Page 8 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
The courtyard stretched ahead in the gathering dusk, torches flickering in their sconces. The main gates were impossible, but beside them she spotted a smaller postern door. She threw herself against it – and miraculously, it opened. Someone had left it unbarred.
In the distance, the dark line of forest called, promising concealment.
“Rhona!”
Ian’s voice echoed behind her, filled with concern rather than anger. She didn’t look back, breaking into a desperate run down the rocky slope leading toward the forest. Her torn dress tangled around her legs, but she gathered the wool and pressed on, her weakened body trembling with the effort.
“This way,” Ian’s voice carried on the evening wind. “She’ll head fer the forest.”
The dark line of trees offered her only hope of concealment. Rhona plunged into the woodland, branches catching at her hair and dress while her red hair matted against her pale skin.Her breath came in ragged gasps as she stumbled through the underbrush, torchlight flickering behind her through the trees.
She stumbled to a halt, her breath coming in ragged wasps, when she spotted armed figures between the trees ahead – at least six men wearing tartans she couldn’t recognize in the dim light. As she struggled to see, Ian emerged from the shadows with his men flanking him, their weapons drawn but not threatening.
“Easy, lass,” his voice was gentle despite the chase she’d led him in. “Nay one wants tae hurt ye.”
“Stay back,” she panted, though the world swayed dangerously around her. “I’ll nae go back tae that dungeon!”
“Ye willnae.” Ian held up his hands peacefully, those green eyes filled with understanding. “I gave ye me word. But these lands are crawlin’ with enemies who’d show ye far less mercy.”
As if summoned by his warning, harsh voices erupted from the darkness around them. The same figures she had spotted before, materializing between the trees – at least six men wearing tartan she couldn’t recognize, their faces hard with violent intent.
“Ian Wallace,” their leader snarled. “Perfect timing.”
Ian’s sword was in his hand instantly, his men forming a protective circle around Rhona with practiced efficiency. The gentle laird vanished, replaced by a warrior whose very presence radiated lethal capability.
“MacPherson,” Ian said, his voice deadly calm. “Ye’re trespassin’ on Wallace lands.”
“Am I?” The man’s hand rested on his sword hit with obvious threat. “Last I heard, these lands were in dispute. Poor Douglas died so unexpectedly, and there’s been such confusion about succession…”
“The king settled that matter. I suggest ye remember it, Lachlan.”
“Oh, I remember many things,” the MacPherson warrior’s gaze fixed on Rhona with a calculating interest that made her skin crawl. “Including arrangements that might still be honored by more legitimate claimants to these lands.”
Steel rang against steel as the first enemy lunged forward. Ian moved like liquid lightning, his blade singing through the air as he parried and struck with lethal precision.
Saints preserve me,he fights like a pure force of nature.
His powerful frame flowed from one deadly motion to the next, muscles rippling beneath his shirt as he spun and slashed. Even in the heat of battle, there was something almost beautiful about the way he moved – like a deadly dance choreographed by the gods themselves. The sound of his breathing, slow and steady despite the violence surrounding him, sent an unexpected thrill racing through her veins
How can he be so calm?How can he be so controlled when death might be only inches away?
Around them, the fight erupted in deadly earnest as Ian’s men engaged the attackers. The clash of metal on metal filled the air, punctuated by grunts of effort and cries of pain. But Rhona found herself unable to look away, transfixed by the graceful, predatory way Ian moved – every step calculated, every strike devastatingly effective. Ian’s sword slit one of the men’s arm, and Rhona found herself watching with wide eyes.
Ian fought with the grace of a born warrior. He moved like water, his sword seeming to anticipate his opponent’s attacks. Two MacPherson men fell to his blade with quick succession, their lives ending in a bloody splatter as Rhona shut her eyes against the gruesome sight.
“Fall back!” the MacPherson leader shouted. “This isnae over, Wallace!”
The surviving attackers melted back into darkness as swiftly as they’d appeared. Ian turned to Rhona immediately, his green eyes scanning her for any sign of injury. “Are ye hurt?”
She shook her head mutely, overwhelmed by the violence she’d witnessed.
“We need to get back to the castle,” he said urgently, his hand finding her arm with gentle, but implacable strength. “These lands are overrun with enemies seeking to exploit the chaos Douglas left behind.”
“Good,” Rhona said before she could stop herself, “’Tis good that yer enemies are closing in.” The words escaping her lips like a confession before exhaustion claimed her.
Ian went very still. In the flickering torchlight, she watched understanding dawn in his remarkable eyes, followed by something that looked almost like disappointment.
“Aye,” he said quietly, his voice barely above a whisper. “I suppose it would be… if ye carried hatred fer everythin’ Wallace.”
