“And you killed mine.” If she could keep him talking, it might give her time to climb higher. But he could still shoot her. Would Kenneth send men to rescue her if she could stay alive?

She peeked down through the branches and broad green leaves. He stared up at her, breathing hard, and lowered his sword. “I have caught ye. Come down,” Cain Sinclair called. “I might spare your life.”

“Lies, for which I will not fall,” she replied.

“Given a few moments, ye will fall from your foolish climb onto that branch.”

Cac! Holding on, she wasn’t even able to give him a rude gesture, the one she’d learned from working with the Sutherland warriors over the last three months. “Get your bloody arse and your men off Sutherland land,” she yelled down. “You bastard of a whoring cow.” With a tight grip around the tree trunk, Ella lowered her boots to the safer limb under her and turned outward.

Cain Sinclair’s brows rose from what she imagined was a persistent furrow, giving him a look of surprise. Dirt and blood smeared his leather armor and his bare arms where she could see the dark lines of tattoos encircling the thick muscle. Blood lay splattered across his bristled cheeks and forehead, where wheat-colored hair hung down around his stony jaw.

“Ye slander my mother and murder my father,” he said, surprise lifting the ferocious growl from his tone.

She pushed the tightening of guilt down behind the thumping of her heart. “There is no murder in battle, not when both sides are armed and trained,” she answered. “And there is no shame in bringing down a foe who is insane with bloodlust, killing hundreds, including my own father.” She nocked an arrow in her bow, but the bow was made for distance. Up close it was more cumbersome than effective.

“A father for a father.” He narrowed his eyes and rubbed his jaw as he gazed up at her, giving the briefest of nods as if conceding the point. “But my mother was a saint.”

“Who gave birth to the Four Horsemen from Hell,” she said, trying to hold her bow steady. Damn her shaking.

“We are from God, not Satan,” he countered, unstrapping the armor from his arms and chest. The pieces fell away, as if he emerged from leather and steel ice. They thudded onto the bed of moss at the base of the tree. He stood wearing only a thin sleeveless tunic with his green and blue kilt belted around narrow hips.

“So says the man wearing the Devil’s crown.” She pulled back on the thick bowstring and loosed the arrow.