Ciaran glanced at his brother, dead on the ground. His gaze swung to Gregor then to the chief. “If you wish to negotiate the release of this woman, call off your bowman.”
“’Tis his wife you threaten.”
“Call him off.”
“Stand down, Gregor.”
Gregor lowered the bow and arrow, but didn’t relax his stance.
The discussion dragged on with unreasonable requests from Ciaran. Refusals from the chief.
“If I release the lass, you will allow me to leave a free man,” Ciaran pressed.
“You ken I cannot allow such without”—the chief held the man’s stare—“trial by combat.”
“Aye,” Ciaran agreed and tossed Emily aside.
She stumbled across the distance between her and Gregor and fell into his embrace. She quaked within his arms. He kissed her hair, her face, her lips. He held her tight, hoping to chase away some of the horror of her ordeal.
“Choose your weapon, lad,” the chief’s voice boomed.
Ciaran lunged behind a large rock and, rising with a claymore in his hand, moved into a defensive position.
“So be it.” The chief directed an abrupt nod to Duncan.
The big man pulled his claymore from the sheath strapped to his back and took a fighting stance opposite the other warrior.
“Nae,” Gregor bellowed. “He abducted my wife. ’Tis my right to do battle with the villain.”
“As you wish.” The chief inclined his head.
“Don’t do anything crazy on my account.” Emily grippedGregor’s wrist. “I couldn’t live with myself if you were harmed, or worse.”
“Dinnae ever again insult my manhood, my honor, in such a public display,” he said in a low growl meant only for Emily’s ears. She cringed away from him, eyes wide. He handed her off to another of the MacLachlan warriors. “Keep her safe.”
Gregor gripped the cold steel of the two-handed sword as he would an axe. The claymore was not his best weapon. He clenched his jaw. Anger at the doubt Emily held of his abilities burned in his gut. He needed to harvest that rage and direct it at his adversary. The man had dared take what belonged to him.
In a fluid motion, Gregor stepped forward with his lead foot, his sword stretched out in front of his torso, blade in a diagonal position, cross guard held high, tip pointed slightly back, and faced his opponent.
Ciaran circled, and Gregor followed his movement. The man attacked.
Gregor warded the blow with the flat of his blade, close to the hilt, diminishing the power of the strike. Using his sword and body as one, he counterattacked. With the clang of steel against steel, the blow hit the other sword in time with the motion of his hips and the completion of his step, jarring the length of his arm.
Ciaran backed away, circled again.
Strike following strike, blow following blow, one attacking and one defending, the fight continued.
Weariness took its toll. Gregor must end this, and quick.
Their blades crossed. Gregor released one hand from his sword and gripped the hilt of Ciaran’s sword between the man’s hands, slipped a foot behind his leg, and forced him down to the ground. In a follow-through, the point of Gregor’s sword pricked the man’s throat, and with just the right amount of pressure drew a few drops of blood that ran down the man’s neck. “Yield?”
“Never.”
The chief gave Gregor an abrupt nod.
With no other choice, he twisted his grip on the sword, applied force, and pierced the man’s jugular. Hot blood spurted up Gregor’s arm and a metallic scent affronted his nostrils, as the other man’s life bled away.
He dropped the sword to the ground. Bent over, hands on knees, and gulped large quantities of air. When he raised his head, his gaze found Emily within the crowd. She held her stomach as if in pain. Her lips were pressed tight in disapproval. Her gaze condemning. She looked upon him as if he were the devil incarnate. Her horrified expression sliced him to the core.
