Page 135 of The Laird’s Sinful Obsession

"Ye cannae win this," Lachlann said, his voice still calm. "Yield."

"I'll see ye dead first," Torquil snarled.

"If that's yer choice."

Torquil lunged again. Reckless, angry, the kind of attack a desperate man made when he knew he was losing. Lachlann waited for it, read the trajectory of it, and stepped aside at the last possible moment.

Torquil's momentum carried him past, his sword swinging through empty air, and Lachlann brought his own blade around in a clean, decisive arc.

The strike took Torquil in the side, just below the ribs.

Clean. Final.

Torquil made a sound––half gasp, half grunt––and his sword clattered to the stone. He looked down at himself, at the spreading red across his shirt, and then he looked at Lachlann with an expression of pure disbelief.

"Ye—" he started.

He didn't finish.

He collapsed, his eyes still wide, still trying to process what had happened, and then the light went out of them and he was simply gone.

Lachlann stood over him for a moment, breathing hard, his sword still raised. Around them, the courtyard had gone very quiet.

Torquil's men were staring. Some at their fallen laird, some at Lachlann, all of them clearly trying to decide what happened next.

Lachlann made the decision for them.

"Yer laird is dead," he said, his voice carrying across the courtyard with an authority that left no room for argument. "The fight is over. Lay down yer weapons and leave me lands or stay and join him. Choose now."

For a long moment, no one moved.

Then one man dropped his sword. Then another. Then they were all dropping them, backing away, their faces registering relief.

Lachlann watched them retreat, his sword still ready, until the last of them had cleared the courtyard and were scrambling down the path toward the beach.

Only then did he turn.

Alba was standing where he'd last seen her, her hand on Captain’s head, her face pale and streaked with dirt and tears.

She was trembling. He could see it from where he stood, the way her whole body was shaking, but she was on her feet and she was whole and she was there.

He went towards her and pulled her against him.

"Ye're all right," he said into her hair. Not a question. A statement he needed to make true by saying it.

"Aye," she said, her voice muffled against his chest. "Aye, I'm all right."

He held her tighter, his sword still in one hand, his other arm wrapped around her so firmly he was probably hurting her, but she didn’t complaining.

Around them, his men were beginning to move again. They started securing the courtyard, checking for wounded, heading to the village to help with the fires in the village, but he didn't move.

Not yet.

"He touched her face, his thumb brushing across a bruise that was already forming on her cheekbone. "Are ye hurt?"

"Nae badly. Bruised. Scared." She managed a watery smile. "But alive."

"Aye." He pressed his forehead to hers for a moment. "Ye're alive."