Page 135 of The Laird's Masked Desire
The pressure upon his line eased. Space returned where there had been none. His men, who had held under strain, now advanced, with their footing restored and their purpose sharpened.
MacGregor stepped back.
“Ye brought them,” he snarled, and the certainty within his voice was no longer absolute.
“I played the game according tae yer rules,” he growled back.
MacGregor’s mouth tightened. “And yet, ye stand alone.”
Domhnall stepped forward. “Dae I?”
The answer required no further words. MacGregor moved again, faster now. The balance between them had changed, and he felt it. Where before there had been patience, there was now urgency. Where there had been control, there was now the first hint of strain.
Domhnall met it without hesitation. Their blades struck again, harder now, each movement driven not merely by skill, but by years of grievance, of blood carried forward, of loss that had never been set aside. The sound rang out, sharp and unyielding, as if the past itself refused to loosen its grip.
MacGregor pressed, forcing the exchange, seeking to break through by sheer force. Domhnall did not yield to it. He turned each strike aside, not retreating, but holding, allowing the momentum to shift where it would serve him best. Steel scraped against steel, each impact shuddering up his arm, each one a test not only of strength but of will.
Then, there was an opening. It was brief, barely there, but it was enough. A flicker, a breath.
Domhnall seized the moment, remembering why MacGregor had gone there: to take Margaret. Her name cut through thenoise, through the clash, through the years, sharper than any blade. That very thought led his blade exactly where it needed to go, steadying his hand. His blade moved with final certainty, cutting through the guard MacGregor had failed to recover in time. The strike was clean, decisive, and it ended as such things did, not with spectacle, but with quiet finality. As single, irrevocable line drawn between what had been and what would never be again.
MacGregor fell in a motion that was abrupt and unexpected. The space around them stilled, for the man who had stood at the center of it all, was no longer there.
Domhnall did not look down at him. There was nothing more to see. The feud, which had begun long before him and taken more than it had ever given, ended not in declaration, but in fact.
He turned only to see that the field was already breaking. Without their leader, MacGregor’s men faltered. Some fled, seeking the paths now cut off, while others dropped their weapons where they stood, surrendering to the force that had closed around them from every side.
It did not last long.
“Take them alive where possible,” Domhnall ordered.
His men moved at once, the discipline that had held under pressure now carrying forward into control. Domhnall stood at the edge of the ruin and then spotted Kerr.
The man was no longer composed. He had attempted to withdraw, but there had been nowhere left to go. Two of Domhnall’s men had seized him before he could reach the outer line. His protest was brief and entirely disregarded.
“Alive, I want the traitor alive,” Domhnall reminded them, although every inch of his being wanted death for anyone who stood between him and Margaret.
Margaret’s father took that moment to move toward the treeline, seeking escape where none remained. He did not reach it. Gordon riders closed the distance swiftly, their mounts cutting him off before he could vanish into cover. He was taken, forced from his path and bound before he could offer more than resistance.
Domhnall walked over and. Looked the man in the eye. “Nay faither should treat their children the way ye have treated yer two daughters. Ye dinnae deserve them, and I will see tae it that ye pay fer what ye have done.” Then he turned towards his men. “Take both men tae the dungeons, I dinnae want tae lay eyes on them again. We shall see what the Crown decides of that fate of these men.”
Then, he finally turned to where his heart had been pushing him since he had struck down his enemy. Margaret was standing where she had been drawn back, no longer shielded now. The space around her was cleared. She had not moved far.
He crossed to her, taking both her hands. His gaze searched her entire being in one sweep.
“Ye are unhurt,” he said, feeling the relief.
She inclined her head and smile. “I am, because of ye.”
He pressed a kiss to her forehead, still feeling his heart beating wildly.
What had threatened them was ended. What had been set in motion had reached its conclusion.
Relief did not come as sudden release. It settled, slowly but surely.
He pulled her into an embrace, relishing the sound of their two hearts beating in unison.
“It is done,” he said.
