Free Under the Same Sky by Genevieve Graham Page A

powerful, lighting the fire in their blood. The Highlanders drew upon whatever strength remained and got to their feet. The chiefs raised their voices and called their clans, like fierce echoes of the Gathering. The men pounded their chests with their fists, harder and harder, grunting with the impacts, stirring their blood with the strikes. Their feet stomped the frozen earth until it was rock hard.
    Then they followed their chiefs into battle.
    Andrew’s father and Uncle Iain led the MacDonnells, their black hair flying like battle flags as they screeched the clan’s battle cry,
“Cragan an Fhithich!”
    “Cragan an Fhithich!”
Dougal howled, then flashed Andrew a grin over his plaid-covered shoulder. They tore down the field after their father, shrieking like madmen. Seventeen-year-old Ciaran swallowed his terror and ran with them, leather targe strapped to his forearm for protection, readying a pistol in either hand as he ran. They charged blindly through the smoke and hailstorm of bullets, firing pistols, then tossing the smoking weapons aside or pitching them like rocks at approaching soldiers. It was how Andrew had been taught to fight—how they had all been taught. When a man went into battle, there was no time to reload, or even to holster a weapon after it was fired. Instead, Andrew reached for his sword. Its hilt was like the hand of an old friend, holding Andrew’s grip as he crashed against the lethal wall of red coats.
    The sound of battle was all around, but Andrew heard nothing save his own screams and the pounding of feet—or was that hisheartbeat? A sword sliced the air beside him and Andrew lunged for it, striking its lethal edge away from his younger brother.
    “Damn it, Ciaran!” he yelled over the noise. “Kill or be killed!”
    He spun in time to block another blade, struggling to maintain his balance as his feet slid in the muck. He lunged against his attacker and plunged his sword through the bright red jacket. The dying man’s screams were lost to Andrew as another screeching blade struck beside him. Ciaran grunted with effort and Andrew turned, ready to fight, but Ciaran’s face was set with fierce determination. His sword screeched against his attacker’s, he stepped to the side, then, with a roar, sliced his blade across the soldier’s throat.
    Blood sprayed from the man’s neck, spattering Ciaran’s cheek, and he wiped his face clear with his filthy sleeve. It wasn’t the first time Ciaran had killed a man. His blue eyes caught Andrew’s glance and the brothers had less than a minute to exchange silent words before the crack of a nearby musket cut the air. Ciaran’s eyes flew open and he staggered backwards, hands pressed to his chest, mouth open in an expression of amazement.
    “No!” Andrew screamed. He spun toward the soldier who had shot Ciaran and was now frantically pouring powder into his weapon. Grief grabbed Andrew’s heart just as he twisted his dirk in the Englishman’s chest.
    Ciaran
. Andrew was at his brother’s side in an instant, the dead soldier’s blood still glistening on his hands. Ciaran lay still, blue eyes open, lips relaxed into a soft line. He stared up as if the smoke were no longer there, as if he were seeing again the open skies of his Highland home.
    Andrew had only a moment before the soldiers would overwhelm him. He knelt by Ciaran and took his brother’s face between his blood-smeared palms. How could this be? How could he be holding Ciaran like this, knowing those eyes would never blink again? Whywas it so much easier to envision his own death than that of his brother? And what of his other brother? Could Andrew survive if this day took Dougal as well? Dougal! The thought jerked Andrew back to the present and he laid Ciaran’s head on the earth. He leaned in to kiss his brother’s cheek and his thumb lowered Ciaran’s eyelids, shutting out the sky forever.
    “I will see ye soon, Ciaran,” he whispered.
    Andrew rose to his feet,