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Anger burned inside Douglas’s heart, just as fierce as it had been on the day his parents died. It poured out of his eyes, and it raged through the open cuts of his naked body. Dark blood dripped from the open wounds, pouring down his flesh, looking stark against his skin. The pain bit and stung, and his limbs shook from the pounding they had taken. Fergus was a wily, cunning man, but he was also a fine warrior as well. He would not have been one of Laird Wallace’s favored if he hadn’t been. He was in a better position too. Douglas had been rudely awoken and stunned by the sight of Fergus standing there with a sword at his throat. Now Lyndsay was tied to a tree, and Douglas dreaded to think about what might happen if Fergus got his grubby, greedy hands on her. He chastised himself for allowing himself to fall asleep, and he was annoyed at himself for not covering his tracks better. He had allowed himself to be weak, to let himself be lulled into Lyndsay’s soft beauty and lose himself to the tender moments of the night when the world was still filled with danger.

“I’m nae done yet!” Douglas roared as he threw himself forward and tackled Fergus, sending the man staggering back. Douglas got back to his feet and tightened the grip on his sword. His breaths were ragged, and blood ran down his forearm, dripping to the ground where it stained the green grass.

“Ye may as well give up, Douglas. Look at ye. Ye are a bloody mess. Just let me hae my rights, and I’ll make it quick. Offer me yer neck, and ye will nae feel a thing. Then ye will nae hae tae worry about anything. I’ll take good care of this lass. I’ll make her love the Highlands.” His eyes twinkled with darkness, and it only caused Douglas to become inspired by aggression again.

“She’s nae just a lass. She’s my wife!” he thundered.

Fergus seemed shocked to hear this, but he was even more shocked when Douglas came upon him again with another sequence of blows. Douglas summoned all the strength he could muster and forced Fergus back, wanting to prove to the man that the fight wasn’t yet over. As long as he breathed, he would fight for Lyndsay. The last thing he wanted was for her to end up in the hands of this man. He had already decided that if it looked as though he was going to perish, then the last thing he would do was to cut the ropes that bound Lyndsay and at least offer her the chance to escape. If she couldn’t be happy with him, then he hoped that she could be happy elsewhere. Anywhere but the fate that awaited her with Fergus.

“Yer wife?” Fergus gasped as he parried a shot and danced away, twisting again to keep himself out of Douglas’s reach. “Why would ye curse yerself tae that? Ye know ye could never be leader of the Highlands with an English wife.”

“There’s more tae life than being a king. I’ve done a lot of thinking, and I realize that’s my uncle’s ambition rather than my own. But what kind of a world is he gaeing tae leave behind? He wants tae leave the world a wasteland, burning everything in his wake. He’s nae gaeing tae build anything.”

“That’s only in England. The Highlands are different.”

“Are they?” Douglas asked, his voice rising to be heard over the sound of clashing steel. “What dae ye think Uncle is gaeing tae dae if the other clans refuse tae honor him? What if they dinnae pledge their swords tae him? Dae ye think he’s gaeing tae be content tae sit in his wee piece of the Highlands forever? He wants a war, and he’ll gae tae war with anyone who opposes him. He’s gaeing tae leave the world soaked in blood, and I dinnae want any part of that,” Douglas said, surprising himself as the thoughts he harbored became real.

There was a moment where Fergus’s face was etched in confusion. Then he shook his head.

Fergus spoke with absolute certainty. “I dinnae believe ye. Ye can think what ye like, Douglas, but the world is gaeing tae be ours. One day, I’m gaeing tae inherit it all from yer uncle, and I’m gaeing tae be king. It’s time ye understand that.”

He fainted in one direction, and Douglas made the mistake of following him. Fergus quickly twisted his wrist and thrust the sword in the other direction, cutting a gash in Douglas’s arm. He cried out in pain and sank to his knees, the wounds beginning to take their toll.

Sweat beaded on his temples, and as it ran over his wounds, it mixed with blood and made him feel as though bites were being taken out of him. His head was light and hazy, and his vision was becoming blurred. There were so many cuts on his unclothed body that blood was seeping out freely, and he could almost feel as though it was a matter of time before the life slipped away from him. He turned to gaze at Lyndsay, and their eyes met. He wondered if this was how his parents had felt that fateful day when they had been slain by the English, knowing that there was nothing more they could have done to help their only child.

But there was still more for Douglas to do. As long as he had breath in his lungs, he was going to fight.

Fergus stood before him.

“Ah, the mighty Douglas Galbrith , the bastard son, is on his knees, where he belongs, just like his father. I hope ye can finally accept what I’ve known tae be true all along; I’m better than ye Douglas, and soon enough this English whore will know it tae. I doubt that her fathair would be proud of her.”

Douglas' eyes went totally dark by the insults of Fergus.

“Take that back Fergus!”

