His former father-in-law turned around.
“The only one who’s going to die today is ye.”
Arthur sneered. “So the Laird crawls out of his castle at last.”
“Step away from her.”
“Come take me,” Arthur challenged. He widened his stance and squared his old shoulders, his sword held like a pledge. “Come prove that ye didnae finish what me lass started.”
Jack went down the slope fast, and steel met steel with a clash that rattled his teeth.
Arthur’s first strike was heavy and sure, not wild, and it forced Jack to jump to the side. He gave ground, felt the slope, and put it to use, drawing Arthur downhill where his heels would slide. Their blades clashed and slid and clashed again. Bark flew from the tree where a missed swing struck deep.
“Ye twist grief to madness,” Jack growled, locking guard and shoving off.
Arthur spat on the ground. “Yetwistedthe truth first. She struck ye because ye lied. Then, ye finished her and wrote a pretty letter.”
Jack slid left, drew Arthur’s guard wide, and swung. Arthur blocked it and answered with a jab to Jack’s ribs. Jack beat it aside and stepped in so close that his breath hit the old man’s cheek.
“She struck because shetriedto kill me. Ye want proof? Look.”
With his free hand, he wrenched the collar of his shirt aside to reveal a scar, pale and long, where Moira’s blade had struck him. Arthur’s eyes cut to it for half a second.
Half a second was all Jack needed; he drove him back two paces and kept him there.
“Lies,” Arthur snarled. “All lies. I’ll never let Emma raise me granddaughter.”
“Ye willnae touch Emma,” Jack barked.
Arthur’s glare slid past him to the rock where Emma stood with her hands braced behind her. He roared and broke his guard, charged around Jack’s right shoulder, his blade reaching for the space past his hip.
Jack pivoted, caught the blow late, and the clash shot through his arm like fire. He shouldered into Arthur and shoved him back. Emma pressed herself against the rock as if her life depended on it.
“Stay with me,” Jack called over his shoulder. “Daenae move.”
Arthur came again with a flurry of blows that belied his years. Steel sang. The old man’s breathing grew ragged, yet his wrists remained quick, and pure, unadulterated grief kept lending him strength. He feinted high, cut low, and struck the part of Jack’s thigh that burned like a brand.
Jack grunted, then answered with a hook of his hilt that jarred Arthur’s fingers and knocked him off balance for a second.
“Ye want the truth,” he panted, crowding in. “I never harmed Moira. I would have also let ye live.”
“Say it to me daughter,” Arthur growled. “Say it to the ground that took her.”
“I will say it to the God who hears us both,” Jack spat. “But I willnae say it twice.”
Arthur’s blade shot toward Emma again. He tried to break past with a twist of his shoulder and a shove to Jack’s chest.
Jack did not budge, his boots planted firmly in the soil. “Ye threatened me wife,” he said.
Arthur’s eyes flicked to Emma. It was all the answer he gave.
His decision settled clear as winter water. Jack wrenched his blade free, slipped inside Arthur’s guard, and drove the steel straight down. The tip found the gap under the ribs and pierced through the lung, then the heart.
The old man gasped once, and the shock bent his knees. His sword fell first, then he followed, his cloak folding under him as he crashed into the grass and lay completely still.
The forest absorbed the noise. Only Jack’s breathing could be heard. He pulled his blade free, wiped it once on the cloak without looking down, then turned to Emma.
“Are ye hurt?” he asked, hands already on her shoulders, then gentling to check her arms for blood and her palms for cuts.His fingers shook, and he curled them. “Tell me, Emma. Are ye hurt?”
