Page 65 of The Return of the Heir

Gwendolyn tried to roll into the path of the thug as he advanced towards Mrs Morgan. “Watch out!” she tried to warn the chatelaine, but too late.

Mrs Morgan cried out as he slashed her shoulder with his dagger. Gwendolyn reached the thug’s feet and slammed her body into his legs, knocking him off-balance. He tripped, stumbled, but then caught himself.

He growled his anger and prepared to attack once more when Garrick suddenly stood, regaining his senses. “We are here for Gwendolyn,” he barked as he ruthlessly picked her up by her hair instead of the ropes that bound her hands. “We must hurry.” The thug grabbed Gwendolyn’s feet and together they carried her down the stairs.

At the exit to the rear courtyard, the men found their way blocked by Becks. The aged servant gripped his sword with white-knuckled force. “Release her now.”

“Or what?” Garrick taunted.

Becks charged. He swung his sword at Garrick’s head and connected with his cheek before Garrick threw Gwendolyn’s body at the older man, knocking him to the ground. His sword clattered to the ground beside him.

The thug picked it up and poised it to strike Becks’s chest.

“No! Do not hurt him.” Gwendolyn cried.

“Leave the bastard to wallow in his failure,” Garrick said, clutching a hand to his cheek, trying to staunch the bleeding.

With a grunt, the thug palmed the sword and instead, whacked Becks on the side of the head with the flat of the blade, knocking him senseless.

“I hope there will be no more interruptions by devoted servants,” Garrick growled as he picked Gwendolyn up by the ropes at her hands once more. “Your next saviour, I’ll have no choice but to kill.”

The rear courtyard was empty, allowing them an easy escape down the path to the sea gate. The guards were not there, having moved to the front of the castle to help with the attack. Trying to make their task as difficult as possible, Gwendolyn squirmed against her restraints. She wiggled and lashed out with her bound hands and legs. “Let me go!”

Garrick dropped her to the ground once again. He bent down until his face was close to hers. “You stupid, stupid girl.” He slapped her again, this time so hard her vision narrowed to a pinpoint, then everything went black.

*

For the firsttime since his mother had died, Alastair prayed. He breathed every prayer he remembered as he urged his horse to faster and faster speeds. Those prayers caught in his throat as he neared Dunvegan and saw the ensuing battle. He slowed his horse and took in the scene. Fifteen or so MacDonalds lay upon the ground while ten more fought his men in the front courtyard. The fighting was fierce, and Alastair was filled with pride at their skill and resilience. “Come, Marcus. We can fend off any aggressors as we make our way inside the breach.”

“Agreed.”

Drawing their swords, Alastair and Marcus forged ahead, riding swiftly towards the castle. They met with little resistance as they guided their horses through the crumbled remains of the curtain wall and into the courtyard. Alastair inhaled the damp smell of sea air mixed with the tang of blood.

As he and Marcus entered the fray, one man raced towards them on horseback. Alastair charged, engaging the man in an explosive clash of swords.

The MacDonald warrior came around for another attack. “I’ll have your head for all you’ve done to our people!” Alex MacDonald’s sword hacked down in an arc.

“Why does your clan always forget it was you who started this feud?” Alastair deflected the blow, then pulled his dagger free and charged forward. He wasn’t close enough to strike the blow himself, so he palmed the dagger and sent it flying through the air, straight into Alex’s shoulder. The chief’s son tumbled from his horse and hit the ground.

All around Alastair, his men, his kin, wielded lethal blows, sending the MacDonalds to the ground, moaning their defeat as the battle turned in their favour. Alastair slid from his horse to kneel beside the fallen heir to the MacDonald clan. He pulled his dagger from the man’s shoulder.

“Come to finish me off?” Alex hissed.

“Nay.” Alastair met his pain-filled gaze as he pressed a strip of cloth from his own shirt against the man’s wound. “I intend to send you back to your father in defeat.”

Alex rolled to his side, then tried to sit up. “You have already lost.”

Alastair’s stomach clenched. “What do you mean?”

Alex smiled. “Garrick has taken what you treasure most.”

Alastair shook his head. “The Fairy Flag has been returned to us.”

Satisfaction shone in his eyes. “That is not what you treasure most.”

Gwendolyn. What had they done to her now?

Alastair knocked the smug smile from Alex’s face with a well-placed blow to the head that sent him to the ground once more.