The animal reared, panicked by the violence and the smell of blood. Mhairi, still partially on the saddle, was thrown clear. She hit the ground hard, the impact driving the air from her lungs.
Alpin was running before she finished rolling. Ten yards. Five.
Then hoofbeats thundered behind him, and a voice cut through the chaos.
"You!"
Alpin spun just in time to raise his shield as Ashcombe's blade crashed down. The impact jarred his entire arm, but the shield held.
"She's mine!" Ashcombe shouted, his face twisted with rage as he guided his horse in a tight circle for another pass. "Legally purchased, witnessed, documented!"
"She's nae property tae be stolen!" Alpin blocked another strike, this one aimed at his head. "And she's certainly nae yers!"
"I paid a lot of scots fer that girl!" Ashcombe's next blow came from the side, forcing Alpin to dodge rather than block. "She belongs tae me by right of law!"
"Yer law is trash!" Alpin caught the next strike on his sword, metal shrieking against metal. "Ye have nay rights! "
They clashed in the center of the village square, the battle raging around them fading into background noise.
Ashcombe fought from horseback, using his mount's height and weight to his advantage. But Alpin was faster, more agile, and absolutely consumed with fury.
He ducked under a wild swing and hamstrung Ashcombe's horse. The animal screamed and went down, throwing its rider. Ashcombe hit the ground hard but rolled to his feet with surprising speed for a man his age.
"Ye're good," Ashcombe panted, blood trickling from a cut on his forehead. "Better than I expected from a Highland savage."
"And ye're slower than I expected fer a man who thinks he's so superior." Alpin circled, looking for an opening. "All that English refinement must weigh ye down."
Ashcombe lunged, his blade flashing in the morning light. Alpin parried, riposted, forced the duke back three steps. They traded blows in a deadly dance, neither giving ground for long.
"She's wasted on ye," Ashcombe snarled between strikes. "A girl that beautiful, that spirited, she deserves better than some backwater laird playin’ at nobility."
"She deserves nae tae be owned." Alpin's next strike came close enough to Ashcombe's throat to draw a thin line of blood. "Something ye're apparently too thick tae understand."
Behind them, Mhairi had managed to crawl to safety behind an overturned cart. Alpin caught a glimpse of her pale face, her wide grey eyes tracking their fight, and felt his resolve harden.
He would end this. Now.
Alpin pressed his advantage, driving Ashcombe back with a flurry of strikes that had the duke scrambling to defend. The older man was tiring, his movements becoming sloppy, his breathing labored.
"Yield," Alpin commanded, his blade at Ashcombe's throat. "Yield and get off me lands."
"Never." Ashcombe's eyes blazed with defiance. "I'll hunt her tae the ends of the earth before I yield what's mine."
"Then ye're a fool."
Alpin was raising his sword for the killing blow when movement at the edge of his vision made him hesitate. Graham, directing his men to circle around the village's weakened defenses.
And Peadar, spurring his horse toward the scarred laird with murder in his eyes.
Alpin's attention snapped toward the sound of clashing steel. Through the chaos of the battle, he saw Peadar and Graham locked in combat at the edge of the square.
"Graham!" Peadar's roar carried across the battlefield. "Face me, ye coward!"
The scarred laird wheeled his horse around, and even from a distance, Alpin could see the cold recognition in Graham's eyes. The two men charged at each other, their swords meeting in a brutal clash that sent sparks flying.
Alpin wanted to go to his friend's aid, but Ashcombe was already rising, reaching for his fallen sword.
He couldn't leave the duke, not when the bastard was still dangerous.
