Page 59 of Savage Kilted Highlander

“You will pay with your life for ruining mine, you savage, Kerr!” Ashbourne bellowed, clearly infuriated by the truth of Ewan’s words.

Just then Agnes appeared at Constance’s side, taking a tight hold on her arm. Bane saw the twins exchange a look of terror, and he released Constance from his arms so they could comfort each other. But he remained close to her. He noticed Tav moving closer to Agnes in a similarly protective manner. As if sensing he was there, Agnes glanced up at him, and Bane was taken aback to see the look of fear on her face when she realized who was standing behind her. She inched closer to Constance as if shrinking away from Tav.

Admittedly, Tav was fearsome looking and covered in gore, but Bane was surprised by her reaction. He knew his brother had a soft spot for Agnes and clearly felt protective towards her, but Agnes did not feel the same way at all. However, there was no time to dwell on it. The girls watched in horrified silence, both of them shaking and wide-eyed with silent terror, as their father launched a ferocious attack on Ashbourne.

The two seasoned warriors clashed viciously, trading blow for blow with great skill in both cases, both fuelled by hatred, albeit of a different kind. Fighting without shields, they barged each other and tried to knock each other off balance, their swordplay fast and furious as they grunted and panted, each looking for the opening that would give them the chance to bring the other down.

However, eventually, it became obvious that Ewan’s onslaught was relentless and unyielding and Ashbourne was showing signs of tiring. He lunged with his sword point at Ewan, aiming for his chest, but Ewan skilfully blocked his arm and thus his blade, and struck the fatal blow that sent Constance’s stepfather to his knees, blood pouring from the gaping wound in his neck, in the narrow band of unprotected flesh between his mail shirt and his helmet.

Bane heard Constance cry out in distress as the man fell, clutching at the wound, his sword clattering to the cobbles. Ewan stood over him and finished him off with a single thrust to his chest. Lord Richard Ashbourne was no more.

While Agnes ran straight to their father and embraced him, crying with relief, Constance turned to Bane. “I cannot believe that he is dead,” she cried, pressing her face into his chest, her slight body shaking with sobs. Bane supposed her tears were of relief if not outright happiness after the misery Ashbourne had inflicted on her for so long. But he quickly realized there was more to it than that. “How ever much I despised him, he raised me as his own, Bane. I would never have chosen this end for him.”

“He chose it himself,” he told her, unable to spare any sympathy for Ashbourne, caring only that she was safe.

“But how am I going to tell Henry and Amelia that I watched their father being killed in front of my eyes by my father?” she asked through her sobs. She was genuinely distraught, and all he could do was hold her and try to comfort her as best he could, for as long as it took for her to come to terms with her stepfather’s death.

However, now the heat of battle had died from his veins, even as he comforted Constance, he started to feel woozy and unsteady on his feet. He became conscious that the wound to his throat was terribly sore, and his neck was stiffening up painfully. He reached up to touch it and his fingers encountered Tav’s kerchief. He was shocked to realize it was soaked in blood, and blood was running down his front.

He just had time to think the cut Ashbourne had inflicted must be deeper than he had first suspected before he was overcome by dizziness. Suddenly, his legs went out from under him, and he felt himself toppling to the ground. As he felt the hard impact rattle his bones, the world faded from view and then was snuffed out like a candle.

For the second time in as many days, he found himself pushing upward from the murky depths, striving to reach the light he could vaguely discern somewhere above him. At last, he broke through and emerged into it, opening his eyes, once again finding himself in unfamiliar surroundings.

“So, ye’re awake,” said a deep, gravelly voice he vaguely recognized.

Bane turned his head with great difficulty and a lot of pain, and made out it was resting on a pillow. He was in a bed, then. And Laird Kerr was standing right next to it, his hands behind his back, looking down on him. Thinking he was a phantom of some sort, Bane turned his head slowly, agonizingly the other way. He was surprised to see Constance’s sleeping form lying next to him.

“Where am I?” he managed to murmur through parched lips, becoming aware that his whole body was aching, especially his throat and neck area. Frowning, he reached up to touch his throat and encountered a large plaster, which seemed to cover its entirety. Ashbourne, came the thought.

“Ye’re lyin’ in a bedchamber in me castle,” replied the mirage of Ewan Kerr, rapidly convincing Bane that he was, indeed, real. As if further proof was needed, the laird drew up a chair and sat down.

“Ye and me need tae have a wee talk,” he said, his dark grey eyes as cold as glass marbles as they fixed on Bane’s. His unsmiling face was hard and weathered. In his expression, Bane recognized something of himself.

“All right,” he mumbled, trying and failing to lift himself up on his elbows. He gave up. “Can I have some water first?” he asked, his voice a mere croak. Without saying a word, the laird reached over to the nightstand and poured a beaker of water from a jug standing there.

“Thank ye,” Bane croaked again, noticing his hand was shaking as he took the beaker. But when he tried to lift his head to drink, the stiffness and pain in his neck made it impossible.

“Ach, c’mere,” the laird said with some impatience, taking the beaker back. He slid an arm behind Bane’s back and levered him up, which proved to be another painful experience. “Here.” The laird brought the beaker to his lips so he could drink. The water was cool and refreshing on his dry mouth and throat, tasting like nectar.

Once he had drunk enough, he nodded and thanked the laird again. The beaker was duly placed back by the jug, and the laird settled in his chair. “Ye realize that Tav is still in me debt fer savin’ him from Armstrong, eh?” he asked, his gaze boring into Bane.

“Aye, I ken it,” Bane replied, knowing better now than to try to nod.

“And that he agreed tae the terms of the contract.”

“Aye, so he said.”

“Ye understand that he’s here of his own choice, and he’ll be stayin’ until he’s finished what he started?”

“Aye, I understand. He told me so himsel’.”

“Grand. As long as that’s settled, then we’re square.” He made to rise, but Bane had a question for him.

“Aye, if ye say so, m’laird. What’s Constance doin’ here? Is she all right?”

The laird resumed his seat and glanced over at his daughter. “She’s fine. When ye collapsed out there in the courtyard, I had ye brought in here tae be attended by the healer. She point blank refused tae leave ye,” he said, with an odd edge to his voice, regarding Bane curiously.

A smile rose to Bane’s lips, along with a feeling of warmth that pervaded his chest. So, she had stayed with him the whole time he had been out. “That sounds like her.”