Highland Wrath

by Madeline Martin

  “Ye may have youth, lad, but I’ve got decades of experience.” He feinted left and right several times before throwing his fist toward Ian.

  He moved too damn fast, and his punch hit Ian in the chest like a blacksmith’s hammer, knocking the wind from him. Ian staggered back and immediately leapt forward again. He jerked his blade from his belt and swiped at Donald, catching him in the side. Blood blossomed on the white fabric of Donald’s léine.

  Ian crouched low and circled his father. “This ends now.”

  Donald shook his head. “It never ends. Or ye willna live to tell.” He leapt at Ian, who darted out of his path and swiped at the air again. This time Ian’s blade caught nothing.

  His mother’s face flashed in his mind, gentle and kind and beautiful. He would avenge her.

  Rage roared up through Ian’s throat, and he charged at his father. He landed a punch on Donald’s face, somewhere hard and solid. Pain lanced through his fist and up his arm.

  His father recovered first and hit Ian just under the chin, sending his world into black.

  Awareness did not leave him long. The world swam back up to greet him with a vicious bite of reality. His face lay on the worn wooden floor, his chest pushed down by an unseen force on his back. Someone wrenched his arms backward and secured his wrists with something rough.

  The confusion stilled him for only a second before he bucked wildly against the person binding him. Not just any person. His father.

  “I told ye ye’re nay a match for me, lad.” Donald panted around his words and gave a great groan as the weight lifted from Ian’s back.

  Ian wriggled on his side to flip over. His knuckles pressed into the ground, but he ignored the discomfort. “What are ye going to do? Tie me up until I agree to go along with yer madness?”

  Donald squatted beside his son, and one of his knees popped. “Tie ye up while I go see to yer wife.”

  Ian’s body went cold as ice, and he stopped struggling.

  Donald rose and stood over Ian. “I’ve got unfinished business with the lass.”

  Ian twisted against his bonds. The rope was securely fastened. “Stop. Dinna do this.”

  Donald strode to the door and stopped. “Ye’ll forgive me one of these days. Ye’ll understand.”

  “Dinna hurt her.” Ian writhed against the ropes holding his arms behind his back and tried to kick his legs. His ankles were tied as well.

  “I dinna intend to hurt her,” Donald said. “I mean to kill her.”

  The door closed and Ian was alone, bound and helpless to save his wife.

  Chapter 33

  A knock at the door set Sylvi’s heart racing. If the person on the other side was Ian, he would have entered.

  She slipped a dagger from her pocket and approached the door. Her pulse thundered in her ears, and her skin tingled with such heightened awareness, she felt as if it’d leap from her body. She drew a long, slow breath and pulled open the door.

  Laird Campbell shoved into the room and kicked the door shut behind them. “I know who ye are.”

  Sylvi had time to snatch her dagger from her belt before Laird Campbell stalked toward her. The kindness she had found in his brown eyes had burned away into glinting anger. “Ye Norse bitch.”

  Her brain raced with tactics to fight, to flee, and through it all—worry for Ian. Sylvi readjusted her firm grip on her dagger and backed into the room. There would be more open space for her to fight in there. She knew well her room, the layout, what was where—it was an advantage she might need.

  “Where’s Ian?” she asked.

  Laird Campbell narrowed his eyes at her. “Ye tried to turn him against me.”

  Fear prickled like ice over her skin. “Did you kill him?”

  “Of course I dinna kill him.” He reached into the excess folds of his plaid where it was slung over his shoulder and withdrew a pistol. “He’ll come to understand, and he’ll forgive me.” He raised the pistol. “Even for killing ye.”

  Sylvi had put as much distance between them as the room would allow, with him at the door and her on the opposite side of the bed. The pistol pointed directly at her.

  He cocked it back with a loud mechanical click. Before she could duck, sparks flashed bright with an audible pop, and the muzzle emitted a cloud of black smoke. Sylvi flinched, but she hadn’t needed to.

