Page 46 of Kilty as Sin
MacGill stepped backward, taking Grace with him. “So, she was a whore,” he spat. “Just say the truth.”
“She was one of yer people!” Barclay barked. “One of yer clan! The people ye’re supposed to care for!”
Attempting to be helpful, Grace spoke up. “She went to ye for help, Laird MacGill. Remember?”
“Ye beat her to death.” Barclay’s voice had gone quiet, his sword held before him in both hands. “She went to ye to beg for help, and ye beat her to death.”
MacGill’s sword rose until the tip pressed against Grace’s neck. “I dinnae remember her.”
Barclay stopped, his eyes hard. “I’m no’ certain if that makes it better or worse.”
“I’ve beaten many women in my life,” MacGill pointed out.
“Worse,” Grace opined.
“Definitely worse.” Barclay’s blade rose. “Stop hiding behind another innocent lass,Father, and face me as a man.”
“Why should I? I could slit her throat now, rid myself of another wife, and cause ye even more pain afore I run ye through.”
Barclay’s hard gaze switched to her. “Grace? Ye remember those ruffians who held ye?”
Her throat had gone dry, and she was no longer quite as certain about her future. “Aye?” she croaked.
“It works backwards, as well.”
It works backwards?
He’s talking about when ye kneed that man in the crotch.
Oh. Well.
Barclay has far too much confidence in yer athletic ability if he thinks ye can kick up with yer heel—in this gown—and hit a man’s ballocks when he’s so much taller than ye.
Aye, well, there was something else she could try…
Holding Barclay’s gaze, and knowing he would let naught happen to her, Grace reached up and wrapped her hands around MacGill’s where they gripped the sword hilt. She wrenched them away from her torso, while at the same time, she slammed the heel of her foot against the toe of his boot.
It should’ve caused pain to shoot up her leg. Damnation, itdidcause pain to shoot up her leg. But it also caused him to curse and jerk away from her. Grace used that distraction to slip from his arms and scurry to the side, at the same moment that Barclay raised his blade and attacked.
MacGill barely had time to get his own sword into the blocking position before Barclay slammed into him. The grunts and huffs of the two men were agonizing to hear. Grace scrambled to her feet and was surprised to feel her father’s hands on her shoulders.
Not holding her back, but holding her close.
The fight was furious, MacGill sneering and hurling insults—mainly about Grace and Barclay’s mother—while Barclay himself was deadly and silent.
It couldn’t last much longer. MacGill was faltering, and for certes, each block was slower and slower.
The older man swung his blade wide, and Barclay darted in for the opening, slashing MacGill across the chest. The laird screamed and grabbed for his wound, his sword dragging along the ground.
Barclay paused, sweat beading his forehead and his breathing steady.
“As a King’s Hunter, ‘tis my duty to pass judgement on those who break His Majesty’s trust. On a mission, I am the arm of the law, and I am entrusted to enact punishment.”
“Yecutme!” MacGill screeched.
“Aye, and I’ll do more than that, if ye dinnae surrender. Laird John MacGill, I accuse ye no’ only of the mistreatment of yer people, those whom ye’re supposed to protect, but also the murder of yer wives, and the attempted murder of Lady Grace MacDonald.”
Grace shifted in her father’s arms. “And yer mother,” she called softly.
