No one said a word. They couldn’t.
It had been proven over and over again how vicious the Baron was, especially when it came to anyone getting in his way. But he had always sent his men to do his dirty work. Until this moment, Oliver hadn’t considered that Dudley had ever been capable of such direct violence himself. Shock rippled through Oliver’s entire body. His hands went cold as he gripped his sword more tightly. His breath notched in his chest while his heart pounded against his ribs in a rhythmic warning.
“He was a traitor, just like you are. He deserved the death he got—a knife in the back. You deserve the same fate for betraying me!”
“The only traitor here is you,” Oliver raged.
Dudley urged his horse another small step forward and pulled his sword out.
“I will kill you all, starting with you, Blackwood!”
Lunging, Dudley kept his eyes locked on Oliver. His arm swung up in a clear arc that was aimed for Oliver’s head. Sorcha gathered the reins, tugging the horse out of the way, giving Oliver just enough time to lift his arm to fend off the blow. Time slowed as Oliver stared into the face of the man who had killed his father, who had completely upended his life all those long years ago. Oliver had spent so much of his life believing that he could trust no one because of the lies and plots the Baron told. And that was nothing to say of the destruction and death that had been poured out on the Kincaid Clan, on Taryn and the McGregors, and on Sorcha.
With nothing but a heartbeat to prepare himself, Oliver steeled himself to the task. He would rid the world of the wicked man.
To his left, he heard Taryn and James scrambling to join in the fight, moving their horse closer. Sorcha ducked her head, using the evasive defense to give her the split second she needed to pull her sword over the horse’s neck. Oliver blinked, and a breeze brushed against his cheek. He breathed in. But when he breathed out and opened his eyes again, time caught up with him.
Dudley let out a moan of pain, the sword he had poised over his head clattering to the ground. There, embedded in his chest, in what Oliver could only presume was the dead center of his heart, was an arrow. Only the feathers corded around the back of the flying weapon were visible. The Baron’s hands clutched the shaft of the arrow, shock, and horror scrawled across his face as he fought for breath. Before Oliver could so much as lower his own sword, before he could make sense of what he was seeing, Dudley fell.
The deep, sickening thud of the Baron’s lifeless body slamming into the wet earth was the only noise for a long moment in the little clearing. All four of them couldn’t seem to rip their eyes off the man who had tormented them for so long. In the span of half a heartbeat, he was gone.
There would be no trial for his crimes. There would be no chance of his escaping. He could harm no one now. Not even the sword fight Dudley had initiated posed the chance of leaving a single scratch on Oliver.
Slowly, Oliver turned over his shoulder to congratulate the man who had felled their enemy. His words were ripped out of his mouth as his eyes landed on the figure, just now emerging from the thickest of the trees.
“Laura!” Taryn shouted in surprise.
Her bow was still aimed, where Dudley had been sitting, hung in midair. Knight, the warhorse Taryn had borrowed from Aila to rescue Laura mere hours ago, eased his way forward. Sorcha spun their horse around, facing Laura with wide eyes shining with pride.
“Ye did it. Ye saved us all.”
Laura blinked, as if her own actions had shocked her, pulled from her stupor by Sorcha’s declaration.
“I could nae let ye have all the fun, now could I?” Laura answered, letting a slow smile cross her lips.
The five of them glanced one to another. There were no more guards chasing after them, no more Barons plotting their deaths. Taryn’s broken betrothal would no longer hang over her head or the future of her clan. Oliver could finally put his father’s death to rest. Lachlan and Aila could turn all of their attention to rebuilding clan Kincaid. And Laura—having surprised them all—could have a chance at rebuilding her life. They were free.
24
THE QUIET AFTER
Dudley’s death had sealed their victory, but their work was yet to be done. Their fields were still teaming with English soldiers. Blood soiled the ground and there were men to be buried. Leaving Taryn and James with Laura in the clearing, Oliver and Sorcha rode back out to the courtyard.
“Hold your head up, lass,” Oliver whispered in her ear. “We have the victory.”
She straightened in the saddle in front of him. Oliver, with his sword back in its sheath, had taken control of the reins, only for the excuse to have his arm around her once more. They made a handsome couple, riding through the astonished armies—her fiery hair blowing in the wind, while his dark features and golden eyes surveyed the people.
For the first time in months, she felt as though she could truly breathe. As if she could hold her head up tall without fearing the next awful thing lurking around the corner. Oliver’s warmth seeped into her back, his arm pressed against her waist, lending her strength she didn’t need but cherished all the same.
As they rode closer to the courtyard, closer to the waiting fighting men, Sorcha let her eyes drift over it all. She made note of the men pouring out of the castle, news having finally reachedthem that the battle was over. Men hunched over others, their injuries demanding support from their comrades. More than a handful of the Scots, their kilts rustling with the breeze and swords still in hand, were already drinking from their flasks. Whiskey was passed through the ranks of the victors, while whispers of fear spread through the English.
With Lachlan inside, still tending to Aila’s wounds, it would be left to her and Oliver to see things well and truly over. She wanted nothing more than to rush inside and check on her friend. Sorcha longed to pull those three precious children into her arms and assure each one of them that their futures were now secured. But they had work to do first.
Oliver led their horse to the center of it all, positioning them so they could all see and hear him. It was a risky thing, announcing to loyal soldiers that their leader was dead. It could mean an upstart in fighting all over again. But Oliver’s previous threats, his unveiling of Dudley’s treason, had sowed enough doubt that no one dared to raise their weapons when Oliver spoke.
“Baron Dudley is dead,” he announced plainly. “Gather your fallen. Tend to your injured. Water your horses. You have until sundown to get off Kincaid lands and until midday tomorrow to be out of the Scottish borders. Anyone I find lingering will answer to me for their crimes of treason.”
No one moved. No one dared to breathe. The Scots clutched their swords as they studied the English. Everyone waited to see how the soldiers would respond to the news about their leader’s demise. To Sorcha’s great relief, to all of their great relief, it seemed as though all fight had gone out of them. But Oliver continued in his address, furthering his point to quell any lingering unrest or loyalty to the Baron.
