"Tòrr, run." Her voice was steady despite the blade at her throat. "Get yer men out. Please."
"I'm nae leavin' ye."
"Touchin’." Munro's smile was ugly. "But futile. Did ye really think ye could just ride ontae me lands and steal me property?"
"She's nae yer property. She's me wife."
"Yer wife." Munro spat the words. "A woman worth less than the dirt beneath me boots now that ye've ruined her fer any decent alliance. Dae ye ken what ye've cost me, MacDonald? What yer arrogance has destroyed?"
"I ken what I've saved her from." Tòrr forced his voice to remain level even as his heart hammered.
"Saved her?" Munro laughed, the sound harsh. "Ye've doomed her. And yerself. Did ye really think the Pact would let this stand? That Campbell and I would just accept yer defiance?"
"The Pact," Tòrr snarled, "is a collection of cowards hidin' behind political machinations instead of standin' fer what's right. I'd spit on every last one of ye before I bent the knee tae yer schemes."
"Then ye'll die on yer feet." Campbell's voice was matter-of-fact. "Along with yer wife, yer braither, and every man who followed ye here. We'll wipe the MacDonald name from the Highlands and divide yer lands among those loyal tae the Pact."
"Ye'd start a war over one woman?" But even as Tòrr said it, he knew the answer. This had never been about Liliane. It was about power, control, the future shape of the Highlands. She was just the spark that lit the kindling.
"We're nae startin' a war." Munro's blade pressed harder against Liliane's throat, and she whimpered. "We're endin' one. Ye declared war the moment ye bid fer her. The moment ye took what was meant fer the Pact. Now we're simply finishin' what ye started."
"Faither, please." Liliane's voice broke. "Ye dinnae have tae dae this. Just let them go. Keep me if ye must, but let them go."
"Quiet!" Munro shook her roughly. "Ye've nay say in this. Ye never did. Ye're a tool, naethin' more. And since MacDonald's broken ye, ye're a useless tool at that." His eyes found Tòrr's. "But I've still got one daughter left. Young, sweet, biddable Nessa, who'll do as she's told. She'll fetch a fine price at the next auction."
The words hit Tòrr like torrential blows. This was what Liliane had been protecting her sister from. This casual cruelty, this reduction of human beings to commodities. This man who saw his own children as nothing but bargaining chips.
"If ye hurt Nessa," Tòrr said quietly, "there's nowhere in the Highlands ye'll be able tae hide. I'll hunt ye tae the ends of the earth."
"Bold words fer a dead man." But something flickered in Munro's eyes. Uncertainty, maybe. Or calculation. "Though I suppose we could negotiate. Ye surrender yerself, have yer men lay down their weapons, and perhaps I'll let yer braither and wife live. Perhaps."
"Nay!" Liliane struggled in his grip. "Tòrr, dinnae."
"Or," Munro continued, "ye can watch while I slit her throat and then kill every last one of yer warriors. Yer choice."
Tòrr's mind raced, weighing options, calculating odds. They were evenly matched in numbers, but Munro held the terrain advantage—and Liliane. Surrender meant death for all of them. Munro would never let them live, no matter what he promised. Fighting meant Liliane died first, her throat opened before he could reach her.
Unless.
His eyes found Michael's across the battlefield. His brother was bleeding but unbowed, surrounded by their best warriors. When their gazes met, Michael gave the smallest nod. He understood. They'd trained for this, planned for the possibility of everything going wrong.
Now they just had to execute it.
"Alright." Tòrr let his sword arm drop slightly. "Alright. I surrender."
"Tòrr, nay!" Liliane's cry was desperate. "Please, ye cannae."
"Wise choice." Munro's smile widened. "Drop yer weapon. Tell yer men tae dae the same."
"On one condition." Tòrr's voice was steady. "Ye let her go. Right now. Push her forward, and I'll throw down me sword."
"I think nae. She stays with me until every MacDonald weapon is on the ground." Munro's blade pressed harder. "Now dae as I say."
Tòrr moved.
He'd been counting on Munro's arrogance, on the man's certainty that he'd won. The moment Munro's attention shifted to gloat, Tòrr threw his sword. Not at Munro, he'd never get a clear shot with Liliane in the way. At the warrior closest to him.
The blade took the man in the throat. As he fell, Tòrr grabbed his weapon and charged.
