Arrows lit with fire flew toward the rowboats, lighting their escape in flames. Kerr shouted, tightening his grip on Isabel. But the change of course in the battle distracted him long enough that Lachlan watched her yank her dagger from her sleeve and stab the man in the leg, at the same time, Freckles climbed from her bodice and bit Kerr on the face. The man’s bellow of pain echoed, and Lachlan shouted, “Run!”
As warriors thundered down the ridge path in a wave of tartan and steel, battle cries rolling over the cliffs like a storm breaking open, Isabel took off. The guardians had come, answering the missive Lachlan had sent days ago.
Callum, the Red Blade, hit the English flank first, sword flashing as he cut down the nearest soldier, and directing his men toward Isabel. Kerr took off at a limping run.
Ewan, the Black Stag, followed with a laugh bright enough to carry through smoke and blood, driving through a cluster of Englishmen with reckless delight.
The battle turned in a single violent rush.
“Ye begin wars without us now, MacLeod?” Callum shouted from his side.
“Ye took too long.”
A soldier tried to take advantage of Lachlan’s distraction, lunging at him with everything he had. But Lachlan parried, taking the full brunt of the strike with his sword.
“We had English to slaughter on the road,” Ewan called back.
Lachlan scanned the battle, searching for the one person he knew he had to take down before this was going to be over. The one person he could not let escape or take prisoner. Kerr.
Kerr was down at the beach, limping as he searched for a rowboat that wasn’t on fire, when Lachlan bellowed his name.
The blasted man looked past Lachlan, where Highland warriors smashed into the English line and drove them back toward the sea loch. For the first time, fear entered Kerr’s eyes, replacing the arrogance of assured victory.
“We’re no’ finished,” Lachlan shouted.
Kerr grimaced, his teeth bared as he charged. Lachlan braced, ready to take him down, even if it took everything he had left.
Kerr attacked with vicious desperation. He sliced a shallow cut on Lachlan’s ribs, then he aimed for Lachlan’s wounded leg again and again, forcing him to absorb pain with each turn, each parry, each hard step across the blood-slick stones.
“Ye fight well for a wounded man,” Kerr sneered.
“And ye fight like a coward hiding behind foreign blades.”
Their swords locked.
Kerr leaned close enough for Lachlan to see sweat running through the dirt on his face. “Ye could have ruled beside men of power.”
“I kneel to no traitor.”
“Then die for your precious honor.” Kerr shoved hard.
Lachlan yielded just enough. Kerr in his arrogance left himself vulnerable, shoving with all of his weight. But Lachlan had prepared for just that, turning his momentum against him. Kerr staggered against him, his sword flying from his grip and clattering across the pebbled beach. Kerr lunged for the dagger at his belt, but Lachlan was quicker, snatching the dagger and stabbing it between Kerr's ribs, once, twice, three times. Warm blood sluiced over Lachlan’s fingers.
Kerr let out a guttural groan, his body slumping into Lachlan’s, but his arms punching against his head with a weak attempt to fight back
“Ye canna kill me,” Kerr gasped, blood pooling in the corners of his mouth.
“I already did.” Lachlan let the man’s body drop, staring at him as he convulsed in one final death throe.
For one suspended heartbeat, the battle seemed to pause. Then the English line broke. Without Kerr’s command, with Callum and Ewan’s men crushing them from the ridge and Lachlan’s warriors driving them from the gate, the retreat became chaos. Some fled for the rowboats, trying to douse the flames. Others dropped weapons. A few were cut down before they reached the path.
The roar of victory rose across the MacLeod warriors. But Lachlan barely heard it. He was already searching for Isabel.
Then he saw her running down the rocky path, skirts caught in one fist, face pale with terror and relief. The sight of her struck harder than the wound on his side. She reached him just as he lowered his sword. Blood had soaked through his leine at his ribs from the cut he’d sustained from Kerr.
“Ye’re bleeding,” she breathed.
He looked down, as though the wound belonged to another man. “I have been bleeding since Falkirk.”
