With his free hand, he kept Isabeau behind him, safe from the man’s blade as their swords met again and again. Sweat dripped from his brow already, down his spine, a war cry tearing itself from his throat as he parried the man’s blow. At the next opening, he didn’t hesitate; with a decisive swing of his sword, he cut the man through the chest, kicking him in the stomach to make him stumble back.
Then, just as he turned around, he caught sight of a Campbell soldier rushing towards his brother.
“Tòrr!” he shouted over the noise. “On yer right!”
“I see him!” Tòrr pivoted sharply, intercepting the Campbell guard pressing too close.
But the numbers only grew. Shadows flitted between torches—more riders, more boots pounding through the brush. The forest seemed to pull them in from every direction, but Michaelpersevered, feeling the press of Isabeau’s body close on his back as she screamed whenever a Campbell soldier came too close.
It isnae safe fer her here. I must get her somewhere away from the fight.
But there was nowhere for them to run. From the very start, they had been surrounded, and now the forces were closing in. Michael parried the blow of another soldier, pushing him back before he turned to the side to plunge his sword in another’s stomach. Blood fountained from the wound, drenching his hand and his sword, spraying over his face, the scent of it thick in the air, but none of it stopped him. He parried, blow after blow, holding as many men as he could back, away from Isabeau.
But there were simply too many.
Behind him, Isabeau had fallen quiet, disturbingly so. When Michael turned to look at her, he found her wide-eyed, looking at the corpses of the men laying on the ground.
“I’ll get ye out o’ here,” he promised her. “Hold fast, Isabeau. I’ll take ye tae safety.”
But she didn’t respond. The shock was too great, the sight of so much death too jarring for her.
Then a familiar, unwelcome voice slithered into the clearing.
“Well, now… if this isnae a fine sight tae end an evenin’.”
Angus Campbell appeared atop his horse, flanked by none other than Herman Forbes and Cody Grant. Michael recognized the men immediately—he had seen their likeness, and now, in the light of the torches, he had no doubt it was them. The three rode slowly, as if they had all the time in the world, the torchlight catching on Laird Campbell’s smile.
Immediately, Michael felt Isabeau stiffen behind him, in a way that she hadn’t even when she had witnessed all that carnage.
Laird Campbell tilted his head. “Ye really thought ye’d take what’s mine an’ walk away alive?”
Michael stepped forward, positioning himself fully between him and Isabeau. His voice came out low, steady. “Alyson was never yers tae keep.”
“Och, she was,” said Laird Campbell, his smile widening. “An’ so is the lass hidin’ behind ye.”
Isabeau flinched, and Michael felt it like a knife to the back. He wanted to protect her; he wanted to keep her away from all the pain, all the death, from her father who had come to take her back. But as MacDonald and Campbell men fell around them, it was harder and harder to find a way out of there.
Herman shifted uncomfortably, glancing at Cody, as if only now realizing what they had ridden into. Cody, however, sat rigid, his eyes locked on Isabeau.
“She should be returned,” Cody snapped. “She belongs with me. She’s promised?—”
“She was promised by a man with nay honor,” Michael cut in. “She owes ye naethin’.”
Cody’s face flushed red, like a toddler who was refused a toy. “She’s mine!”
“Nay,” Michael growled. “She belongs tae herself. An’ she stands with us.”
Laird Campbell snorted. “Words from a dead man.”
The Campbells surged forward again. Michael braced himself, but felt his strength truly falter for the first time. His muscles trembled. His breath came ragged. The chill in the air seeped into his bones and his lungs.
They were losing ground.
Near him, Tòrr slipped on the frost before catching his balance. One of the MacDonald guards staggered back, winded. Another gritted his teeth, slowing under the strain.
We willnae hold another minute at this pace.
Isabeau was still behind him. Michael could feel her breath on his neck, her fear, her attempt to stay steady. He couldn’t let herfall into her father’s hands. He couldn’t let her fall into any of their hands.
