“Cody,” Herman hissed. “Ye’re outnumbered an’ outmatched. Move.”
“But she?—”
“She is nae yer concern,” Herman snapped, voice low and taut. “Come. Now.”
Cody’s jaw clenched hard enough to shake his whole face, but he allowed himself to be pulled back—not willingly, but because he saw the futility.
Michael took a single breath of relief, but then everything shattered again. A roar split through the clearing, deeper and louder than any before as Angus Campbell crashed into view like a storm, rage contorting every feature, several of his remaining men behind him. He saw Michael and Daemon facing Cody—and he saw Isabeau standing only a few steps beyond.
And in that fraction of distraction, he struck.
Isabeau’s gasp sliced through the air, and Michael spun around just in time to see Laird Campbell’s arm clamp around her, dragging her back, a dagger’s blade flashing in the torchlight where it was pressed against her throat. Her feet scraped against the frozen ground, her hands coming up in instinctive panic, but no matter how much she clawed at him, she was no match for his strength, his size.
“Nay!” Michael’s shout tore from his chest, raw and breaking.
Laird Campbell hauled her tight against him, breathing hard, triumph glinting in his wild eyes. “Thought ye’d take what’s mine an’ run?” he roared. “Nae while I draw breath!”
Isabeau’s fingers dug in his arm, her breath sharp, terrified, her expression contorted in fear. Michael lunged forward, but her father was quick to jerk back, using her as a barrier.
“MacDonald!” Angus bellowed, his voice booming through the glen. “One step more, an’—”
Michael didn’t let him finish.
He didn’t hear the rest of the battlefield. He didn’t hear Daemon calling his name. He didn’t feel the ache in his limbs or the cold air burning his lungs.
He only saw Isabeau’s face—pale, frightened, trusting him even in panic.
Michael surged forward with a force even he didn’t recognize. He tore past the Campbell men, past the hesitation, past everything except the singular, blazing truth that he would not let this end with Isabeau in her father’s hands.
Just as he raised his sword to attack, Isabeau twisted in her father’s arms, getting out of his grip just as he had taught her to do. When she stepped back to safety, Michael brought down his sword with a roar, but Laird Campbell was right there, ready to parry the blow.
The impact of the two swords sent a ripple through his arm, his very bones reverberating with the force. Laird Campbell attacked him with a fury Michael had seen in few men before, righteous, indignant. His counterattacks were frenzied, one blow following the other. Michael had no choice but to defend himself. He jumped to the right, avoiding the arc of Laird Campbell’s blade, then crouched low when he continued on the same path.
“I’ll have yer head, traitor!” Laird Campbell growled, bringing his sword down once more, only for Michael to push it back.
“Traitor?” Michael asked with a scoff. “We’re the one tryin’ tae turn all the Highlands against each other. If anyone’s a traitor here, it’s ye.”
Laird Campbell attacked with renewed fury, crying out as he tried to slice clean through Michael’s throat. Michael pulled back just in time, the edge of the sword nicking his skin just enough to draw a few drops of blood. Behind him, Isabeau screamed his name, but Michael couldn’t reassure her—not when her father was right there, swinging again.
But this time, Michael was ready. He parried the first blow, and then found his opening—Laird Campbell favored his right side after the first attack. And so, when the man made to strike again, Michael moved to the right, catching him with his blade on the left side, right under the ribs. With a grunt, he twisted his sword, plunging it even deeper, and Laird Campbell gasped, looking down at the wound on his side in disbelief.
For a moment, the entire world seemed to hold its breath. There was no sound in the clearing—or perhaps Michael couldn’t hear a single thing over the rush of blood to his ears.
Then, he pulled out his blade, and Laird Campbell fell to the ground and took his last breath.
Campbell eyes widened across the clearing, shock rippling outward like a stone hitting still water. For all his cruelty, Laird Campbell had been their anchor, their certainty. With him fallen, their confidence cracked clean through.
The men nearest him faltered. A few stepped back; one dropped his torch entirely.
Daemon reached Michael first, grabbing his shoulder. “He’s dead… Laird Campbell’s dead!”
But Michael barely heard him.
His whole world was the woman stumbling back into his arms. Isabeau clutched his tunic, her breath shaking, her eyes bright with shock and fierce relief. He pulled her close, his hands trembling, his forehead pressing to hers, needing her living warmth to ground him.
“Are ye hurt?” he asked, pulling back to cup her face in his hands and look at her closely.
Isabeau shook her head, breath unsteady. “Nay… nay, I’m alright.”