  Splinters of wood flew at her from the bedpost, easily three feet away.

  Sylvi lifted her head. Her arm was still injured, but she was a damn good fighter regardless. “That’s why I never use pistols. Completely untrustworthy.”

  She launched her dagger toward Ian’s dad with her left hand, but a piece of splintered wood she had landed on when she changed her stance for the throw rocked her balance at the last moment. The blade sank deep into his upper thigh. He heaved a grunt, and the pistol dropped to the ground with a heavy thunk. He curled his hands around the handle of the blade and jerked it from his thigh. Blood ran in a stream down his leg.

  Sylvi came around the bed toward him, an old man quickly taken down without his pistol.

  It was almost too easy.

  Her heart twisted around a spider web of powerful emotions: her need to end this, to kill the man who had slain her own family and so many others. Her love of Ian. All of it stayed her hand. Donald fell to his knees and put up a bloody hand. “Please dinna hurt me.”

  Sylvi pulled another dagger from her belt. Only a fool approached an injured enemy with confidence. “I want to talk to Ian. Now.”

  He nodded. “Aye, we can go to him.”

  “You killed all those families,” Sylvi said. “You killed my family.” Her voice trembled, this time with the power of her sorrow rather than the vehemence of hatred. “I trusted you.”

  Donald shoved himself off the ground with the hand he’d been bracing himself with and flew at her with the pistol held backward like a bludgeon. Sylvi jerked back, but not before he managed to clip her with the heavy butt of his pistol—directly on her injured arm.

  Pain shot white sparks flashing through her vision, and she had to bite down hard to keep from crying out. She cradled her arm and staggered.

  Donald roared and threw himself at her. She ducked his attack, but he followed, pursuing. Determination gleamed like blood lust in his gaze. “Ye will die,” he snarled. “No one can be left alive who kens what happened. I willna die for the likes of ye.”

  Sylvi ran into him and swiped her blade at his throat. “I want to see Ian.”

  Donald arched backward, evading her strike. She slashed again, this time at his chest, and again he dodged the blow. The large man moved way too quickly.

  “If you don’t take me to him,” Sylvi said. “I will kill you.”

  Donald lunged at her and pinned her against the wall with his elbow on her throat. “No’ if I kill ye first.”

  She pulled her knee up with all the strength she could muster and drove it into his bollocks. He gave a feral growl, and his hold slackened just enough for her to slip free from his grasp. Her forward momentum was snapped backward suddenly, and pain exploded at her scalp.

  The bastard was dragging her by her hair. He flung her against the wall she’d just been pinned to. Her body slapped the unyielding stone and bounced off. The ache in her arm pounded ferociously and left her stomach rolling with nausea.

  Donald shoved her back against the wall and locked her into place with the heft of his body. Sweat dotted his brow, and his skin was hot from their fight.

  No matter how much he tried to hide it, he was panting, from the effort, from his injuries, and the odor of his musty breath mingled with the metallic scent of his blood. He was weakening.

  “I order that the families be killed quickly.” He tugged the ribbon from her neck. “A slit to the throat.”

  She shoved hard at his chest, and he edged back beneath the force of her hit.

  “No’ this time,” he vowed. He cocked his arm back, and before she cou
ld duck, his fist slammed into her face.

  •••

  Ian’s wrists were on fire from constantly wrenching at them. The floor dug into his hip, and the burning at his wrists told him he’d long since sawed the rope into his flesh. Still, he held on to hope, especially with the bindings beginning to loosen.

  Was he too late?

  The thought spun through his mind on an endless loop, encouraging him as much as dragging his heart to a heavy, hurtful place in his gut.

  “I’m coming, Sylvi.” He said it more for himself than for her, to counteract the voice in his head.

  But was he too late?

  Was she dead?

  He jerked his wrists in the opposite direction and cried out at the searing pain of the rough rope cutting into raw, flayed skin. It sagged to the heel of his hand, just a fraction of an inch more, but perhaps it was enough.

