Page 133 of The Laird's Masked Desire
Shouts broke the silence. Steel rang. From the ridge, from behind the ruined walls, from every place that had promised concealment, men moved, no longer hidden and no longer restrained.
What had been arranged as exposure became conflict.
What had been intended as proof became battle.
Margaret stepped back, her pulse striking hard, though her composure did not wholly abandon her. Her father did not retreat. He watched, with a devilish grin on his face. And in that moment, she understood.
This had never been meant to be resolved.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Domhnall knew the moment it was lost. It was not the appearance of men along the ridges that marked it, for such caution he had anticipated, but the quiet, decisive word spoken where none had been expected.
“Proceed.”
In that instant, the last assurance upon which the plan had rested fell away. There was no time for reflection.
“Hold yer ground!” Domhnall’s voice carried sharply across the ruin, cutting through the rising confusion with the force of command. “Dinnae break formation!”
The land, which had seemed merely desolate upon approach, revealed itself now as something far less forgiving. From the heights and from the broken edges of the stone, men advanced in numbers too deliberate to be chance. They did not rushblindly. They closed, with both measure and intent, seeking not engagement but containment.
It was, beyond question, a design.
Domhnall drew his sword and stepped forward without hesitation. The first man who came within reach did not survive it. There was no flourish in the movement, just the practice of one who had long since learned that victory lay not in display, but in certainty.
“Form on me!” he called. “Hold where ye stand!”
The response was immediate, though already strained. His forward guard shifted to meet the pressure, shields raised, blades drawn, but the ground betrayed them. Where there should have been space, there was none. Where there should have been clarity, there was obstruction.
They were being pressed inward. Domhnall felt it at once.
“Cameron!” he called, without turning.
“I am here,” came the answer, close enough to assure, though edged now with effort. “They’re pressing from the ridge!”
“Then hold it,” Domhnall ordered. “Dinnae let them take the height.”
He did not wait for agreement. His attention had already turned elsewhere.
Margaret.
She was no longer where she had first stood. For a single, sharpened instant, he felt the cold talon of fear grip him. Then he saw her. She had been drawn back, as instructed, into what cover the broken wall could afford. Two of his men stood before her, with their shields raised and their stance firm despite the growing pressure against them.
It was not enough.
Domhnall moved. He did not hasten, though every moment pressed. He advanced as he fought, directly and without waste, his blade answering each approach with unerring force. A man lunged toward him. He turned the strike aside and drove forward without pause. Another followed, and he met him just as decisively.
Still, there were too many. Even as he pressed forward, he felt the line give. It did not collapse, not yet, but it yielded in small, dangerous measures.
“Keep them from her!” he commanded. “Dinnae let them pass!”
The men nearest Margaret tightened their formation at once, their bodies braced to absorb the force that bore down upon them. It would not hold indefinitely.
He knew it. They all did.
A cry rose somewhere to his left. One of his men was struck down. Another followed, and the space he had occupied closed too quickly, the line thinning where it could least afford to do so.
Domhnall’s expression did not change, but the fury in him deepened. Across the field, another voice rose.
