Page 69 of The Devil in Plaid
“Ye’ve lost,” she said, her voice deadly soft.
He growled, hearing the thunder of footsteps charging through the keep. He swung her back around, dragged her into the solar, then flung her to the ground. She struggled to sit up. Her hair fell in messy waves, obscuring her face. But she flung her head back, her hair cascading behind her, her chin raised with defiance.
“The people have taken their clan back,” she declared.
Rage coursed through him. “Shut up,” he shouted as he grabbed her. Lifting her feet off the ground, he threw her back, slamming her against the hearth. She cried out in pain. For a moment, she lay unmoving. Anger pulsed through him. He glowered at her and unsheathed the blade strapped to his back. She lifted her head. Her eyes widened. A thrill of desire shot through him. He wanted her blood. She fought to sit up, to scramble away, but her hands were tied. She no longer smiled at him. The arrogant glint in her eyes had vanished. Blood trickled down her temple, and she stared at him with wide, fearful eyes.
“Aye, that’s right. Be afraid,” he said. He slowly raised his blade above his head. Her weakened body squirmed. “If I lose, then so do ye,” he cried, swinging his sword, but the clash of metal rang out. He jerked his head around to see who parried his blow.
“Fergus,” he snarled.
“She is an unarmed woman,” his son gasped.
Ranulf sneered. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners. Remember, ye bastard.”
Fergus lowered his blade. “We’ve lost, father. ‘Tis not she who must now ask for mercy. ‘Tis ye.”
Ranulf seethed, but he lowered his blade and offered his son his hand. Fergus eyed him for a moment, then tentatively reached out, accepting his father’s hand.
“Ye’re right, son,” Ranulf said. “’Tis not Lady Fiona who must beg for mercy.” He thrust his sword, catching Fergus beneath his ribs. “’Tis ye,” he growled.
“Nay!” Fiona screamed.
Fergus’s eyes widened. He sputtered, pressing his hands to his wound. “Father,” he gasped before he fell forward, his body sprawled on the floor.
“Ye always were weak,” Ranulf growled. “Now, ye’re dead.”
Turning back to take care of the MacLeod wench, he growled. She was gone. He turned about, not knowing by which door she had left. He charged for the closest door and threw it open just as a throng of servants, armed with pitchforks and spades, came rushing down the hall at him. He scurried back and slammed the door before scrambling across the room to the next door, which he swung wide. Lady Fiona held a sword at the ready. Behind her a dozen warriors bared their teeth at him.
She glared at him. “Ye’re finished, Ranulf.”
Ringing filled his ears. His heart pounded as he stumbled back. Climbing to his feet, he charged for the final door, but it swung wide before he could reach it. Jamie MacLeod filled the doorframe and took aim at Ranulf with a crossbow. Before Ranulf could duck, an arrow lodged in his shoulder. He turned away from the fierce Highland chieftain right into Fiona’s blade. Turning back around, he growled at Jamie. “Aren’t ye going to finish me?”
~ * ~
Jamie reloaded his weapon, wanting nothing more than to put an arrow through Ranulf’s skull.
“Are ye too soft?” Ranulf taunted, his eyes wild and desperate. “What if I told ye, I took her over that table.” He cupped his manhood. “I rode her good and hard.” He smelled his fingers. “I still have her juices on my hands.”
Fury ripped through Jamie. He raised the crossbow.
“He’s lying,” Fiona shouted.
“Finish me,” Ranulf snarled. “Give no quarter. Take no prisoners!”
Jamie stormed toward the villain and pressed the crossbow into his skull. He wanted to end him, then and there. He wanted the satisfaction of being the one to send Ranulf MacKenzie back toHell.
His hands shook with rage. He slowly lowered his weapon. “Ye do not deserve a quick death,” he spat.Jamie backed away, fighting every instinct in his body, which longed to spill the enemy’s blood. He took a deep breath. “Take him,” he told Alasdair who seized Ranulf’s arms from behind, placing him in shackles.
“Ye will stand before the council of the Clan MacKenzie.” Jamie circled around, meeting the gaze of every MacKenzie farmer and warrior filling the room. “These people, who ye have robbed of their laird and his heir, they will be yer judge.” Then he turned back and locked eyes with Ranulf. “Ye’ve lost, but do not worry—I am certain yer kin will show ye the same courtesy ye’ve shown them.”
“No quarter,” Ranulf cried, his eyes wide and ablaze with desperate fury. “No quarter!” Alasdair dragged Ranulf from the room, his screams of rage fading down the hallway.
Jamie turned away, locking eyes with Fiona. She rushed into his arms. He crushed her against himself, savoring the feel of her soft curves and the smell of her hair. A knot gripped his throat. He had kept his fear at bay, giving himself over to the battle, knowing only victory could save the woman he loved.
And how he loved her.
He drew back to see her face. He cupped her cheeks. “Are ye all right?”
