickly