"Ye mean owned," Alpin interrupted, his blade pressing harder. "Like a possession."
Ashcombe's eyes flickered with something dark. "She is not like the. Mhairi..." His voice softened, turning dreamy. "She has fire. Spirit. She would have broken beautifully."
Rage exploded through Alpin's chest, white-hot and blinding. "Ye sick bastard."
"I paid for her!" Ashcombe snarled, all pretense of civility shattering. "I followed the rules of the auction, paid the highest price. She was legally mine. And then you, you Highland savage, you stole her from me!" Spittle flew from his lips. "EverythingI've done, everything I've sacrificed, it was all for her. Do you know what I've given up? What I've risked?"
"Tell me," Alpin said quietly, a terrible calm settling over him. "Tell me everythin' ye've done."
And Ashcombe, in his madness and rage, did.
The words poured out of him like poison from a wound.
How he'd bribed the auction master to ensure Mhairi would be placed on the platform, how he'd spread rumors to discourage other bidders, how he'd arranged for soldiers to be stationed along every road leading from the auction house.
How he'd planned every detail of taking her back to England, of keeping her locked away until she learned to accept her fate.
"And when you interfered," Ashcombe continued, his voice rising with each word, "I couldn't let it stand. I gathered my forces. I tracked you across Scotland. I would have burned every village, killed every man, woman, and child in the Highlands if that's what it took to get her back. Because she's MINE!"
The confession hung in the air between them, ugly and damning.
Alpin saw Ashcombe's hand move toward a hidden dagger a split second before it appeared. Saw the desperate lunge, the blade aimed at his gut.
Alpin's sword moved on pure instinct.
It punched through Ashcombe's chest, just below the sternum, and emerged from his back in a spray of blood.
The duke's eyes went wide. His mouth opened, but only a wet gurgle emerged.
He looked down at the blade protruding from his body as if he couldn't quite believe it was there.
"Fer every woman ye tried tae own," Alpin said quietly, twisting the blade. "Fer every life ye ruined. Fer Mhairi."
Ashcombe's lips moved, forming words that never came. His eyes, still fixed on Mhairi in the distance, slowly glazed over.
His body went limp.
Alpin pulled his blade free. The duke crumpled to the ground like a puppet with cut strings. Blood pooled around him, dark and spreading.
Alpin didn't spare him another glance.
His eyes swept the square, English soldiers fleeing, his own men pursuing them, villagers emerging from hiding.
And then he heard it. A scream.
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
"Mhairi!"
He spun toward where he'd last seen Mhairi, his heart hammering against his ribs so hard it hurt.
Through the chaos of fleeing soldiers and screaming villagers, he spotted her.
A man, one of Ashcombe's remaining soldiers, had her by the arm, dragging her toward a horse at the edge of the square.
"Get yer bloody hands off her!"
Alpin's roar cut through the noise.
