Page 93 of The Laird's Vengeful Desire
“Lachlan! Where is she, ye bastard?”
Ian’s roar split the air as his sword carved through another MacPherson warrior. Blood sprayed across his face, but he barely noticed, driven forward by a vengeful rage that made him more force of nature than man.
What had begun as a coordinated assault had devolved into brutal close-quarters combat. A nearby tent caught fire from an overturned brazier, flames leaping hungrily to the next pavilion. Acrid smoke began to billow across the battlefield, stinging the soldiers’ eyes and burning their throats. Warriors from opposing clans clashed with desperate fury, the first screams of the dying piercing the air soon joined by the wet thud of blades finding flesh.
“Steady, me laird!” Killian’s voice cut through the chaos as his own sword opened a MacPherson throat in a spray of arterial blood. “We’ll find her!”
“Aye, we will.” Ian’s blade found another target, the steel biting deep between ribs. “Even if I have tae slay every last one of these wretched dogs!”
As if accepting the challenge, a MacPherson axe man charged him from the left – weapon raised high. Ian ducked the crushing blow and came up with his dirk, driving it deep into the man’s armpit where no armor could protect. Hot blood cascaded down his arm as the warrior dropped, gurgling his last breath.
Then, another enemy rushed him – a scarred brute with a mace that could crush a skull like an egg. Ian sidestepped the wild swing and his sword found the man’s leg, taking it off at the knee. The warrior toppled, shrieking, into the flames of a burning tent where his screams rose to join the smoke.
Ian pressed forward through the carnage, his sword cutting through enemy after enemy with nothing short of mechanical precision. A spear thrust came at his chest but he batted it aside and opened the spearman’s belly, spilling steaming innards onto the already blood-drenched ground. Each fallen MacPherson warrior brought him closer to the heart of the camp, closer to where they supposedly were holding Rhona. The taste of blood and smoke filled his mouth as he fought with single-minded determination. The MacPherson camp erupted around them like a kicked anthill. Tents collapsed in a flurry of flames, horses reared and neighed, and the clash of steel on steel echoed across the terrain. But Ian’s focus was laser-sharp, cutting through enemies one by one, like wheat before a scythe.
“Me laird!” Rupert called over the chaos, his face spattered with gore and soot. “They’re fallin’ back toward the center!”
Indeed, the surviving MacPherson warriors were retreating deeper into their camp, forming defensive lines around the largest pavilions. But they might as well have been trying to hold back the tide. Ian and his men carved through their ranks like death incarnate, leaving a trail of blood and shattered bone in their wake.
A bearded giant with a two-handed sword came at Ian, the massive blade whooshing through the air. Ian rolled under the swing and came up with his sword already moving, taking the man’s hands off at the wrists. The giant stared in shock at his spurting stumps before Killian appeared at his back, his blade opening him from his throat to his spine.
Around them, the Wallace men fought with equal fury. Their war cries echoed across the battlefield as they pressed their advantage, but Ian heard none of it. Every fiber of his being was focused on one thing, and one thing only: reaching Rhona before any of those animals could hurt her further.
“Me laird!” Young Alec pointed through the smoke. “There! The big pavilion! They’re draggin’ her out of it!”
Ian’s head snapped toward the direction, and through the shifting smoke and flames, he caught sight of something that made his blood freeze in his veins – Rhona, bound hand and foot, dragged from wherever they had been hiding her, now being tied to a wooden post that had been hastily driven intothe ground. Her dark ginger hair was wild around her face, and even from this distance, he could see the dark bruise marring her cheek.
His vision flared red.
Someone dared tae raise a hand tae her!
“Cover me!” he bellowed, breaking from the main battle line like a man possessed.
Numerous MacPherson men threw themselves at him in desperate fury, knowing their laird’s plan depended on stopping Wallace from reaching the girl. But they might as well have been fighting with wooden swords – Ian’s blade moved quicker and faster than ever before, each strike calculated to kill efficiently.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of combat, Ian broke through the last line of defenders.
“Wallace!”
Lachlan MacPherson himself stepped from behind his pavilion, sword already in hand, that familiar evil smile playing about his lips. “Right on time. Though I must admit, ye walkin’ intae me trap so eagerly is rather… disappointing’.”
“Let her go.” Ian’s voice was deadly quiet despite the chaos raging around them.
“Och, I dinnae think so.” Lachlan moved to put himself between Ian and Rhona. “Ye see, the lass and I have been havin’ such interestin’ conversations… about marriage. About alliances. About the benefits of choosin’ the right side.”
“Is that how she got that bruise on her face? Conversin’ with ye?”
Lachlan shrugged carelessly. “Och, just a reminder of her position. ‘Tis wonderful how quickly a lass’s perspective changes when she realized the… reality of the limits her options have reached.”
Ian’s grip tightened on his sword hilt, coiling the muscle in his wrist and turning his knuckles white. “Ye struck her.”
“I corrected her.” Lachlan’s eyes glittered with malicious satisfaction. “Just as I am about tae correct ye, cousin.”
Without another word, Lachlan lunged forward, his blade seeking Ian’s heart. Steel clashed as Ian parried, the impact sending both men backwards in a shockwave. Lachlan was skilled – better than Ian had expected – but fury lent her strength to Ian’s strikes.
They circled each other like wolves, each looking for an opening. Lachlan’s blade wove hypnotic patterns as he attacked with calculated precision, hoping to unearth a blind spot, but Ian matched him blow for blow.
“Did ye truly think,” Lachlan panted between strikes, “ye could simply take what was mine and nae face the consequences?”
