Page 61 of Highlander's Lady of the Lake

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Before Nimue’s greatest fear became a reality, she saw her father act with a speed she didn’t know he possessed. He reached for the nearest sword, one that had fallen from the hand of a dead soldier, its blade dripping with blood. She watched as he grabbed it and rushed toward the two men, and with a thunderous cry, he brought the sword down to strike.

Wentworth was quick to spin around, defending himself with his own sword as he turned, and Robert only managed to cut his sleeve and scrape his arm, drawing a few drops of blood; not nearly enough to incapacitate him, let alone kill him.

“Faither!” Nimue screamed, terrified for the Laird’s life. He didn’t stop, though; he didn’t even look at her. His entire focus was on Wentworth, whose expression was clouded with hatred and rage.

“How dare you attack me after everything I have done for you and your clan?” the Earl growled, shaking with fury. His outburst made Nimue stumble back. She had never seen him so angry before. She had only seen him calm and collected, but now there was a new side to him, one that scared her more than his cold and controlled manner.

“Ye’ve done nothin’ for me people,” her father said. “Ye’ve brought us all nothin’ but pain.”

The Earl huffed out a humorless laugh. “You haven’t seen pain,” he said. “Do you not remember what your insubordination means? Or do you not care about your children’s lives anymore?”

“I do,” the Laird assured him, his voice shaking. Nimue’s heart throbbed for the pain and worry in her father’s voice. A surge of pride for him filled her as she took in his stalwart stance. He was back to himself, and he would not back down. “But I dinna expect ye to fulfill any of yer threats.”

“No?” the Earl asked. “And why is that?”

“Because ye’ll be dead soon.”

The only way that their fight would end would be with one of them dead, Nimue knew, and she didn’t even want to consider the possibility that it would be her father. But someone had to kill Wentworth, and there was no going back for the Laird now.

The fury that Nimue saw in Wentworth’s eyes was unlike anything she had seen before in a man. Such rage and hatred were surely more than a man could have for another human, she thought. Then again, Wentworth had shown himself to be a monster.

When Wentworth attacked her father, he did so with a roar, which reminded her of a wild animal, hungry for blood. With a step to the side, the Laird avoided the blade that threatened to strike him dead, though only by the breadth of a hair. He swung his own sword, replying with a blow of his own, but Wentworth was fast, much faster than him, and he had no trouble dodging the attack.

“How do you plan on killing me?” Wentworth asked. “An old man like yourself stands no chance against me! When was the last time you were in a battle, Laird MacLellan?”

Wentworth had made a good point, unfortunately. The last time Nimue had seen her father return from a battle had been long ago when he was still a young man. Now, he was older, slower, and he tired more easily. He was nothing like Wentworth, who was still a young man, strong and well-trained, ready to spill blood. Had they fought a decade earlier, the Laird would have already killed him, she thought, his hands capable and accustomed to bringing death to his enemies. Had they fought a decade earlier, he wouldn’t be panting, trying to catch his breath, before the fight had even truly begun. But now there he was, beads of sweat dripping from his temples, his breath coming out in puffs, his limbs heavy with the years he had spent eating and drinking away from the battlefield.

And yet, Nimue still had faith in him. She knew that he could defeat the Earl if only he remembered the kind of man he used to be.

The Earl was a man on a mission. He attacked again and again, time after time, his own grunts and screams mingling with those of the men who were still fighting around them. There was so much blood, so many bodies on the ground, but none of it seemed to matter to them, at least until her father tripped over one of Chrisdean’s men. Nimue didn’t miss the look of horror in her father’s eyes, and she knew that there was an identical look in hers. She felt so helpless, so useless, and there was nothing that she could do to help him or Chrisdean. She wished that she knew how to fight, that she could throw herself into the battle and help, but she was frozen in fear, unable to do anything but watch as chaos and death spread around her.

Her father recovered quickly, responding with a swing of his blade that Wentworth parried with ease. It was an uneven fight, and that became more and more clear to Nimue as time passed. Her father’s clothes, already soiled with dirt and grime from being kept as the Earl’s prisoner, were now soaked in sweat, and his knees trembled with every step.

“You’re too old for this, Laird MacLellan,” Wentworth said, and Nimue could hear the amusement in his voice, an amusement that made her grind her teeth in frustration. It seemed to her that it was nothing more than a game to Wentworth, nothing more than a cat chasing a mouse, knowing that, in the end, the kill was inevitable. The Earl was mocking him, and it made Nimue sick to her stomach.

Had she been braver, Nimue told herself that she could have killed Wentworth when he came to the tent to force himself on her. Had she been smarter, she would have found a blade and hidden it in her dress; she could have done something, anything, to stop him.

If she had done that, then her father wouldn’t be in danger now. No one would be in danger anymore, and all those lives wouldn’t have been lost.

Perhaps his men would have killed her after finding out what she had done, but it was a small price to pay compared to all the lives that had been lost. One life against dozens; it was a simple choice for her.

But the reality was that she had done nothing to stop him, and she cursed herself for it. If she lived to see another day, if she and Chrisdean finally got their happily ever after and God gave her a daughter, she would teach her how to fight, she decided. She would do anything to stop her from feeling as helpless as she was feeling at that moment.

“Give up,” said Wentworth, and his tone was akin to sympathy, but Nimue knew that the man didn’t have any. He was only faking it to convince her father to stop fighting, to pull him back to his side, to make an ally out of him again.

“Never.”

“Do you wish to die like your son?”

At those words, Nimue froze. What does he mean? What happened to Tristan?

She felt numbness overtake her body, starting with her head and spreading slowly down to the rest of her until she could hardly stand. Her vision, once clear, watching everything that was happening around her, was now fuzzy and dark at the edges, her breathing shallow and labored, the air refusing to be drawn into her lungs.

She could hardly see anything in front of her, and she could hardly hear Wentworth’s next words.

“That’s right, Laird MacLellan,” the man said. “Your son is dead.”

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