Page 79 of Highlander’s Quest of Desire

Leo’s expression soured, but he strapped his shield to his arm and swung the sword to loosen his wrist. Carefully, cautiously, both men stepped forward in the makeshift arena. Wind ruffled Bruce’s hair; it felt like a benediction from his ancestors.

This would be a challenging battle. Bruce was injured, and because they had grown up together, they had learned to fight together. If Bruce knew every trick up Leo’s sleeve, then Leo also knew how Bruce liked to fight. It would be difficult to surprise him.

“Ye believe ye were my friend,” Leo sneered, dodging closer and trying to land a parry on his left flank. Bruce managed to avoid the blade slashing through his thigh by slamming his shield down on it. “But ye were nae. Everything ye did carried a weight with it. Laird Grant may have given me everything the same as ye, but it had the taint of pity with it.”

“That was never his intention,” Bruce snarled, landing blow after blow on Leo’s shield, forcing him to step further and further back. “He treated ye like a son.”

“Why?” Leo screamed. “Did I ask it of him? My father was alive, but Emory’s was nae. Did he extend the same kindness to him? Was he any less yer brother?”

Bruce was taken aback by this statement. Had they really alienated Leo by giving him more care and attention because his mother was English? It was true that they had not treated any of the other bonnet laird’s sons the way they had Leo. He always got preferential treatment. But the fact of the matter was that none of the other bonnet lairds, nor their sons had ever complained or shown much concern for this.

“Emory is my brother.”

“Of course, he is,” Leo said, striking Bruce’s shield so hard he felt a hollow fire rage in his shoulder and nearly fell to his knees. “And ye didnae need to prove it to him, nor did he feel the need to feel wanted because he knew he belonged. By constantly reminding me I was one of ye, ye made sure I would question why it was necessary to do so. Who was questioning my validity as a Scot for ye to prove it wrong at every turn?”

Before Bruce could begin to form an answer Leo raised his sword above his head with both his hands and swung down, yelling his frustration.

Bruce’s shield broke in two, and his arm was numb. He just about managed to retreat enough to not get sliced from sternum to hip. Moving the arm was useless. He felt no sensation in it, and even though he willed his fingers to flex, they would not. So, pieces of shield hanging from his useless arm, he steadied himself.

He could not let Leo’s tales distract him from what he had done and what he risked losing. None of what they had done to him warranted stealing Bruce’s lands and sending him to prison. And even if his hatred of the Grants urged him to do so, what urged him to steal the Honors and declare himself king of Scotland? That was his own ambition, and the Grants had no part in it.

And then there was Elspeth. Leo had hurt her. Her bruises may have healed, but he could see the remnants of a cut on her lip. That he could never forgive.

“Give up, Leo,” Bruce advised, testing his grip on his sword. “Yer English troops have left; General Forester is nae coming back. Yer surrounded by Scots. I can promise ye safe passage if ye leave now.”

“I would rather die!” Leo declared.

“Suit yerself,” Bruce shrugged, only one shoulder moving. Charging at full speed, Bruce forgot about his lame arm, his exhaustion, or the guilt. He held his anger and used it to drive his sword, thrusting, chopping, and cornering Leo in from every angle. He might not have the strength of blow, but he had the speed. His swings came so fast one on top of the other, soon he had Leo panting and falling backwards, until he tripped on the kirk steps and his sword went clanging on the floor and away from his grasping fingers.

Bruce held the point of his sword steady against Leo’s throat. He saw the man swallow, the bobbing of his Adam’s apple, and the slick sweat that mingled with the dirt across his face.

“Do it!” he screamed. “End it!”

But Bruce could not. In his heart he knew that killing him was not the answer. What would be the difference between him and Leo if he did not show compassion?

“Emory, Nate,” he called. “Pick Sinclair up.”

“What are ye doing?” Leo yelled, looking frantically from Emory to Big Nate. “What is going on here?” Answer me Bruce!”

“Ye will take a few belongings, a horse, and ye will leave Dunnottar. Then ye will leave Scotland. If I or any of my men or allies see ye on Scottish soil they will nae hesitate to kill ye. But today, I donae wish to soil my hands with yer blood. I donae wish to give ye that honor.”

Leo breathed heavily, glaring at Bruce with intense hate. “Ye wouldnae grant this mercy on Emory.”

“I would never betray my Laird,” Emory growled.

“Take him away,” Bruce said. “I nae longer wish to set eyes on him. Make sure he leaves the castle, and set guards on the beach.”

“Aye, Laird!” Big Nate nodded and practically pulled Leo’s arm out of its socket as he dragged him toward the main castle building.

Bruce let his sword go. It clattered on the floor. He hadn’t had time to turn properly when warm arms embraced him from the side. The scent of roses and jasmine filled his nostrils, and he felt disoriented. Elspeth held him steady; her beautiful green eyes full of tears, were boring into his with so much love, his heart ached with happiness.

“I cannae feel my arm,” he said to her, grinning like a fool.

“Yer incorrigible,” she tut-tutted. “Every time we tell ye to take yer injury lightly, ye must go and make it worse.” The tears pooling in her eyes spilled out and slid down her cheeks, but she smiled as she gingerly removed the broken shield from his arm.

Bruce touched the flower crown and lifted her chin to kiss her tenderly on the forehead. It was over. He had won back his castle, and the love of his life.