Page 77 of Sweet Home Highlander
“Ye have an alliance,” Laird Campbell yelled. “With Rose.”
Dougal sneered at him. “The Buchanans will never align with the Campbells. My father has nae need of ye. The betrothal was all for show, though yer daughter was a lovely distraction. All I wanted was what was stolen from me.”
“I’ll kill ye.” But Ronan laid a palm on the older man’s shoulder, restraining him, and for that Niall was grateful. Dougal Buchanan was his.
“I didnae steal anything that didnae wish to be stolen,” Niall said. “And any contract ye had with the Mad Montgomery was ended after his death. Aisla chose me.”
“Didshe now?” Dougal’s malicious glare flicked to the leather-covered stump of Niall’s left hand. “Look at ye…a useless, sodding cripple. Nae wonder she ran off to Paris, and came back to cuckold ye in yer own house. Ye’ll never be man enough for her. For any woman.”
Ronan started forward with a snarl, but Niall stayed him with a look that said this was his fight. Tamping down his roiling emotions, he lifted the hilt of his claymore. “Then why no’ fight me to see who is the better man? Prove yer prowess in battle. Ye against me.”
The man laughed. “One on one? With a sword?”
“Aye.”
“To the death?”
Niall nodded. “Ye may try.”
The men cleared a circle, and soon the two of them were facing off. Niall knew Dougal was strong, and a capable swordsman. He also knew the man would not fight fair. They tested each other with a few clashes of steel, and then the battle began in earnest as Dougal sent a two-handed strike toward Niall’s torso. He vaulted out of the way, but the tip of the claymore still tore through his shirt and barely missed his skin.
“How’s yer hand?” Dougal jeered. “Shall I cut off that one, too, so ye have a matching set?”
“Aye, I’m one-handed,” Niall said. “Yer two still willnae save ye.”
Sweat dampened his temple as Niall hefted his sword in one hand again. He swung down, twisting his body as he did, but Dougal deflected the strike with a twist of his own. He was quick for a big man, and fit. Niall had honed his strength from hours of outdoor labor, but his lungs were already burning to take in air after several bone-shaking clashes. Swinging the claymore overhead, he lunged forward and they met in another shower of sparks. Niall dodged as the blade came toward his cheek, rolling sideways and countering with a slashing upward movement.
It forced Dougal to retreat, though it didn’t stop his mouth from joining the fray. “Had enough, cripple?”
The man was good, Niall noted, but he was also predictable. Sword-fighting was a little like playing cards. Men did things that gave away either their thoughts or their next move. Niall hadn’t really been fighting Dougal before. He’d beenlearninghim. He smiled.
“What are ye grinning for?” Buchanan snarled. “Ye’re losing.”
Niall didn’t answer, but arched a mocking eyebrow as if to dispute the statement. It had the intended effect. With a roar, Dougal charged with deadly intent. Niall stood his ground, shifting at the last moment to land a well-placed blow down his opponent’s shoulder. Dougal screamed a foul curse as blood soaked his shirt. He gripped his shoulder with one hand as more blood poured from the wound. Niall blinked. His sword strike had been a slice not a gouge. Dougal should not be bleeding so copiously…unless he’d been injured earlier.
By Aisla’s dagger.
His grin widened. “I made that dagger she threw at ye, ye ken,” he said, pride in his voice. “She should have put it in yer bloody eye.”
Dougal howled with rage and came at him again, but Niall ducked easily and deflected the blow, before landing another swipe to the man’s stomach, making him drop to his knees. It was the turning point. He had the advantage.
But suddenly Niall felt tired. He wanted to go back home to Aisla. Nothing else mattered but her, not even vengeance. He wanted to hold her in his arms, see her open those beautiful copper-colored eyes. Tell her how much he loved her. Beg for her forgiveness every day if he had to.
He held the point of his claymore to Dougal’s throat. “Yield,” he said. “Before I change my mind.”
“Never.”
Niall pressed the blade downward, watching as the point of it dented the man’s skin. It would be so easy to lean into it, to finish it then and there. But he pulled back. “Ye willnae be that lucky. A hero’s death by the blade is no’ for ye. Ye’ll be hanged for yer crimes, Dougal Buchanan.”
Niall turned away, and was only alerted to movement by Ronan’s shout. It was by sheer luck that he angled sideways, the dirk, aimed at his back, whistling through the air, its deadly blade clipping the lobe of his ear. Niall dropped to one knee and thrust his claymore up and back, feeling it slide home through bone and muscle. He turned to see Dougal standing there in astonishment, his sword raised above his head and ready to strike, Niall’s claymore lodged in his dishonorable chest.
He fell backward with a thump. Quite dead.
Chapter Twenty
Death didn’t hurt.
It wouldn’t hurt because, well, a person would bedead.
