Page 84 of Tempted By a Highland Beast
The trees pressed closer here, ancient pines that had witnessed generations of clan warfare, and the narrow path forced them into a tighter formation.
“Something feels off,” Finlay murmured, his scout’s instincts prickling. The forest was too quiet, the birds too still. Constantine’s jaw tightened because he felt it as well. As a mercenary, he’d learned to trust that feeling above all else. It had kept him alive through countless battles, and it was screaming warnings now.
Constantine cast a quick glance over his shoulder. Rowena rode where they had agreed, toward the rear, keeping herself hidden. Still, he had to make sure with his own eyes. When she caught his look and gave the smallest nod, steady and unshaken, some of the tightness in his chest eased.
“Steady,” he called back to his men, his voice carrying just far enough to reach them without alerting potential enemies. “Eyes open.”
The words had barely left his lips when the ridgeline exploded into motion.
Alpin’s forces erupted from their concealment like wolves from cover, blades glinting as they poured down the hillside. Arrows whistled through the fog, finding gaps in armor with deadly precision. The peaceful morning shattered into chaos as steel met steel and men’s screams echoed off the stone walls of the narrow pass.
“We’ve been discovered!” Theo roared, his sword already in his hand as he wheeled his horse to meet the first wave of attackers.
Constantine’s reaction was instantaneous, born from years of mercenary warfare where hesitation meant death. “Form ranks!” he bellowed, his voice cutting through the din of battle. “Shields up! Drive them back!”
The MacLean warriors responded with disciplined precision, their training evident as they shifted from column to battle formation despite the chaos erupting around them. But the narrow pass limited their mobility while giving the men attacking them the advantage of higher ground.
At the rear of the column, Rowena watched the battle unfold with clenched fists, every fiber of her being screaming to join the fight.
She could see Constantine in the thick of it, his sword a silver blur as he cut down raiders with the mechanical efficiency that had made him legendary. Theo fought beside him, his massive frame serving as a shield for the younger warriors, while Finlay darted between enemies with the quick grace of a born warrior.
But it was Constantine who drew her eye again and again. Even in the midst of slaughter, he moved with a deadly beauty that took her breath away. Every strike was calculated, every movement purposeful. He was conducting a symphony of violence.
The battle raged for what felt like hours but could only have been minutes. Blood soaked into the frozen ground, and the metallic taste of it hung heavy in the air. Then, through the press of bodies, Rowena saw him—Alpin—mounted on a black destrier, his sword raised high as he charged forward.
Her uncle looked nothing like the polished nobleman who’d tried to force her into marriage. His face was twisted with rage and desperation, his fine clothes stained with mud and blood. But then his gaze swept the field and found her. Rowena felt the recognition strike him like a blow.
“There ye are, ye treacherous wench!” he bellowed, spurring his horse toward her. “Ye’ll nae escape me this time!”
Before Constantine could grasp what was happening, Alpin was cutting through the chaos, a dark shape moving straight for Rowena with grim purpose. He cared little for the battle surrounding him, his gaze fixed on Rowena. She yanked hard at her reins, her mare rearing as steel clashed all around, but Alpin was too quick. His hand shot out, iron-strong, seizing her wrist with a grip that showed no mercy. One brutal jerk and she was torn from the saddle. The ground rose up to meet her, icy and merciless, knocking the breath from her lungs. Before she could recover he was hauling her to her feet.
Alpin swung down from his destrier in a single, practiced motion. He slapped the horse’s flank, sending the beast barreling into the nearest men, scattering them, before he grabbed Rowena by the hair, yanking her head back with force and dragging her across the frozen ground. A cry tore throughher chest and her fingers clawed at his wrist, but she only felt his grip tighten.
“Move,” he growled in her ear, no triumph in his tone. Just resolution.
That was when Constantine broke through the press, his blade already wet with blood, eyes black with fury. His stride was unerring, inexorable.
The two men collided with a force that seemed to shake the earth. Steel rang, sparks leaping as if the mountains themselves bore witness. Constantine fought with the same lethal precision he brought to everything else, like a storm in human form, his blade weaving patterns of death in the air. Alpin, however, fought like a cornered animal, wild swings driven by a refusal to be cast aside, fury and the knowledge that failure meant his death.
God, help us get away from this madman.
“Ye bastard!” Alpin spat, bringing his sword down in a vicious arc meant to end the fight with a single stroke. “She is mine! The clan is mine by right! I will nae allow ye tae take everything from me!”
Constantine parried the blow with contemptuous ease, the shock running up his arms, his counter-strike opening a line of blood across Alpin’s cheek. “Naethin’ was ever yers,” he replied with deadly calm, his voice quiet despite the chaos around them. “Least of all her. Ye will die fer daring tae touch her.”
Alpin bared his teeth, then his arm snapped back, dragging Rowena hard against him. Blood streaked his fingers as he ripped the dirk from her belt. She felt the blade kiss her throat and she stiffened, a sound mixed between anger and fear. “If I fall,” Alpin rasped, “then she falls with me! I’ll nae allow her tae take me lairdship!”
Rowena struggled against his grip, her nails once more scoring his wrist, her eyes wide but fierce, but he did not let go, the dirk biting enough to draw a bead of crimson.
Constantine’s knuckles whitened on his, his fury leashed by a single, fragile thread. One wrong move, and Alpin would end her.
“Alpin,” he said, low and deadly calm. “Dinnae dae this.”
But although Alpin’s desperation made him dangerous, it also made him careless. He lunged, dragging Rowena forward like a shield, the dirk thrusting out in a savage arc. Constantine flowed aside like water, his blade flashing once, twice, and then burying deep into Alpin’s side.
The usurper staggered, his breath leaving him in a choked gasp, his eyes wide with shock. The dirk fell first, then his grip loosened on Rowena. She stumbled free as he sagged to his knees, staring down at the steel protruding from his body, then up at Constantine. His lips moved but no words came. Only a flicker of defiance, dulled by the shadow falling across his eyes.
“She was never yers,” Constantine said quietly, twisting the blade before drawing it free.
