“Ye didnae have to worry, Mary. I wouldnae have left ye to face him alone. I would have done everythin’ in me power to save ye.”
Mary nodded. The bond between the women was strong.
Several of the guests came forward to express their support for the women before they filed out of the kirk. Arran, Skye, Helena and Magnus were the last to leave the sanctuary.
What irony. If only one or two of them had spoken out against Blackwell before that last beating, perhaps none of this would have happened. But then, I wouldnae hae met Arran
The sun hung low in the sky, and the view from the kirkyard was beautiful. But it was quiet. Too quiet.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Just outside the churchyard, three of Blackwell’s bravos waited. Arran drew his sword as they advanced on him.
“Call them off, MacKeith! Ye will shed nae more blood than ye have already!” Arran yelled.
“Looks to me like ye are outnumbered, MacArthur,” Blackwell retorted, stepping closer to be heard. “Ye should be worrying about getting hurt.”
Arran looked relaxed, but he was ready to fight. He looked around, but Colin was nowhere to be seen. Nor were Douglas or Lyle. Had his men betrayed him? Or had they been ambushed coming out of the kirk?
He instinctively pushed Helena and Skye behind him. “Stay back,” he ordered, his voice stern but calm. “Magnus, see to their safety.”
The three men circled him, their blades shimmering in the fading sunlight. Arran looked at each man and assessed their strengths and abilities as best he could.
The man to his left was stocky, with arms as round as the pines that surrounded the kirk. His stance was menacing, and he held his sword, ready to strike.
The man in front of him was overly plump, and his eyes darted to and fro. He gripped his sword with two hands and looked as if he’d rather flee than fight. But the third man looked dangerous, as he appeared to be sizing Arran up the same way Arran was analyzing them.
Arran met the gaze of each man, his expression unwavering. “Ye are about to attack the Laird of Clan MacArthur on the command of a man who will be jailed for his crimes. Turn away now, and I assure ye, ye willnae be held accountable,” he warned.
His words fell on deaf ears, however, as the stocky man answered by attacking first. He swung his sword with a battle cry, but Arran sidestepped swiftly, his blade thrust out to counter the strike. The impact reverberated up his arm, but he held firm, twisting his wrist to deflect the blow. With a turn to his left, he drove his sword into the man’s gut, feeling the resistance as the blade pierced flesh. The man’s eyes widened in shock before he crumpled to the ground.
Arran did not stop. He immediately turned to the lean man, his sword aimed directly at his chest, and lunged. The manleaned back slightly, the blade narrowly missing his chest. Arran swung up his sword and slashed the man’s forearm. The man swallowed a yell of pain and covered his wound with his free hand.
Seeing a chance, Arran lunged forward and pierced the man’s abdomen with three quick strikes. The man fell to the ground, and Arran drove his sword into his heart, ending the man’s life.
The last man, the one with the calculating gaze, watched his comrades fall, and he dropped his sword and fell to his knees. “Please, me Laird. I beg for yer mercy. I surrender.”
Arran lowered his sword and nodded to Magnus. The enforcer would take this man to the council for sentencing.
He stood, his chest heaving with exertion. When he didn’t spot any more threats, his breathing started to slow and his thoughts turned to Skye.
He didn’t enjoy killing, but he felt relieved and satisfied as he sheathed his sword. He turned to where Helena and Skye stood. Their faces were deathly pale, and Skye’s freckles stood out in stark contrast to her fair skin. Helena looked ready to faint. Magnus hovered by her side
Arran motioned to a couple of the wedding guests, intending to move the bodies away from view, but before he could begin the task, a feral cry rent the air.
It was Blackwell. His face twisted with rage and desperation, he pulled out his sword and charged toward Skye.
“Nay!” Arran shouted, but his warning came too late.
Helena pulled away from Magnus, her protective instincts driving out any fear. She threw herself between Blackwell and her daughter. With a fierce shove, she managed to knock him off balance.
Blackwell swung his sword wildly, and the blade grazed her arm. A thin line of blood welled up from the cut.
Helena cried out and fell to the ground, clutching her arm.
“Maither!” Skye cried, rushing to her side.
But Blackwell would not give up. He reached Skye before Arran could. He wrapped his arm around her neck and pressed his sword to her throat. With a strength born from desperation and panic, he pulled a kicking and screaming Skye toward his horse.
