Isla wanted so much to throw herself against Duncan, to beat her palms against his chest, to slash at him with her nails. Hatred for the man rose up in her heart, and she wished then only to see him wiped away from the earth by Iain's hands. He had taken her true father's life, drove her mother to end her own, and stolen her away only to treat her with disdain all of her life.
No, he did not deserve the breath that he took in this very moment.
Iain, though, seemed like he was tiring. All around him, arrows flew from the farmers, and he was backing up further and further. Isla gasped as an arrow sunk into the grass next to Duncan. The man looked to never tire, his relentless attacks coming ever stronger.
Her beloved Laird was huffing for breath, but whether it was from rage or exertion, she could not tell. He looked as though he would drop his arm, and for one moment, he turned his head to look back at her.
Duncan took the opportunity to raise his blade high, poised to bring it down on Iain's neck. Iain's eyes met hers for a split second, and Isla opened her mouth to scream his name.
She took off running, unable to stop herself and, despite her previous words, her feet pounding the grass. If she could at least distract Duncan for a moment, perhaps it would be enough to save Iain’s life. She could not stand to be so far from him when he was risking his life to save hers.
Iain did not turn around upon her approach, but Duncan’s eyes flicked to hers. He was seething, she could tell from even this distance, and the moment that she approached, his mouth twisted in a snarl.
“Isla!” the man roared. “Yer comin’ home with me! A few nights in the dungeon ought tae remind ye whose clan ye belong tae.”
“I won’t!” Isla cried. “I know everything ye’ve done, yer entire scheme has been revealed! I will never call ye father again!”
“How could ye have done something so terrible?” Isla asked. “Ye stole my entire life! My mother, my father… Even my relationship with my sisters has all been a lie! All for the Lairdship…”
Duncan sneered, his eyes rolling. There was not a drop of remorse in his expression as he looked back at her.
“The Lairdship was more important than some wailing baby,” the man said. “An’ look at ye; ye continue tae wail even now. Ye an’ this dog here deserve each other. Yer a traitor tae the clan, Isla.”
“I am no traitor,” Isla said. “Ye are the one who should be ashamed. Ye lied tae yer whole clan fer years, and ye willnae get away with it any longer!”
Isla’s eyes flashed with burning rage. She mentally willed Iain to remove Duncan from this world, inwardly spurring him towards victory.
The only thing stopping her from living a joyful life all of these years was Duncan Robertson, and even still, he would stop her from achieving happiness now with Iain.
Isla grit her teeth in her fury, curling her fists. She calmed herself only by speaking silently to her parents inside her heart, telling them they would soon be avenged.
* * *
Iain hated the man more with each word he said to Isla.
He could not believe she had approached the battlefield, but he knew the woman he loved was spirited, with a mind of her own. Now, though, he had to work to keep himself from glancing at her. If he was distracted, it could prove fatal.
But the same was true for Duncan.
Iain had seen the man glance at her, his attention diverted. If he could throw the man off guard, he could perhaps knock him off his balance, and that would be the exact second that he would strike. With surprise on his side, it would be that much easier to take out the Laird.
Swiftly, he turned on his heel, rolling forward as best as he could with his heavy blade. The man's weapon came crashing down on empty earth, and with a frustrated cry of surprise, Duncan hefted it back up.
"Yer goin' tae have tae be quicker than tha' if ye think ye are goin' tae slay me like all the others," Iain said, his eyes bright with triumph.
Duncan's fury was apparent. He spun around to sneer at Iain's victorious grin, his shoulders heaving. The man's sword trailed along the dirt; it seemed as though he were finally tiring out. Duncan had railed against him, trying to show off his might and power, only to nearly exhaust himself.
"Iain MacThomas!" he cried. "I swear tha' mine will be tha' last face ye see! Tell yer father who sent ye when ye find him in hell!"
Iain snarled viciously, charging at the man and closing the space between them. It was now his turn to lash out with his weapon. Iain felt bloodlust rise up in his heart as the man made every effort to block him. The sound of steel crashing against steel filled the air. One of Duncan's men to the right of him took an arrow squarely in the chest and then another; with a startled cry, the man fell. Duncan did not even spare the man a passing glance as he stepped backward, parrying Iain's blows with desperation.
"Ye cannae win, Iain!" Duncan said. "Give up this foolish child's game and surrender!"
But Iain would not be abated. With every second, he was getting closer to tiring the man out completely and would take him down within moments. Iain's saw knew the perfect opportunity to strike would be the moment that the Laird paused, the second he hesitated in bringing up his blade. Duncan's mouth was hanging open, and he was breathing in rasping breaths; his rage was getting the better of him, and Iain knew that if he kept the man on edge, soon he would fumble his attack in furious frustration.
Iain, however, had been bent on being able to take on the Laird and end his life if he ever came face to face with him and knew that he had to keep his cool. He was thankful now for those years that he had dedicated to readying himself and his men. He had another burst of energy, a flare of excitement inside of him as Duncan faltered before him.
Iain raised his arms high, hoisting the weapon as high as he was able. He would cut this devil's throat, sever the ties that bound him to life. It was all the Laird deserved.
