by D. K. Combs
Belatedly, she realized she should move to the side of the fray. She didn’t have the same arsenal as the men surrounding her, and even worse—she was the target of two men.
Charles, who was busy making his way to Alec, and… Harold.
Harold.
Her eyes scanned the fray, and then the shadows. Panic rose in her throat when she realized he was nowhere to be seen. He had disappeared as surely as a ghost would. She backed away slowly, keeping the blade at the ready. None of the men paid her any mind—not Alec’s and not the Callahan’s. They were too focused on the bloodshed, on not meeting the warm, bloodied blade of a claymore.
Even in the middle of all the fear and fighting, she couldn’t help but watch Alec—and the man who was rising from the throne and drawing his weapon with a slow, cocky confidence. By the time Alec was before him, the slow draw had come to completion and the blade that was once flowing slowly through the air was swinging in full force, right into Alec’s own claymore.
More men came rushing from the shadows, ready to defend their laird.
Alec and his men…were outnumbered. Even with the already slain warriors, more came from the shadows in waves. When one fell, two more replaced him.
While Blayne had tried to be a fighter herself, the gravity of the situation had her stumbling back. She was shaken to her core, too much to be of any use.
Alec would fight to the death. For whatever reason, even after their departing fight, he still fought for her—and now, he was going to die for her.
She watched, tears welling in her eyes, as Alec dealt a blow to The Callahan strong enough to send him stumbling back. The small victory was met with two men charging him. A choked scream flew from her lips, the warning caught in her throat.
At first, she thought she wasn’t loud enough. But, even with two men on him, he turned toward her, searching for her. Blayne opened her mouth to shout at him—for what, she didn’t know. He already knew men were attacking him, already knew that he had to fight them off. The more she tried to warn him, the worse his focus became.
She knew he would lapse eventually. Alec might be smart and calculative, but…he was human. A human who obviously cared for her enough to lose focus. Unfortunately, the lapse came at the worst time.
When the dismay crossed his face, she started to run for him. Hit—he’s been hit, she thought, horror washing over her. She raced for him, but didn’t make it far. No sooner had she taken a step toward him that she was grabbed from behind, one hand around her stomach and the other around her mouth.
Harold.
Through the blinding panic, she wondered how he had the strength to grab her when he was so close to death, but the thought fled when he yanked her back.
“This pain,” he panted from behind her, yanking her out of the fight, “is worth watching you die.”
He started dragging her back into the shadows, and she struggled, bucking against him.
Alec’s roar of wrath echoed through the hall. His men came to his aid, swiftly cutting down the two men who had zeroed in on him. The Callahan must have realized something greater was at play, that Alec was reaching a point of no return with his rage, because he soon backed away.
“No,” Alec shouted as his men refocused on her. Harold pulled her through the doors they’d entered from. Her warrior was ahead of everyone as he pounded toward her, the ground close to trembling under the force of his movements as he shoved men aside.
“I wanted to enjoy this,” Harold grated into her ear. His breath was as rancid as the odors oozing off of him. The disgust she felt fled, replaced by fear as a cold blade touched her neck. She stopped struggling, locking eyes with Alec as she realized this could be the last time she saw him.
She didn’t think about her parents or the pain they would suffer.
No, she thought about how her last words to him were said in anger and fear. How she had hurt him just to come here, where she would meet her death—and would likely drag him down with her.
Now, words she wished she had never said would haunt her dead body.
She was going to leave him.
With no explanation as to why she had left, why she had started the fight with him if she was just going to run off. She was going to leave him with no explanation as to why she had made love to him in the dark hours of the night as if this was how it was going to end—as if it had been a farewell.
It wasn’t an explanation he wanted from her, though. Not truly. No, this time, as he stared at her with the knife pressed to her neck and the singed, black monster standing behind her… This time, he wanted the explanation from God.
Why would He have let all this good happen to Alec, just to rip it away from him in the cruelest of ways? More importantly, why would He do this to her?
As Alec stared at the crazy, wild, free-spirited woman who had a drinking problem he had grown to love, he knew there were only two options at this point. Treat carefully or act swiftly. It seemed at this point, that the only course of cation there was to take…was the latter.
The demon, even from this distance, had a glint of resolution in his eyes. He was determined to kill her whether he survived or not. It was amazing how the creature was alive and moving as it was—as if it was by pure rage that his body held onto life.
All of his men froze. While they had not realized the important of Blay’s life before, they did now. They must have realized that the fury of The Lion would befall them all should they fail to save her.
Failure…was not an option.
For more reasons than one.
He raised his hand, two fingers in the air. His signal for an archer. If the demon could be disabled in any way, that would give them an opening to charge.
His archer crept slowly behind his back. Silently, Alec watched the demon’s lips move against her ear. Watched her eyes widen. Watched fear cloud their depths.
