"Kill him, Peadar," Alpin muttered under his breath, keeping his blade trained on Ashcombe while his eyes tracked the fight across the square.
Peadar fought with a fury Alpin had rarely seen. It wasn't just about the battle or protecting the village. It was personal.
Graham had orchestrated Kenina's kidnapping, had profited from the auction trade that destroyed lives. Peadar had been waiting over a year for that reckoning.
Their horses circled, the two men trading blows with deadly precision.
Graham was skilled, Alpin had to give him that, but Peadar fought with the kind of rage that made men reckless, or unstoppable.
Then Peadar's blade found its mark, slicing deep across Graham's side. The scarred laird jerked back with a grunt of pain, one hand clutching at the wound. Blood seeped between his fingers, dark and spreading.
"Yield!" Peadar shouted, pressing his advantage. "It's over!"
But Graham wasn't the yielding type.
Instead of surrender, he did something unexpected, he turned his horse and kicked it hard, sending it bolting toward the tree line.
"Coward!" Peadar's cry of frustration echoed across the square. He started to give chase, his horse surging forward.
"Peadar!" That was Kenina's voice, urgent and sharp. "Let him go! We need ye here!"
Alpin watched as Peadar hesitated, his horse dancing in place, torn between pursuit and duty.
The scarred laird was already disappearing into the forest, one hand pressed to his bleeding side.
Finally, Peadar wheeled his horse around and returned to the battle, but not before casting one last look at where Graham had fled.
Even from where Alpin stood, he could see the set of his friend's jaw, the promise of unfinished business written in every line of his body.
Graham had escaped. Wounded, bleeding, but alive.
The thought settled in Alpin's gut like a stone. It wasn't over. Not by a long shot.
But there was no time to dwell on it. Ashcombe was on his feet again, and the battle still raged around them. Whatever reckoning waited with Graham would have to come another day.
Alpin had lost track of how long he'd been fighting Ashcombe. Time had become meaningless, measured only in strikes blocked and blows landed.
The duke was skilled, Alpin would give him that.
Years of training had made him a formidable opponent. But skill wasn't everything. Fury counted for something too. And determination. And fighting for something that truly mattered, beyond pride and greed.
Alpin's blade found an opening, slicing across Ashcombe's sword arm. The duke's weapon clattered to the ground.
"Yield," Alpin said, his blade at the older man's throat.
Ashcombe looked past him, toward where Mhairi had emerged from behind the overturned cart. Even wounded and disarmed, his expression held obsessive hunger.
"She was mine," he said, almost wonderingly. "I saw her on that platform and I knew.."
"She's nae yers. She's nae anyone's." Alpin's voice was cold as death. "She's free. And she's stayin' that way."
Ashcombe's laugh was bitter, edged with madness.
"Free? There's no such thing as free for women like her. Someone always owns them, father, husband, master. I would have given her everything. A title. Wealth. Position." His eyes darted back to Alpin, feverish and wild. "What can you give her, Highlander? A drafty castle? A barbaric clan? She deserves better than that."
"She deserves tae choose," Alpin said flatly. "And she chose."
"She doesn’t know what she wants!" Ashcombe's voice rose, desperate now. "She's been sold twice over, treated like cattle her whole life. I could have shown her what it means to be cherished, to be valued."
