Page 3 of Highlander’s Captive

“Marjorie Cambel,” he said. “Where is she?”

The woman was John MacDougall’s wife. In the corner by the bed, huddled children. He looked around. There was no one else.

“Where is she?” he repeated, louder, pressing the blade tighter. “I dinna mean ye harm, I came for my sister.”

The woman closed her eyes tight. “Third floor,” she said. “Chamber facing east. Like this one.”

He released her, took out his claymore from the sheath on his back and opened the door slightly, peering into the hallway.

Could he trust the woman’s words? What if she sent him up so that he would meet the most resistance?

Well, Craig was going to find out.

He heard heavy footsteps down the hall. The ram battered the wooden gate.

He quickly climbed the narrow stairs and peered from behind the corner of the stairwell.

Two guards ran towards him. Sword meeting sword and shield, he began the dance he had been trained for since he could hold a weapon. Clank. Swoosh. Bang. One was down, holding a gash in his side, the other knocked unconscious.

Craig ran up the next flight of stairs.

The cries from the roof were louder on the third story. The scent of smoke filled his nostrils. The wooden roof must be on fire—he needed to hurry to get Marjorie out before flames engulfed the top floor.

He stepped into the hallway, quietly. One guard stood before the door to the bedroom. He turned to Craig. Their eyes locked. The man had just raised his sword when Craig attacked, hitting him with his shield. A second guard came from the stairs, and Craig met him with the claymore, slashing the man’s thigh.

More came at him, but downstairs a loud bash pierced the air, and the walls reverberated. Had his people made it through the gate? He ducked from the guard’s sword and stabbed him in the gut.

As the man fell, Craig hurried to the door that led to the west. He opened it—and was met with a sword slashing his side.

Pain blinded him, his own scream ran through his body. The floor shifted, dizziness filling his head.

He slashed back and missed the attacker. He fell on one knee and lifted his claymore to meet the sword. Pushing back, he stood up.

Alasdair.

“Ye pig,” Craig spat.

On the bed, a pale figure lay, dark hair spilled on the pillows, her face in the shadows. But he’d recognize his sister anywhere. Her bare leg, covered with bruises and scratches, caked blood on her inner thigh, was shamelessly visible.

Was she dead?

“What did ye do to her?” Craig cried.

“Only what she deserved with a willful character like that!” Alasdair snarled.

Roaring, Craig attacked again. But Alasdair was a much better warrior than any of his guards—he deflected, then went at Craig again, hammering at his sword. Craig’s claymore met Alasdair’s, but Craig was weaker, the pain in his side sucking away his strength.

“Ye will die, ye maggot!” Craig spat through his clenched teeth into the MacDougall’s face.

Alasdair’s claymore pressed against Craig’s, and finding strength deep in his soul, he pushed back. Alasdair swayed and stepped back, and that was enough. With one swift movement, aiming for the heart, Craig thrust his weapon. Alasdair screamed and stood, surprise mixed with pain on his face. Craig removed his sword, and the man collapsed to the floor.

Beyond the door, the sound of a skirmish grew louder.

Good. They were inside the tower.

Craig fell on his knees by Marjorie’s side, and the blood stood still in his veins. Her chest was rising and falling, although weakly. Her face was distorted—cut and bruised. One eye was swollen completely shut, the skin red and purple. Her lip was cut, and her nose looked broken. Her dress was torn and dirty. She was asleep. Or maybe unconscious.

“Marjorie,” Craig whispered and brushed his hand against her hair.