“Just because ye cut me doesnae mean ye’ve beaten me,” Conor said, but his voice was strained and weak. Fergus had beaten him, and he did not feel bad about separating the man’s head from his shoulders.
Blood sprayed all over Fergus’ face, chest, and tunic, but he did not care. He turned back toward the road where now the carriage was overturned. Jeane was climbing out, trying to run.
That’s me lass, Fergus thought before he was tackled from behind. He went down and rolled, turning with his sword drawn.
He wiped Conor’s blood from his face with the back of his hand and swung his sword, slashing across the man’s chest.
The man yelped and dropped to his knees. When Fergus glanced back toward the carriage, Jeane was nearly out, climbing from the carriage and setting herself down on the ground.
Fergus stepped toward her heavily, breathing hard from the effort, and then Bennet came up behind her, grabbing her around the waist and pressing a penknife to her throat.
A thin line of blood trickled from the tip of the knife down Jeane’s long throat, and Fergus’ blood seemed to turn to ice.
“If ye daenae want her to die, ye’d better keep yer distance.”
Fergus froze, holding his hands up, dropping his sword. He usually would never take his hand from his sword, but he would do anything if it meant that Jeane would get away from this safely.
He watched her, terrified, as she slowly dropped him a wink.
What was she about to do? Whatever it was, Fergus made himself ready.
“Let her go!”
Jeane drew in a sharp breath as the knife pressed against her skin, drawing blood.
“She’s me daughter,” her father argued, but Jeane could barely hear him. “She’s me property, nae yers.”
It felt again as if she were standing outside of her body, watching everything happen. Everything felt disconnected, as if she weren’t really here but perhaps at home in bed, sleeping. Dreaming.
But this was no dream, and Jeane knew it. She knew her father really would slit her throat. If she would not marry Lord Fraser, she was of no use to him, and he would bargain her life for his any day.
“Jeane Forrest is mine, and I am hers,” Fergus said calmly, staying right where he was, not so much as taking a step. “Ye’d do well to let me have her.”
Bennet snorted. “I willnae just hand her over.”
“I think ye will,” Fergus said, glancing at Jeane, and she acted without thinking any further about it.
She had winked at him because she had a plan, but she had not thought more than a few seconds ahead.
With all her weight and strength, just as Lottie had done earlier, she stomped down hard on her father’s foot. Startled, Bennet released her. Jeane rushed to Fergus, who pushed her unceremoniously behind him, picking up his sword.
“Ye get back here, Jeane Elizabeth Forrest,” Bennet ordered, and Jeane felt something in her seem to pull her toward him. Some leftover instinct from her childhood to listen to her father, to do as he bade her.
But she did not. She stood behind Fergus, cowering, not wanting to see what came next. She had imagined her father’s death ahundred times, even fantasized about it, but that did not mean she wanted to witness it.
“Ye were supposed to be me ticket to greatness. Ye were supposed to marry well and make me proud,” Bennet babbled, and Jeane stared at him, wondering how she could have ever thought her father loved her. He was insane. He loved nothing but money and power.
“Ye only wanted me for that?” Jeane asked incredulously. “I’m yer daughter, nae some steppin’ stone.”
“Ye’re nothin’,” Bennet hissed, and Fergus roared.
He stepped toward Bennet with his sword raised, and Bennet stepped back.
“Let me go,” Bennet begged, looking up at Fergus with wide blue eyes. “Please. I will leave her be.”
“Nay,” Fergus said flatly. “I daenae think ye will.”
Jeane squeezed her eyes shut when Fergus swung his sword a final time. She heard her father cry out, heard him crumple to the ground.