“And if I take it back, her fathair dinnae come back, will he? I’ve killed him with my own sword”

Lynday felt as if the world was fading away. She couldn’t feel her knees. Her father was killed by the man who would now kill her husband.

There was nothing but hatred dripping from Fergus’s words, making them as dark as venom. Douglas’s life began to flash before his eyes. There was a time when he was young and had been filled with anger but did not have the strength to match it. When his parents were killed, he was unable to fight back. The English murderers had been able to flee and live their lives untroubled, but now he realized that there were more enemies than just the English. Fergus was a brute, and Douglas should have killed him a long time ago. Douglas had been forged in the image of his uncle, but now he realized that he was more than that. Fergus was the favored one because Douglas had broken free of the shackles, and Lyndsay had shown him he could be more than what he was.

He owed her so much because she met his anger and violence with kindness and love, and it was a debt he would spend his lifetime repaying if she gave him the chance. He wasn’t ready for it to end now. He wasn’t prepared to let Fergus have the last word.

Douglas fought through the pain and ignored the taste of blood that swam upon his tongue and seeped through his teeth. He summoned all the strength he had left in his heart and gripped his sword, thrusting it forward as quickly as a bolt of lightning would flash through the sky. He held it there, looking at Fergus’s stomach as a dark shadow bloomed on the man’s clothes. The sword was deep in the flesh, sinking beneath the clothes and into the innards.

Fergus had a shocked look on his face. For a moment, nothing changed, as though he didn’t really believe it happened, but then he looked down. The sword dropped from his hand and clattered against the ground. He coughed, and an explosion of red liquid burst from his mouth. He collapsed to his knees, his mouth moving like a fish out of water. His gaze locked with Douglas’s. The men had been so close all their lives, their destinies linked, and it had always been fated that one of them would kill the other.

Douglas let go of his sword. To steady himself, he rested his hand on Fergus’s shoulder, bringing their heads together. They were both panting while the color was draining from Fergus’s face. The sword hung out of his body, the blade turning crimson.

“I’ve always been better than ye, Fergus, and ye know it,” Douglas said with haggard, rasping words.

Fergus gurgled in reply, and the men fell back, gazing up to the sky with open eyes. One of them had a sword protruding from their stomach, while the other was naked and covered in cuts, from which blood poured.

Douglas could feel the strength slipping from him, and he just hoped he had done enough. He hoped that Lyndsay would be safe. His head lolled toward her, and he smiled, knowing that if he had done nothing else of worth in his life, at least he had loved Lyndsay.

Douglas felt a soft presence beside him. It felt as though he was in a dream. A cloak was draped over him, and he heard fabric being torn and tied around various parts of his body. Through blurred vision, he saw the image of an angel, golden-haired and as beautiful as the very heart of the world. He murmured something unintelligible. The words were barely a whisper on his lips.

Lyndsay had managed to free herself from the rope and tree. She looked back to the rope that had bound her. When Fergus’s sword had dropped to the ground, it had been within reach of her feet. She had managed to bring it to her side and prop it up, angling it to cut through the rope that freed her. It would do her no good now, though. Fergus was motionless on the ground beside them both, completely drained of life. His glassy eyes stared into nothingness, and it was quite haunting to see him like this.

“Don’t die, Douglas. Please don’t die. I’ve only just started to be happy. I’ve only just started to realize I love you,” she said.

Her hands were all over him, tending to his wounds, trying to soothe his pain. His mind was reeling. In one moment, he was back as a child, helpless and unsure again, but for the first time in his life, he was free of his anger, free of his burdens, and it was all because of Lyndsay. She was the one bright, shining light of his life that had turned him from an angry warrior with nothing in his heart but rage to a man who had ambitions and hopes, to a man who wanted to love and forge a life and settle down with all the things he had assumed would be beyond him.

She had opened his heart and made him look at life in a new way. She had touched his body and his soul. He might have kept her imprisoned in that room, but he had been imprisoned within his own soul. It was his anger that had defined him for so long, but Lyndsay had shown him that there was more to him than he had ever believed before.

“I love ye, lass,” he said, managing to eke out the words before the darkness descended on him.

He reached up and caressed her cheek, running his fingers through her golden hair. If this was to be his last moment, then he wanted it to be defined by the love that he felt for her. He wanted to remember her in all her glory and the man he was when he was with her. He wanted to remember the tenderness and the affection and the vibrant desire that they shared. He held the night they spent together close to his heart and would carry it with him to wherever he ended up.

Then he felt something against his lips. He couldn’t be sure if it were real or a dream, but it was imbued with love either way. If this was to be his last memory, then it was a good one. He breathed deeply and let all the tension seep out of his body before he was welcomed by an abyss. There was a far-off voice calling to him from elsewhere. He wasn’t sure what it was saying, but he listened to it anyway and let it carry him like a leaf on the wind.