An instant later, he reached the Macquaries.
They scattered like grouse flushed from the heather as Ruadh plunged into their midst. Bent low over his stallion’s neck, Craeg slashed his dirk. Shouts, grunts, and curses rang across the road.
But he wasn’t mindless in his attack. No, he went for the big brute who held Hazel in a chokehold. His blade slashed across the warrior’s face.
Screaming, he let go of Hazel.
Eyes wild, she twisted away from him, stumbling for the roadside.
Snarling a curse, Hamish Macquarie went after her.
Nat and the others reached them then, swinging down from their horses and drawing their weapons. Faolan’s snarls ripped through the air as his jaws clamped around a warrior’s boot.
Vaulting from Ruadh’s back, Craeg shrugged off his claidheamh-mòr and yanked the broadsword from its scabbard.
Macquarie was slashing at his daughter now, his dirk blade flashing.
Hazel had turned to face him. She held a dagger in her right hand, but she wasn’t using it. Instead, she backed away from the chieftain, ducking the lethal swipes of Macquarie’s blade.
Craeg dove between them.
Around him, the clang of steel and the grunts of fighting rang across the road.
But he paid none of it any mind.
Instead, his gaze speared Hamish Macquarie’s.
The chieftain bared his teeth. “Stand down, whelp. She’s mine.”
Craeg snarled back, even as he swung his broadsword. The blade was heavy, and he wielded it two-handed. It whistled through the air, and Macquarie reeled back.
Hamish’s dirk came up, but the smaller blade was no match for the arc of Craeg’s swing. Steel bit. His opponent staggered, his boots scrabbling on the packed earth.
“Ye’ll not touch her.” Craeg pressed forward, bringing the claidheamh-mòr around in a brutal overhead strike. Macquarie twisted aside, but not fast enough. The broadsword’s edge caught his shoulder, shearing through leather and flesh. Blood bloomed dark against the older man’s jerkin.
Macquarie howled, clutching at the wound. His dirk fell from nerveless fingers.
But the bastard wasn’t done. With his good arm, he yanked a second blade from his boot—asgian-dubh—a ‘hidden knife’, small and deadly. He lunged, aiming for Craeg’s ribs.
Craeg pivoted, bringing his sword’s pommel up. It cracked into Hamish’s jaw with a sickening crunch. The chieftain’s head snapped back. He went down hard, hitting the road.
The sgian-dubh skittered away.
Panting, Craeg stood over him, the point of his broadsword hovering at Macquarie’s throat.
“Move, and I’ll end ye here,” he said softly.
Hamish spat blood. His eyes blazed with fury and pain, but he obeyed him this time.
Around them, the sounds of fighting began to fade. Craeg risked a glance. Nat had one Macquarie warrior face-down in the dirt, knee planted between his shoulder blades. The others lay groaning, disarmed.
“Craeg.”
Hazel’s voice cut through the rage that still thumped in his chest. The rage then chanted.Kill. Kill.Hamish Macquarie deserved to die for this.
He turned his head, keeping his blade steady on Macquarie’s throat.
Hazel stood a few paces away, pale but upright. Her dark hair had come loose from its braid, and dirt smudged her cheeks. But her eyes—those fierce dark-blue eyes—met his.