Wrath overcame him, making him see red. Blay was too strong of a woman to feel fear, to know it. Words of comfort were on the tip of his tongue, but he knew better. Saying anything could tip the scales. Right now, he was talking to her. Most likely telling her stories of the way he wanted to kill her, of the way he would make her feel pain. While Alec wanted to say something to distract her, he knew a single word could mean life or death.
He resolved himself to silence, even though the words burned his throat.
In the shadows, the demons hand twisted, his grip on the hilt adjusting to create a fist facing Alec. His fingers moved with jerky movements as he tightened his hand, pulling it back. The knife pointed at her chest.
Time slowed. Helplessness. Fear. Pain. It all circled around him like a ghost, meant to steal his sanity and reasoning.
Before he could act on those emotions, though, the arrow whispered past his ear.
It struck true.
The demon’s hand flew back enough to knock not only the knife out of his hand, but his body backward. He stumbled, a scream ripping from his throat as he clutched his wrist with his other hand.
“Curse you!” the monster screeched, trying to take the arrow out of his palm.
There were no time for words. Alec lunged forward to take Blay out of the bastards vicinity, but as he ran to her, he watched her body drop.
“Blayne, no.” The choked words came too late. Crouched as she was, she spun on her heels. The mixture of pride and frustrated dread swelled inside of him like a fire that couldn’t be put out. She shot forward, latched onto the knife, and then struck for the demon’s heart.
He didn’t expect it—and neither did the black, charred creature who had nearly killed her.
The dagger arched, candle light glinting off the blade right before it was plunged into the chest cavity of the monster.
“This is for hurting my horse,” he heard her hiss, right before she kicked him back with a foot to the hilt of the dagger that was still buried in his chest.
No one moved. Not her, not him. None of the men. Everyone stood there, feet stuck to the gro
und as if they had taken root.
She turned to look at him. Unlike other women, she didn’t stand there and wallow over the life she had taken. She didn’t have tears in her eyes when they met his.
No, she had the eyes of a woman who was proud and—
Horrified?
“Alec, move—“
She was too late. How did he know that?
Oh, by the dagger that pierced his side, of course.
He roared, turning around—right into a fist that knocked him out cold. The last thing he heard was Blayne’s furious, terrified scream and the ring of the blade slicing through the air. The last thing he saw?
Callahan’s head drop and roll across the floor, the very same floor that Alec himself crumpled to.
Six Moons Later
“I only have two questions for you, daughter. Were you taken advantage of?”
She shook her head, looking toward the door that separated her from Alec.
Kane Shaw snapped his fingers, drawing her attention back to him. “Are you alright?”
This time she nodded. A lie. A horrible, terrible lie that she would never admit to anyone. She was not alright, and never would be—but not because of anything Alec had done. Rather, it was because now that her father was here, he was taking her back.
He hadn’t said it, but she knew the truth. His fury at the McGregors had shown in the arrival of a hundred warriors, prepared to take anyone’s life who kept Blayne from him. If it hadn’t been for the fact that Alec was recovering from the wound The Callahan had given him, she was sure her father would have done the unthinkable.
No, he was doing something more than the unthinkable. He was doing something worse.
He was taking her away, and she would not be seeing Alec McGregor again.
Blayne pulled the shawl over her shoulders and looked back at the bed. Lately, that was the only place where the tension stopped, tension between her and her family was so great that sometimes it felt impossible to breathe. Sometimes, she wondered if this was all a bad dream, she would wake up next to Alec, and all would be well. All would be as if she never left for The Callahan’s. She never would have learned of Gertrude’s fate, which Thomas had regretfully informed her, and so many men would still be alive today.
But that was a wistful dream. Nothing would go back to the way it was. Her father…was determined to keep her locked inside the keep. No longer was she allowed near the stream, even!
Tucking her feet into a pair of slippers, she prepared herself to go down for breakfast. Of late, she had barely made a presence. Her mother gave her solemn, disappointed looks. Her father was quiet as ever. Nothing but brooding silence came from him—and that was a word of hurt all in itself.
Thinking of him made her heart tighten. She had been asking after Alec, after the McGregors. He had arrived before she had a chance to speak to Alec. He had been sequestered off in the medic wing, locked away from anyone who could give the laird an infection in his vulnerable state.
She hadn’t been able to apologize from running away. She hadn’t been able to tell him her side of the story, though it was a weak one at that. He never should have gotten hurt, and probably wouldn’t have if she had done something different.
Instead, she had been so hell bent on handling it herself that the whole situation had slid out of her control.
And now he was lost to her.
Tears stung her eyes, but she sniffled them back. There was no reason to cry, she told herself. He probably didn’t want anything to do with her now. He risked his life for her, and she hadn’t even been there when he’d woken? Alec was a crude man. He would think she had left him to die.
The hate he must feel for her…
The door creaked open as she weakly pushed at it. Early morning sun, though it was freezing outside, managed to warm the interior of the stairwell through the lone window that over looked the river.
It was the only consolation she had to leaving her room. By the time she reached the end of the stairs, the emotion inside of her had risen to a near exposing extent. Crying, over a man who likely hated her?
It was foolish.
