The soldier screamed.
The third lunged with a bayonet.
Dubh barrelled forward, massive and furious, knocking him flat as Harris caught the glint of steel and kicked the bayonet aside, sending it skidding into the dark.
Fiona’s captor finally released her—only because he was too busy trying not to die.
He scrambled backward.
Harris didn’t let him escape.
He stalked across the clearing, grabbed the man by the collar, and slammed him into a tree so hard bark rained down like snow.
“If ye ever put your filthy hands on her again,” Harris snarled, voice low and lethal, “I willna wait for God’s judgment. I’ll dig yer grave so deep, the worms will freeze.”
The soldier spat blood. “Who the hell is she to you?”
Harris didn’t hesitate.
Not even once.
“My wife.”
The word snapped like a vow.
Silence dropped heavy as frost.
Fiona felt it like a blow—brutal, shocking, inexplicably warm.
“My wife,” Harris repeated, as if daring the world to contradict him. “Now run before I decide to leave ye here for the wolves.”
The man didn’t argue.
None of them did.
They fled, scrambling, limping, crashing through the underbrush in a blind panic.
Only when the last soldier vanished into the pines did Harris release his fist. His knuckles were bloodied, some his, most not.
Chest heaving.
Eyes wild.
Jaw tight with a fury so sharp it shook her.
He turned to her—and Fiona’s knees nearly buckled.
His coat was torn.
A fresh wound bled through his shirt.
Mud caked his boots.
His chest rose and fell like a war drum.
But his voice…
His voice softened the moment it landed on her.