  More careful this time, he wriggled his right hand and sucked in a breath against the burning pain. With slow precision, the rope slipped over the base of his thumb. He curled his hand inward, touching his pinky to his thumb, to make it all small enough to slip through his bonds.

  Was he too late?

  “I’m coming, Sylvi.” His voice echoed around him, full of determination as much as it was full of fear.

  His heart thundered in his chest, demanding he go faster, but he kept his mind fixed on the task, carefully shifting his hand back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. The rope was at the back of his hand now, nearing his knuckles. He panted with concentration. He could do this.

  He had to.

  For Sylvi.

  The rope slid over his knuckles, and his hand was free. He gave a strangled cry of relief and pulled his arms around in front of him. Little pins and needles seemed to shoot through his limbs as the blood flowed back into them. He forced himself to only look at the knot at his left hand and focused on working it loose. It was better than letting his gaze wander toward the broken skin on his wrists, the flesh pulled back and bleeding, where every touch made his breath hiss.

  As soon as his hands were free, he redirected his focus to his ankles. His fingers trembled with his haste. The rope had gone slippery with the blood trickling freely from his wrists. He gave a growl of frustration and tried to force himself to go slow—to concentrate.

  What if he was too late?

  “I’m coming, Sylvi.”

  Finally he caught the rope between the pinch of his fingers and shook the knot loose enough to pull it apart. The rope flopped useless to the floor, and his feet were free. He rose slowly, knowing doing so quickly might result in him falling over. His legs were numb beneath him, as if they were not there at all.

  A drum of pain thrummed in his skull, and the room spun. He caught himself on the desk. The world around him faded into a glow of white. He clenched onto the edge of the desk, holding on for dear life.

  Breathe.

  Slow and steady. Deep and even. He tamped down the urgent voice in his head, the one questioning Sylvi’s safety, and focused on his breathing until the neat rows of meticulously lined books came back into view.

  He pulled open his da’s drawer, where he knew a pistol had been kept, and loaded it with shaking hands before limping to the door. The floor shifted under his feet, but he was able to walk. And if he could walk, then he could get to Sylvi.

  He went down the stairs as quickly as was possible and let his hand drag over the scrape of stone for support, careful to avoid his ravaged wrists. His feet were clumsy and clattering on the stone stairs, but he forced his way down. Closer to Sylvi.

  The courtyard was almost empty. The morning meal had finished, and most of the people of the castle had set about their daily tasks. Perfect timing for killing someone with discretion.

  Ian’s muscles cramped with the effort of running, and yet everything seemed to move too slow. Was he too late?

  He didn’t know who was involved with this scheme of his father’s, who might be there now, aiding Donald in silencing Sylvi.

  Was she already dead?

  “I’m coming, Sylvi.” He didn’t stop until he reached the door of the West Tower, expecting it to open beneath his touch, as it always did, with such ease. Instead, he slammed hard into it and stopped. He shoved at it for good measure, but it did not move.

  The door to the West Tower was locked.

  Chapter 34

  If Sylvi’s arm hadn’t still been injured from the break, Donald would be dead. Now though, she was pinned up against the wall and fighting harder than she’d ever had to fight before. The slow mend of the bone now blazed with agony once more.

  He lifted his hand and swung it downward toward her face again. This time she darted right and drove her elbow into the wound at his thigh. He howled with pain and caught the side of her jaw with his massive fist.

  Sylvi’s head snapped right, and the world spun around her as she was knocked to the floor. She tensed, expecting another blow.

  “Ye’re a tough bitch, I’ll give ye that.” Donald nodded to himself and spit a wad of blood foam onto the ground next to her where she lay beside the wall.

  “You haven’t seen what I can do yet.” She reached for the dagger, which had fallen somewhere near where she lay. Her fingertips grazed the cool metal of the blade. Just outside her reach.

  So close, and yet it might as well have been back at Kindrochit for what good it did her now.

  Donald drew his bad leg back with obvious intent to kick her. She could either stay, risking injury, and grab her blade, or she could roll away further from her dagger.

