“You bastard!” Lachlan roared.
Flora didn’t have to strain to hear that. Lachlan lunged for Hector, but Rory held him back.
“Get my sister off that damn rock right now,” Rory said.
“Stay out of this, MacLeod. She’s my sister as well,” Hector said.
She couldn’t hear Rory’s reply, but she could tell he took umbrage at Hector’s claim of kinship.
“Flora will come to no harm,” Hector swore. He gave Lachlan a meaningful look. “Assuming Coll here cooperates.”
“What do you want?” Lachlan’s voice was deadly calm.
“It’s simple. You surrender to me, and MacLeod here will be allowed to rescue Flora.” Hector had planned it perfectly. A battle would eat away at valuable time. Lachlan might be able to break through and reach her…might. He seemed to have reached the same conclusion, because when he turned back to Hector, she could see the resignation in the set of his wide shoulders.
“No!” Flora didn’t realize she’d spoken aloud until the men turned to face her.
Their eyes met, and her heart squeezed. She shook her head. “Don’t,” she whispered. She didn’t want to die, but neither could she bear the thought of Lachlan giving his life for hers. Another wave hit, and she lost her footing but scrambled to hold on by sticking the tips of her slippers into a crevice.
Lachlan swore and then shouted to her, “Hold on just a little longer!” She couldn’t hear what he said to Hector, but she knew what he was doing when he dropped his dirk and started to unfasten his baldric. He didn’t hesitate, acting without thought. He was surrendering to his enemy, to the man he’d fought his entire life, exchanging his life for hers. Once Hector had him, it would be too late.
God, how could she have doubted his love for her?
A Maclean life is given in love for a Campbell.
The words of Elizabeth Campbell’s curse came back to her. She couldn’t let it happen. She wouldn’t allow the curse to become a reality.
Flora knew what she had to do. Lachlan was right: She was strong. She’d allowed her own fears to be the weapon that had nearly killed her; she would not allow it to kill the man she loved.
“No!” she cried again. “Wait!”
And taking a deep breath, she jumped into the icy blue water.
Lachlan heard her cry and turned just in time to see the splash. His heart lurched.God, no! Flora!Panic gripped him. He knew what she was trying to do, but she wasn’t a strong enough swimmer for these stiff currents. She’d never make it.
He glanced at Hector, who was even more surprised than he by what Flora had done. Obviously, he’d assumed she still could not swim.
Lachlan realized that she’d given him an opening. Taking advantage of Hector’s shock, he pulled his claymore from his discarded baldric and attacked—his only thought to save the woman he loved.
Hector raised his own sword, but it was too late. Lachlan would not be denied. Not this time. Not with Flora’s life in the balance. He felt a surge swell through him of almost inhuman strength, and with one mighty swing of his claymore, he knocked the sword from Hector’s hold. He spun sideways, rammed his elbow into Hector’s nose, heard the satisfying sound of bone crunching, and had his sword at Hector’s throat in a single move.
It all happened so fast, Hector’s men hadn’t had time to react. They did so now, but Rory and his men held them back.
“Call them off,” Lachlan warned. “Or I’ll stick this blade through your damn throat like you deserve.”
Hector’s face turned red with rage. He looked as though he wanted to argue, so Lachlan dug the tip of his blade a little deeper, drawing blood. He’d never wanted to kill a man so badly; bloodlust pulsed through him at a frenzied pace. It would be so easy to draw the blade across.
But something held him back.
He was Flora’s brother. And despite what he’d done, he knew she would not want him killed. Not like this.
He glanced out to sea, relieved to see her still moving atop the water. Damn, he was proud of her. She was doing it; she was swimming. But even with the tide coming in and carrying her toward shore, she was struggling. The current was taking her east, and she was trying to swim directly toward the beach. “Call them off,” he repeated. “Now.”
Hector’s eyes met his with such hatred, Lachlan thought he might refuse. He hoped he would. Then Lachlan could kill him with impunity.
Much to his regret, Hector lifted his hand and motioned for his men to stand down. It was over. Lachlan’s victory was definitive and swift, but strangely anticlimactic. Defeating Hector meant nothing if he lost the woman he loved.
Lachlan twisted Hector’s arm behind his back and shoved him toward Rory. Without another glance he raced down the beach, tearing off his cotun and helmet along the way—knowing they would only drag him down. Hector’s men parted like the Red Sea, and Lachlan dove headfirst into the waves.
