Page 54 of Only a Highlander Will Do

On the offensive now, Tormod forced Alex back. Anticipation flared in Tormod’s gut as he pressed forward. A stroke of his sword took the blade from Alex’s hand. A second stroke caught the man in the chest and sent him flying backwards against the ground. He lay there stunned or hurt.

From out of nowhere, another swordsman appeared. This warrior was older, with grey hair and a full beard. Tormod recognised him immediately as the chief of the MacDonalds, Alex’s father.

“Damn you MacLeods.” The laird’s sword came down with great force and caught Tormod in the chest, slashing the tail of his tartan, severing his shirt, and glancing off the skin below.

The impact stole his breath for a heartbeat. Tormod’s gaze locked on the laird. If he had to get through the man to get to Rowena, he would.

The two seasoned warriors faced each other, equally matched. MacDonald thrust. Tormod parried, turned and pressed a counterattack. As the battle raged around them, they kept up the pace without a break in their strides or in the rhythm of their movements.

Out of the corner of his eye, Tormod could see Alex still remained on the ground. Relieved that the son was not part of this conflict any longer, Tormod lunged, catching the MacDonald laird in the thigh. The man stumbled and went to one knee. He dropped his sword.

Empty-handed, he kneeled and stared up at Tormod with both fury and fear in his eyes. “What are you waiting for? Isn’t this what you’ve always wanted? To defeat the MacDonalds?” The man remained on his knee, his chest heaving as he tried to catch his breath.

Tormod clutched the hilt of his sword, the weapon biting into his palm. It would be so easy to end the man’s life, but that was not what Alastair would want. His brother would press for Tormod to spare his life and have the MacDonald laird owe a debt of honour to the MacLeods. That obligation might yet help Alastair achieve the peace he so desperately desired.

Tormod’s breathing settled, as did his need for revenge. In reality, that desire had vanished the moment he’d married Fiona. She had changed him on that night, and every other night since she’d come into his life.

A scream interrupted Tormod’s thoughts. He shifted his attention from the laird.

Fiona. She fought against two men. He had to help her. Tormod turned back to the MacDonald laird.

The man was on his feet, clutching a sword in his hands. “You’re a fool,” he ground out.

Tormod spun. Too late. The blade cut into his forearm. Pain skittered up his arm, but he held on to his sword. Drawing on every fibre of strength he possessed, he hurled himself forward.

He caught the laird by the shoulders and together they slammed into the rocky ground. Tormod’s arm bled as they rolled together, both trying to gain the advantage.

In the distance, Tormod saw Alex gain his feet. Instead of coming to his father’s aid, the son headed inside the manor house.

“You should’ve killed me when you had the chance, boy,” the MacDonald laird roared. The older man rolled with him until they came up against the manor house wall, trapping Tormod momentarily.

Seeing his opening, the laird raised the sword high into the air.

Tormod rolled to the side, avoiding the blow by a hair’s breadth. The blade clanged against the rocky ground, sending sparks flying. Tormod gripped his sword, surged to his feet, and in a downward lunge canted the blade forward, sending both the laird and his weapon to the ground once more. Wasting no time, Tormod brought the hilt of his sword down hard against the laird’s head, rendering him unconscious.

Fiona needed him.

Frantically Tormod fought his way to her side, tossing warriors out of the way. He reached her. Two swipes of his sword later, the men who’d challenged her fell to the ground.

Off to the side of the most vigorous fighting, Fiona sagged with relief at the sight of him, then tensed as she saw his arm. “You’re hurt.”

“I’ve suffered worse,” he said, relieved that the cut was to his arm and not his chest as he’d seen in his dream.

Using her sgian-dubh, she sliced off the hanging tail of his tartan, and then tied it around his wound.

“Much obliged,” he said as he scanned the courtyard. All the fallen men were from the MacDonald clan. How had the MacLeods and the allies been spared so thoroughly?

Once the MacDonald warriors saw their laird upon the ground, they fled through the open gates. Those who remained fighting were showing sights of fatigue, indicating that the battle would soon be at an end.

Tormod took Fiona’s hand. “We must find Rowena.” He led her in the direction Alex had headed. Together, they raced through the manor house door.

“Follow me,” Tormod said, recalling what Marcus had told them about the layout of Monkstadt before he’d left to sail the high seas.

The castle’s staff huddled into the rooms, trying to stay out of harm’s way while the battle raged outside, as Tormod and Fiona passed. Except for a man and a woman who stood near the stairway. “Tormod MacLeod?” the older man asked. The two matched the description of Marcus’s parents that Alastair had recently shared with him.

“Aye,” Tormod replied. “Do you know where my sister, Rowena, is being held prisoner?”

The older woman’s eyes filled with relief. “She’s in the dungeon. Come with us.”