Black’s smile grew. Ciaran hated every instant of this, but he had to wait for his moment. He had to watch for any opportunity for Eilidh to get away from here unharmed.
“I’m certain that ye will be singing a different tune when he is filling ye with his bairns,” Black said, his tone suggesting that he was talking about some light entertainment, not that he meant to turn Eilidh over to be violated and brutalized. “But today is nae about ye, Miss Donaghey. Tonight, we are here for another reason entirely.”
Black looked back at Ciaran, and Ciaran understood that this was punishment for his defiance. He was going to make Ciaran watch as Eilidh’s trust broke because Ciaran had tried to refuse him.
“Tonight,” he said, pitching his voice louder, “we are celebrating Ciaran Gunn finally returning to us after spending so much time living with traitors to help histrueLaird rise to power.”
From the corner of his gaze, Ciaran saw Eilidh’s open-mouthed gape as she stared at him. Still, he remained impassive. Black wanted to upset him, and that meant that Ciaran needed tonot get upset. He needed to wait and see what would happen next.
“Ciaran,” Eilidh whispered, and it nearly broke his resolve. “What is he saying?”
Ciaran didn’t dare speak. The mercenaries were moving, and he needed to keep track of them all.
Black crowed into the silence. “Oh, Miss Donaghey, it’s the most droll thing. I’m sure you’ll be entertained. Our Ciaran here is Gordon’s dog.”
Ciaran fought not to flinch.
“Aye, he went to ye on his Laird’s orders, to retrieve ye for your wedding. Tell me, did he pretend to love ye to lure ye out here?” Black shook his head as though in sympathy. “That wasnae very well done of him, but dinnae worry, lass. He’ll be punished for nae killing the baby. I’m sure his lairdship will let ye watch. He doesnae forgive incompetence.”
The sound that came from Eilidh was so horrified, sohurtthat Ciaran couldn’t resist a quick glance in her direction. She was shaking her head as she looked at him, as though she didn’t believe it—but her eyes were brimming with uncertainty. She held a knife in her hand, and Ciaran almost wished she would have plunged it into his heart instead of looking at him like that. It would have been easier.
“No,” she said, shaking her head. “Tell me it isnae true, Ciaran. Tell me ye didnae plan to kill my baby nephew.”
“Ye may console yourself by saying that he didnae have a choice,” Black interjected cheerfully. “Just as ye willnae have a choice when ye marry Laird Gordon. Or as ye celebrate your wedding with your brother’s head on a spike.”
Black shrugged at this horrible imagery, apparently pleased with the thought.
Eilidh was still looking at Ciaran, though, and he could see the calculation in her eyes. She was putting together the pieces. She might not entirely believe Black, but she didn’t trust him, either.
Tears began to course down her cheeks in silvery tracks that reflected the moonlight. And something in Ciaran just—broke.
He was going to kill them all.
He urged Shadowbane forward, putting himself between Black and Eilidh, blissfully freeing himself from looking at the agony in her gaze.
“None of ye willevertouch her,” he snarled.
And then he drew upon all the training, all the experience of every battle, all the bloodshed and violence he’d ever seen—and he turned it against Black.
For her.
Ciaran became one with his sword as he slashed, spun, and slashed again. The mercenaries that leaped to get between him and Black were nothing to him. He parried and returned thrusts one after another, leaving body after body in his wake. When someone tried to seize him from behind, he threw back an elbow that shattered the man’s nose. When one of them tried to stab at Ciaran from below, he ran him through with his sword with so much force that it hit the earth beneath.
He vaguely knew that Eilidh was fighting, too. There was a remote satisfaction to that, if only because any man she killed was one less threat against her. Her horse kicked out at any man who dared come close; Eilidh moved with Grian’s movements effortlessly, as if she’d been born to ride him. Ciaran had come down from Shadowbane’s back after one of the mercenaries had successfully toppled him, and he was pleased to see his own mount stamp on a black-clad villain hard enough to shatter the man’s ribs. Eilidh threw knives whenever her mount stood still long enough for her to take aim.
Ciaran fought like he had never fought before.
And still, it was not enough.
There were simply too many of them. He kept cutting, kept fighting, but for every blow that he parried, another one struck him. A long scratch opened upon his leg, courtesy of a mercenary’s wild thrust of a knife. The handle of an axe struck his shoulder, sending spasms of pain through his arms and back.
Ciaran could hear Eilidh’s screams echoing in his ears as he was driven to his knees, and it was as painful as any of his injuries to realize that she cried for him—even after he had betrayed her, however inadvertently.
He kept fighting, even as more and more enemy hands held him in place. His sword was ripped from his fingers, so he swung with his fists, then just struggled when his hands were held tightly. He knew the only thing keeping him alive was that Black wanted to deliver him to Gordon for the final blow.
A punch landed on Ciaran’s jaw, sending his vision temporarily black. He clung to consciousness on sheer will as another of Eilidh’s screams rent the night.
“Get off me!” she screamed.
