Alexander turned to face them, his body coiled like a predator ready to strike. “Come, then,” he snarled. “I’ll show ye what it means to face a MacAllister.”
One of the men laughed, a harsh, guttural sound. “Ye’re outnumbered, lad. Outclassed, too.”
Alexander’s lips curled into a cold smile. “Outnumbered, aye. But outclassed? Dinnae make me laugh.”
Michael stepped forward, his blade gleaming as he grinned at the group. “Aye, he’s right. We’ll send ye all back to yer maithers cryin’.”
James gave a sharp nod, his expression grim but determined. “Let’s see what they’re made of, then.”
The first attacker lunged at Alexander, his blade swinging in a wide arc. Alexander parried the blow with ease, his movements fluid despite the lingering pain in his ribs. He stepped to the side, using the man’s momentum against him, and drove the hilt of his sword into his temple. The attacker crumpled to the ground, unconscious.
Another man came at him from the side, his sword aimed for his ribs. Alexander spun, narrowly avoiding the strike, and delivered a swift kick to the man’s knee. The attacker stumbled, and Alexander finished him with a sharp blow to the back of the head.
Michael and James were locked in their own battles, their blades flashing as they fought off the advancing men. Michael took a hit to the arm but didn’t falter, driving his sword into his opponent’s side with a fierce roar. James managed to disarm one attacker, using the pommel of his blade to knock him unconscious before turning to face another.
Alexander’s muscles burned with the effort, his body still not fully recovered from his previous injury. But he pushed through the pain, his mind singular in its focus—protecting Helena.
Another attacker came at him, this one larger and more skilled. Their swords clashed with a deafening ring, the force of the blows reverberating through Alexander’s arms. The man sneered, his strength evident as he pushed Alexander back a step.
“Ye’re slippin’, MacAllister,” he taunted.
Alexander’s jaw tightened, and he feinted to the left before driving his blade upward. The move caught the man off guard, and Alexander’s sword sliced through his shoulder. The man let out a cry of pain, falling to his knees, before Alexander knocked him unconscious with the hilt of his sword.
“Alexander!” Michael shouted, his voice strained.
Alexander turned to see Michael bleeding from a gash on his side, his movements slower but still determined as he fought off two attackers. James wasn’t faring much better, a cut on his forehead oozing blood.
“Still think ye can take us on?” one of the men sneered, his sword raised.
Alexander laughed, though there was no humor in the sound. “Aye, I do. Ye’ll regret ever crossin’ me.”
Michael grinned despite the pain. “He’s a stubborn bastard, that one. Ye’d do well to heed his words.”
The clash of steel and the rain’s relentless drumming filled Alexander’s ears as he braced himself for another attack. His muscles burned, his breath came in short gasps, and blood ran down his left arm where a blade had narrowly missed its mark. Still, his grip on his sword was firm, his mind focused on one thought: Helena. She was out there, being dragged away by that treacherous bastard Chester.
Alexander’s body coiled, ready to lunge at the five remaining attackers, when something unexpected happened. A burly, dark-haired brute lowered his weapon. Then, with shocking speed, he turned and drove the hilt of his sword into the gut of the man beside him.
Two of the other men followed suit, one slamming the flat of his blade into the temple of the final man standing. Within moments, all of Chester’s loyal men lay unconscious in the mud, leaving only the three who had betrayed their comrades standing before Alexander.
Alexander’s sword remained raised, his gaze sharp and suspicious. “What’s the meanin’ of this?” he demanded, his voice low and threatening.
The leader of the three men raised his hands in a gesture of peace. He slid his sword back into its scabbard, his movements deliberate. “Easy, Laird MacAllister. We’re nae yer enemies.”
Michael, blood dripping from his side, stepped forward, his sword raised and his eyes narrowed. “Aye, that’s what enemiesalways say. Why should we trust any word that comes out of yer mouths?”
The burly man held his gaze evenly. “Because ye dinnae have time nae to trust us.”
Alexander’s patience was wearing thin, his body trembling with the effort of standing. His voice was as sharp as a blade. “Ye’d better start explainin’, andfast, before I decide that yer necks arenae worth sparin’.”
The man nodded, his expression earnest. “Chester has a horse waitin’ near the forest’s edge. He plans to ride out with yer wife and take her to his territory. Once there, he’ll marry her off to the highest bidder. A political game, aye, one that leaves her without any choice and continues this war between yer families.”
Alexander’s jaw clenched, a wave of cold fury surging through him. “That bastard will die before he lays another finger on her,” he snarled.
Michael, still holding his weapon at the ready, stepped closer, his voice grim. “And what’s yer reason for betrayin’ him? Ye were tryin’ to kill us only moments ago, and now ye claim loyalty to her?”
The burly man let out a long breath, nodding toward his comrades. “We served Lady Helena’s cousin, Ian, before he was killed. Before he died, we swore we’d protect her, even if it meant turnin’ on Laird MacPherson. We’ve been waitin’ for the right moment, and now it’s here.”
Alexander’s glare softened slightly, but his stance remained guarded. “And how am I to believe that ye dinnae mean to use her for yer own gain?”
