Page 54 of Promised to the Ruthless Laird
All he saw was Mackay.
The laird stood at the heart of the fray, sword in hand, his gaze locked onto Finley with something akin to dark anticipation. Not fear. Not hesitation.
Challenge.
The world around them blurred, the din of war faded, distant and unimportant.
There was only this. Only them.
“Ye willnae leave here alive, Lennox,” Mackay snarled, his voice laden with contempt. “Nae after all this.”
Finley didn’t answer. Didn’t waste breath on words.
He moved.
With a roar, he lunged, his blade slicing through the chaos as Mackay’s men surged forward, unwilling to leave their laird unprotected. Steel clashed against steel, sparks flying in the thick of battle.
Finley ducked beneath a wild swing, driving his sword deep into the gut of the nearest soldier. The man choked, blood bubbling from his lips, as Finley wrenched his blade free.
Another enemy charged. Finley twisted, his instincts razor-sharp, deflecting a blow meant for his head. He retaliated with a vicious strike, his sword biting through flesh and armor alike. A scream rang out, cut short as the man crumpled to the ground.
Mackay’s forces were relentless, swarming like a tide of bodies determined to shield their leader. Finley caught sight of Mackay through the fray, his expression fierce, barking orders as his men fought with renewed vigor.
A soldier lunged from behind, but Finley sensed him, spun at the last moment and buried his blade deep in the man’s chest. He kicked the lifeless body aside, pushing forward, cutting down anyone in his path. Blood slicked his hands, his breath ragged, but he didn’t falter.
Then, finally, he reached him.
Their blades met in a brutal clash, steel sparking. Mackay struck first, swift and punishing, his strength undeniable. But Finley was faster. He pivoted and then struck back with all the fury in his veins. Each blow was meant to kill.
Mackay did not falter.
He countered and drove forward with a relentless force that should have sent Finley reeling. But rage was a power of its own, and Finley wielded it like a blade.
His breath became ragged as they fought, a hurricane within the storm.
Mackay turned, swinging his sword in a desperate arc. Finley parried, their blades shrieking against each other. Mackay shoved forward, using his weight to force Finley back, but Finley was expecting it. He twisted free, ramming his hilt into Mackay’s ribs. The laird stumbled, teeth clenched against the pain, but he did not fall.
“Ye fight well, I’ll grant ye that,” Mackay panted, wiping a streak of blood from his mouth. “But ye’re a fool if ye think ye’ll leave here alive.”
“Then I’ll be a dead man, dragging ye tae the grave with me,” Finley spat, his grip tightening on his sword.
Mackay lunged again, but Finley was ready. He sidestepped the attack and brought the pommel of his sword crashing against Mackay’s skull. The laird’s eyes rolled back, his body sagging just long enough for Finley to seize him by the collar.
Mackay struggled, thrashing in his grip. “Ye think I’ll go easily?” he snarled.
And then —
With a vicious swipe, Finley’s blade found its mark.
Mackay staggered, a sharp intake of breath hissing through his teeth as blood bloomed across his arm. He dropped to one knee, his sword digging into the dirt to keep him upright. His face twisted, more with anger than pain.
Finley stood over him, chest heaving, eyes blazing.
“Ye are defeated,” Finley said coldly, his voice full of contempt.
Finley wrenched the man towards him, his fingers digging into Mackay’s throat. “And I think ye’ll come wi’ me whether ye want tae or nae.”
Still, Mackay fought, his boots digging into the blood-soaked earth, but Finley was stronger. With a savage growl, he hauled the laird off his feet, dragging him through the battlefield as the fighting raged around them. Mackay’s men shouted in alarm, but Finley’s warriors closed in, cutting down anyone who dared approach.
