His brother's face was a study in frustration, but he obeyed, wheeling his horse back toward the main fight. And that split second of attention cost Tòrr.
Munro's blade caught him across the ribs, a shallow cut but enough to make him stumble. The older man pressed forward with a roar, desperation lending him strength.
"I'll kill ye!" Munro's voice had gone hoarse. "I'll kill ye and take her back and sell that little bitch Nessa tae the worst man I can find! I'll make sure she suffers fer what ye've done!"
The words ignited something primal in Tòrr. His vision went red at the edges, fury and protective instinct merging into something that transcended thought. He parried Munro's next strike with enough force to send the older man reeling backward.
"Ye'll never touch her." Tòrr advanced, his blade moving in controlled arcs that drove Munro back step by step. "Ye'll never touch either of them again. Because ye're goin' tae die here, on yer own lands, surrounded by the corpses of men who followed yer orders."
"Then I'll die kennin' I was right!" Munro's laugh was edged with madness. "That bitches like me daughters are only good ferone thing—breedin' strong sons and formin' useful alliances! Ye can pretend otherwise all ye want, MacDonald, but in the end, they're just?—"
He didn't finish.
Liliane had circled behind him, moving with the silence Tòrr had taught her during their training sessions. When Munro's attention focused entirely on Tòrr, when his guard dropped for just a heartbeat, she struck.
Her boot caught him square in the small of his back, all her weight and momentum behind the kick. The force of it drove him forward, his already compromised balance giving way completely. He pitched toward Tòrr with a startled cry, his arms windmilling desperately as he tried to recover.
But Tòrr was already moving.
His blade rose, angled perfectly, and Munro's own momentum carried him onto it. The steel punched through cloth and flesh and bone, sliding between ribs with sickening ease. Munro's eyes went wide, his mouth opening in a soundless gasp.
He twisted the blade, and Munro's breath came out in a wet rattle. A blood bubbled formed at his lips, dark and thick. He yanked the blade free and Munro collapsed, his body hitting the bloodied ground with a heavy thud. His hands scrabbled weakly at the wound, blood pulsing between his fingers in rhythm with his failing heartbeat.
"Ye... ye'll pay..." The words came out garbled, choked. "The Pact... will... make sure..."
"Let them come." Tòrr stood over him, watching dispassionately as the last of the fight left Munro's eyes. "I'll kill every last one of them if that's what it takes tae keep me family safe."
Munro tried to respond, but only blood came out. His body convulsed once, twice, then went still. The great Roderick Munro, laird and schemer, reduced to nothing more than cooling meat on ground soaked with the blood of his own warriors.
Around them, the battle was ending. With their laird dead and Campbell fled, Munro's men lost whatever remained of their will to fight. Some threw down their weapons, raising empty hands in surrender. Others scattered, running for the trees and the dubious safety of the forest beyond.
The MacDonald warriors let them go. They had what they'd come for—victory, survival, and the death of the man who'd threatened their lady.
"Tòrr."
Liliane's voice cut through the post-battle haze. He turned to find her standing a few feet away, her men's clothing torn and bloodstained, her face streaked with dirt and tears. But she was whole. Alive. Safe.
He crossed the distance between them in two strides and pulled her into his arms, crushing her against his chest hard enough to hurt. She clung to him with equal desperation, her fingers digging into his back, her face pressed against his neck.
"Ye're alive." The words came out rough, broken. "Christ, Liliane, I thought I'd lost ye."
"I'm here." Her voice was muffled against his skin. "I'm alright. We're alright."
He pulled back just enough to cup her face in his hands, his thumbs brushing away the tears that streaked through the grime. Then he was kissing her, pouring every ounce of fear and relief and desperate love into the press of his lips against hers.
She kissed him back with matching intensity, her hands fisting in his shirt as if she could hold him there through sheer force of will. The taste of salt—tears or blood or both—mingled between them, but neither cared.
When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, he pressed his forehead to hers. "Did he hurt ye? The blade at yer throat."
"Just a scratch." Her hand came up to touch the shallow cut, already clotting. "It looks worse than it is."
"Everythin' looks worse than it is right now." Michael's voice made them both turn. He was dismounting, favoring his left leg, blood still streaming from the cut above his eye. But he was grinning despite the pain. "We won. Against all odds, we actually won."
"Did we?" Tòrr didn't release Liliane, just pulled her against his side as he faced his brother. "Campbell got away. And ye heard what he said."
"Aye." Michael's grin faded. "Every word. He's goin' tae paint us as the villains in this. Tell the Pact we murdered Munro in cold blood, that we attacked without provocation." He gestured at the battlefield around them. "And who's goin' tae contradict him? The dead?"
"The survivors will talk." Tòrr's jaw tightened. "Some of Munro's men got away. They'll spread their own version of events."