  With a grunt of irritation, she rolled away.

  This needed to end. Now.

  She caught his boot with both her hands and pulled hard with all the strength of her left arm. Her right one sent flames of agony licking through her, but it was a necessary sacrifice. Donald’s boot slipped forward, and the one foot he was standing on went out from underneath him.

  He flew into the air, arms and legs flailing, before landing hard on the ground. His breath whoofed out of his lungs.

  Sylvi bent over to grab her dagger and threw herself on top of him. He needed to die for what he’d done. She lifted her blade up high, ready to plunge it into his heart. “This is for my family.”

  His eyes, the same warm brown as Ian’s, widened beneath the blood spattering his face. “Mercy.”

  She hesitated. Had he just asked for mercy?

  Could she actually bring herself to grant it?

  Donald’s arm came up, and something solid slammed into the side of Sylvi’s head. She stiffened against the dazzling pain of it, and her body slumped to the side. She tried to rise, but her mind refused to connect with her body, still stunned by the unexpected hit.

  She realized her mistake then, her own stupidity in allowing her heart to intercede where her mind should have been. She knew better than to hesitate.

  Donald threw the heavy weight of himself on top of her, pinning her to the hard floor. Her arm shot brilliant rays of agony where his hand pressed her down. He snatched a dagger from the ground, her dagger. The very one she’d traded her virginity for to kill her family’s killers with.

  She knew then he intended to finish the job started almost seventeen years ago. The door flew open. Footsteps of someone unseen ran toward them as Donald jerked the blade up and angled it to strike.

  A shadow appeared over the top of Donald’s shoulder and aimed a pistol down at the two of them. Sparks flared to life, and the firearm went off.

  •••

  Ian held the smoking gun in his hands. His father had ceased fighting and had collapsed on top of Sylvi. Ian reached toward his father and hefted him backward, off of his bride. Donald’s body rolled away, limp, his eyes gazing at nothing from a blood-smeared face.

  Dead.

  He had killed his father.

  The realization gripped at Ian’s heart. He turned from his father, as much with the inability to face
what he’d done as concern for his wife.

  Sylvi, his Sylvi, his beautiful angel, lay motionless. Blood glistened on her black léine and trews. Her blood? There was so much. From her? From his father?

  Damn it, he couldn’t tell.

  “Sylvi?” he choked out. He moved his hands over her chest, seeking out a bullet hole. Finding nothing, he moved upward to her neck, where her ribbon was missing. Beneath the gore on her face, her skin was swelling black and blue. She’d been beaten.

  God, what had his father done?

  Ian puled Sylvi into his arms and held her to him. “Sylvi, please say ye’re all right. Please, my love.”

  Ian could not look away from Sylvi’s battered face, he could not allay the ache in his heart from the idea he might have lost the woman who meant the world to him. His beautiful angel. The woman who fought so hard to bring peace to those she loved. She couldn’t die. Not now. Not when happiness might finally find them, not when they had just started their life together.

  He couldn’t lose her, for without her, he had nothing.

  “Sylvi, please.” His voice cracked beneath the tension in his throat. “Please don’t leave me, my angel.”

  He gathered her more firmly in his arms and squeezed. Why was no one coming? Had they not heard the blast of the gun?

  Her body jerked, and a moan sounded from her lips.

  “Sylvi?”

  He stared down at her, and her beautiful crystal-blue eyes blinked open.

  “My arm,” she whispered.

  It was then he remembered her injured arm and quickly eased the pressure from her limb. “I thought ye were dead.” He bent over her, curling his body around her as if he might protect her forever.

  Tears ran from the corners of her eyes and streaked through the blood on her face. “I couldn’t kill him.” She shook her head. “I couldn’t kill him.”

  “I did it for ye, my love.”

  Her lashes swept over her cheeks, and her head lolled toward him.

  Panic clawed at Ian’s heart. “Sylvi, stay awake.”