Highlander's Tempting Stranger: A Steamy Scottish Medieval Historical Romance
Page 13
For two days, they had traveled along the ridgeline of the woods that led them to the border of the McDougal land, slitting the throats of any small war parties they had come upon. Arran was not going to be merciful in this battle, not after the horrors that were etched in his brain from what his clan had endured.
The only prisoner he would take was the severed heads of Laird McDougal and his sons so that the line would fall to no one save any female clan members.
“We attack in the dead of night,” Arran decided, knowing the keep was still a ways from where they were. “If there are warriors waiting in the trees, then we will fight until we reach the keep.”
Alistair laid his fist on his chest, a show of respect to his laird. “As ye wish. We will fight until the end.”
Arran nodded, mimicking his motion with one of his own. “Until the end.” On the battlefield, there were no titles that would rank one man above another. He was their laird but would give his life to save one of them at a moment’s notice.
The two men turned back to the woods, where the camp had been set up. It was a crude camp, with only bedrolls for sleep and small fires to chase away the impending darkness. One of his warriors had offered to erect Arran’s tent, but he had declined as they would not be in this area long enough. He wished to remove the threat, seek his revenge, and return to the keep.
It was as simple as that.
Scores of warriors were milling about, some sharpening their weapons while others talked quietly amongst themselves. Arran drew in a deep breath as he dismounted, feeling at peace with his men. While he had learned the ways of a laird and led his clan, his true place was here. These men could anticipate his movements and react far sooner than Arran could draw his sword. He trusted them with his life.
Arran strode to the fire and settled himself on the log that had been positioned there, accepting the bowl of stew from another so he could put some sustenance in his body to maintain his strength. Tomorrow, they would begin their assault on the McDougal land, and men would die.
Ale was passed around, and Arran took a long swallow, letting the cool liquid slide down his throat. The night leading up to battle was always the longest, where Arran would calculate their advantages and lament over his decisions until the early morn.
Was this how his da felt before his own battles?
What had been his thoughts before that moment his life was taken?
Had they been of his family or of the failure he had just found?
“Warriors!”
The ale fell from his fingers as Arran jumped up, reaching for the sword strapped to his back. Dozens of men draped in McDougal plaid streamed out of the wood; Arran’s heart lodged in his throat. He had let his guard down.
He hadn’t anticipated that McDougal would have the same plans as he.
The cry of the first man rent the air as Arran charged into the fray, cutting down the first Scot that dared lift his sword to him. The man screamed in pain as he clutched his stomach, but Arran was already moving to the next one, thrusting his sword into the man’s chest before pulling it back out, coated with blood.
Arran grunted as someone slammed into his back, a spiral of pain shooting down his spine as he turned and gutted another warrior, the man falling to his knees. He found Alistair surrounded by McDougal’s men, and he charged over, his sword clashing with the closest two as he fought them off.
A sharp burn caught his upper thigh, and Arran’s leg buckled before he was upright and fighting once more, ignoring the blood that was pouring out of his thigh.
“Ye need tae go!” Alistair was shouting, his face dotted with perspiration as he swung his sword. “’Tis too much!”
“Nay!” Arran shouted back as another sword caught his shoulder, the pain nearly making him drop his sword. “’Til the end!”
The other man shook his head and cut down the man before him, blood pouring from his arm. “A clan is no good without its laird.”
“Then Malcolm can have the seat,” Arran growled as he moved on. For what seemed like hours, he fought, his body ravaged with injuries as he gutted warrior after warrior. His face was sprayed with the blood of his enemy, his arms and legs heavy with fatigue. It was impossible to tell which side had gained the upper hand, with bodies littered all over the forest floor.
Another blow to the back of his knee sent Arran to the ground, the telltale point of a sword aimed at the back of his neck. Immediately, he thought of his brother and ma, who would be beside themselves in grief and anguish at his death. Was Malcolm strong enough to run a broken clan?
Would his clan survive if McDougal were not satisfied with Arran’s death? Arran knew he would not be. After all, he would be the same way if the roles were reversed.
“The great Arran Mcaiwn, lying like a snake in the dirt!”
Arran growled but did not rise, dizzy from the amount of blood he had lost. His death would be swift if that sword were driven into his neck, which wasn’t what could be said of others moaning near him.
“Tell me why I shouldnae kill ye where ye lay.”
“I have nothing tae say,” Arran forced out, his breath stirring the dirt at his mouth. His lips were as dry as the dirt his face lay upon and while he wanted to lunge at the other laird, Arran knew he couldn’t unless he wanted to be run through with a sword.
Perhaps he should die an honorable death.
McDougal laughed. “’Tis nice tae see ye at mah feet, where ye belong, but I dinnae want tae kill ye just yet. There are things ye and I need tae discuss.”
Sweat broke out on Arran’s forehead as he was hauled to his feet, groaning as fresh blood poured out of his wounds. When the fist connected with his stomach, Arran nearly blacked out, gasping for breath.
Another to his head had Arran seeing stars, and he winced as a fist grabbed a handful of his hair, holding his head back. Blood now blocking his vision in one eye, Arran could barely see McDougal leering at him. “I think I will take ye tae mah keep for a while. Let’s see how ye like tae be mah prisoner.”
Arran wanted to lash out at the laird, but his limbs were suddenly dead weight attached to his body, and his arms would barely move. His body was betraying him, stripping him of the strength he had and putting him in a position to be unable to defend himself.
With his good eye, he watched as one of McDougal’s warriors pushed Alistair to his knees, bloodied and beaten.
“We have no use of yer man,” McDougal was saying, sliding his sword back into his scabbard. “Will ye beg for yer man’s life?”
“Nay,” Arran whispered as the warrior pulled out his sword. “Dinnae do this.” This was all his fault. He hadn’t prepared, hadn’t put himself in the head of his enemy to anticipate his next move.
His men, those that sworn allegiance to him, was suffering because of it.
“Until the end,” Alistair croaked before the sword sliced across his throat, his blood soaking the tartan he had worn so proudly.
Arran cried out, and his knees buckled, heedless of those that were around him. Alistair’s body crumpled to the ground, and Arran wanted to rail against the pain and anguish, remembering how his second-in-command had been by his side faithfully since they were lads. Alistair had a family, wee bairns that would no longer have their da to lean upon.
All because Arran had not been prepared.
“Round up the rest!” McDougal called to his men. “They will be mah prisoners!”
Arran was pulled to his feet once more, but his legs refused to do his bidding. Instead, he was pulled across the ground, the skin on his legs being flayed alive by the hard ground. He could not get out of this, not now.
But McDougal was making a mistake by leaving him alive. He would have his revenge, somehow.
They reached the horses and McDougal glanced back at him. “Take care of him.”
Arran never saw the blow coming, his body and his thoughts sliding into blessed darkness without pain.
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