“Ye ride for Lallybroch?”
The courtyard was packed. MacKenzie clansmen, their faces painted with the blue woad of battle, watched her pass with a mix of suspicion and grudging awe. In the center of the maelstrom stood Dougal MacKenzie. His broad chest heaved, his claymore still slick with English blood. He looked at Claire not as a woman, but as a war asset.
“He risked them for me,” Jamie corrected. “And I am a MacKenzie, by blood and by oath.”
Jamie nodded once. “Then we have a reckoning of our own.”
Jamie exhaled, a long, shuddering breath. “Thank God.”
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