But that didn’t stop her from cautiously approaching her father’s side as she saw his hulking figure striding toward the hall. She bit her lip, debating whether to bring it up this morning—but nothing could stop her from seeking answers. Not even her own self-preservation.
“Father,” she called, picking up her pace. She was careful not to let the large shawl spread open. Right now, it was best that she remain as drab as possible, for as long as possible. “Father, may I have a word?”
He looked down at her. Kane Shaw was not a handsome man, but he was rugged and aging. With all that aging, he had a certain look about him that made a man want to run the other way pissing himself. But, this was her father. He had never hurt her, and never would—not intentionally.
Even now, with the way they were, there was a softening to his gaze as he slid an arm around her shoulder.
“Depends on which word it is,” he said, pulling her in for a quick hug. His deep voice rumbled through her small frame, and as much as she wanted to relax into the safe embrace of her father, she couldn’t. She wasn’t taking that chance.
“You’re silly, father,” she murmured, distancing herself. She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, looking at the ground. “I was—I was hoping to inquire about Ale—The McGregor. It has been six months now and not a single word…”
He was silent for a moment, but his step didn’t falter. It never did, though. Her father was not a man to be drawn up by a question.
“Mayhap because I’ve not requested a word from them,” he finally said after a moment.
“Ah.” She looked at the ground, adjusting the hem of her shawl. They drew closer to the kitchen and the scent of eggs and mutton wafted into her nose—and she nearly gagged. Oh, no. Not mutton.
But it was.
And the scent was close to unbearable.
Her father stopped and turned, giving her a raised brow.
“Is everything alright, daughter mine?”
She gave him a fleeting smile, avoiding his gaze. “Aye—Aye, everything is fine. I just…don’t understand why you wouldn’t question after him. He did come to my aid, you know. I would figure we would at least see how he was doing…”
The softness of his gaze disappeared, replaced by a hard, cold, anger.
When he spoke, his lip curled with the strength of his hate.
“That bastard failed to keep ye’ protected. He had one job, and he failed. He sent ye’ into the den more than aided ye' out of it, child. This is the last I want to hear of The McGregors. They are as good as dead to us now. Do ye’ understand me?”
Choking back the swell of disappointment, she nodded, avoiding his gaze.
“Do ye’ understand me?” he repeated, his voice sharp enough to ricocheted off the stone walls around them.
“Aye, father,” she murmured. Her hands fell from the shawl, and to her stomach—but not before she caught herself and nodded as a distraction to them both. “I understand entirely.”
“Good. Now go wish yer mother a good morning and have something to eat. You’ve barely come down of late.” He didn’t spare her another glance, simply turned on his heel and headed past the hall. Probably to his study, she thought. He often went there when he was angry.
And Lord, was he furious. He rarely raised his voice at her, but it seemed like the mere mention of The McGregors sent him into a fit.
She pulled back her shoulders and raised her chin, then discreetly entered the hall.
“Blayne!” her mother called out, grinning widely. “Come, break your fast with us. I saved you a bowl.”
Her mother, grinning? This early in the morning?
Something was amiss.
Cautiously, as if walking into a trap, she made her way over to her mother.
“A bowl of…?” she asked, sitting beside her in the spot her mother had designated for
her. Saeran raised a hand and one of the maids came forward, placing a bowl of mutton in front of her.
Oh, Lord, no.
Almost instantly, the nausea hit her like a brick.
“Now,” her mother started, oblivious to her daughter’s reaction. “I know what happened with The McGregors was traumatic, but time goes forward, and so must this family. I’ve asked Leith to come over today, and do you know what he said?”
Blayne was too focused on keeping the bile down that she barely heard a word her mother said.
“What?” she asked, looking anywhere but the bowl in front of her. It was hot and piping, steam rising from the bowl like an evil hand, beckoning her to lean forward and vomit everywhere.
“He said he would be honored to—and that, if you’re well, he would like to take you on a ride to the stream.”
Her gaze lifted at the word “stream.”
“Father said I wasn’t allowed to leave the keep, mother.” Though the words belied her desire to leave, the craving to see her stream, to feel the cold, silken rush of water against her skin was nearly overwhelming.
“Well, what he doesn’t know won’t hurt him—as long as you behave,” she said sternly, giving her a pointed look as if to say, “Don’t run away.”
The thought was all too enticing, regardless of whether her parents prohibited it. To go to the stream… Even with Leith there and suffering through the awkward silence, the escape of her new reality would be welcoming.
“Should I let Brodrick know to send for Leith?” Saeran asked, obviously pleased by Blayne’s smile.
“Yes—yes, that would be lovely, mother. Thank you.” She couldn’t stop the grin from spreading even wider as hope grew inside of her. For the first time in several moons, she had an opportunity to feel the water rush between her toes.
The thought of having Leith there to ruin the serenity of her first moment of peace was slightly upsetting, but something was better than nothing, especially if her father would immediately demand her return when he found out who she was with—because no doubt, he would know, regardless of what her mother said.