Page 72 of The Highlander’s Defiant Bride

Each time she lifted it, the metal wavered. Each time she brought it down, her muscles screamed. She was no warrior; she could feel that truth in every shaking breath, but she met the fray all the same, teeth clenched, heart pounding, determined not to falter.

She was untrained. She was afraid. But she stood with him. She fought because there was nothing else left to do. Each time she swung, she saw another face twisted in hate, and she fought harder for Cameron, for his kin, for all the little children who deserved to live another day. Her arms burned, her lungs were desperate for air, her dress was shredded at the sleeves, and still she pressed forward, not for glory, but for survival.

“Behind me,” Cameron shouted again, his voice rough and urgent, and she obeyed, stumbling into the narrow space of safety his body created. His back was a wall of protection, broad and unyielding.

As the battle raged on, she drew a startled breath as she looked at the man who shielded her. Never had she loved so fiercely. Never had she known fear so sharp.

The Mackenzies came in waves, their rage like fire, shouting curses of vengeance. Traitors, king’s dogs, oath-breakers. They fought for blood, not justice. They fought because they could not bear the shame of being denied.

A blow caught her shoulder, drawing a sliver of blood. She cried out, staggering. Cameron’s sword flashed, and her attacker was gone.

“Stay down,” he shouted, but when he turned to face the next man, she saw the fatigue in his movements, the way his breath rasped. He was running on sheer will alone.

“Cameron,” she gasped. “Behind us.”

He spun in time to block the blade aimed at his spine. But another Mackenzie lunged from the flank, his sword raised for a killing blow.

Destiny did not think. She acted. Her arm came up, the borrowed sword heavy but sure in her grasp, and she drove it forward with all her strength. The blade struck true, sliding between the man’s ribs. His eyes went wide, the sound that left his throat half-gasp, half-disbelief, before he crumpled to the ground.

For an instant, the world went still.

Her stomach clenched, her breath caught, as the weight of what she had done hit her. She looked down at her hands, slick with sweat and blood, and for a moment, she feared she might be sick. But then her gaze lifted, finding Cameron.

He stood before her, fierce and unyielding, his sword flashing as he turned back another attacker. The morning light caught the lines of his face, revealing grit, exhaustion, resolve. Not cruelty. Never cruelty.

The truth struck her hard. He is not a butcher.

This violence was not savagery. It was sacrifice. Protection. Every swing of his sword was not born of hunger for death, but of desperate love for his clan, for his people, for her.

The tremor in her hands stilled. She understood, finally, what he carried on his shoulders every day. The weight, the duty, the endless choosing of who must live so others might not die.

“I see you, Cameron,” she whispered, though her voice was lost in the chaos. “I understand now.”

She tightened her grip on the sword, steadied her breath, and stepped to his side. No longer frightened of the man who fought beside her, but proud to fight for what he fought for.

*

He felt the shift before he saw it. The sudden nearness of Destiny, the ring of steel that was not his own. He turned just in time to see her sword slide home, her face pale but unflinching as the Mackenzie fell at her feet.

For a heartbeat, the battle noise dulled, drowned beneath the pulse roaring in his ears. He reached for her, half in fear she had been hurt, half in disbelief.

“Destiny.”

But she was already steadying herself, shoulders squared, breath coming in hard, even bursts. Her gaze met his and what he saw there stole the words from his tongue—no terror, no doubt, no revulsion. Only fierce resolve and understanding.

In her eyes, he saw the truth she had never spoken before. She knew now what it meant to fight. To protect. To hold others’ lives in one’s hands, as he did.

And she no longer feared him for it.

Cameron’s chest ached with something deeper than pride. It was love, sharp and unexpected, cutting through the chaos like sunlight breaking through storm clouds.

“Stay close,” he said hoarsely, his hand brushing hers for the barest instant before he turned back to the fray.

But even as he fought, he was aware of her beside him. The swing of her arm. The defiance in her stance. The quiet, fierce grace that set her apart from every soul on that field.

She had once feared him as the Butcher. Now she fought beside him as his equal. And in that moment, Cameron Munro knew that whatever happened next, he would live—or die—utterly devoted to his Highland bride.

Chapter Twenty-Four