Chapter 23 #3
Lachlan scanned the battle, searching for the one person he knew he had to take down before this was going to be over. The one person he could not let escape or take prisoner. Kerr.
Kerr was down at the beach, limping as he searched for a rowboat that wasn’t on fire, when Lachlan bellowed his name.
The blasted man looked past Lachlan, where Highland warriors smashed into the English line and drove them back toward the sea loch. For the first time, fear entered Kerr’s eyes, replacing the arrogance of assured victory.
“We’re no’ finished,” Lachlan shouted.
Kerr grimaced, his teeth bared as he charged. Lachlan braced, ready to take him down, even if it took everything he had left.
Kerr attacked with vicious desperation. He sliced a shallow cut on Lachlan’s ribs, then he aimed for Lachlan’s wounded leg again and again, forcing him to absorb pain with each turn, each parry, each hard step across the blood-slick stones.
“Ye fight well for a wounded man,” Kerr sneered.
“And ye fight like a coward hiding behind foreign blades.”
Their swords locked.
Kerr leaned close enough for Lachlan to see sweat running through the dirt on his face. “Ye could have ruled beside men of power.”
“I kneel to no traitor.”
“Then die for your precious honor.” Kerr shoved hard.
Lachlan yielded just enough. Kerr in his arrogance left himself vulnerable, shoving with all of his weight.
But Lachlan had prepared for just that, turning his momentum against him.
Kerr staggered against him, his sword flying from his grip and clattering across the pebbled beach.
Kerr lunged for the dagger at his belt, but Lachlan was quicker, snatching the dagger and stabbing it between Kerr's ribs, once, twice, three times. Warm blood sluiced over Lachlan’s fingers.
Kerr let out a guttural groan, his body slumping into Lachlan’s, but his arms punching against his head with a weak attempt to fight back
“Ye canna kill me,” Kerr gasped, blood pooling in the corners of his mouth.
“I already did.” Lachlan let the man’s body drop, staring at him as he convulsed in one final death throe.
For one suspended heartbeat, the battle seemed to pause.
Then the English line broke. Without Kerr’s command, with Callum and Ewan’s men crushing them from the ridge and Lachlan’s warriors driving them from the gate, the retreat became chaos.
Some fled for the rowboats, trying to douse the flames.
Others dropped weapons. A few were cut down before they reached the path.
The roar of victory rose across the MacLeod warriors. But Lachlan barely heard it. He was already searching for Isabel.
Then he saw her running down the rocky path, skirts caught in one fist, face pale with terror and relief. The sight of her struck harder than the wound on his side. She reached him just as he lowered his sword. Blood had soaked through his leine at his ribs from the cut he’d sustained from Kerr.
“Ye’re bleeding,” she breathed.
He looked down, as though the wound belonged to another man. “I have been bleeding since Falkirk.”
“Ye nearly died.”
His eyes lifted to hers, exhaustion carving deep into his bones. Yet whatever restraint had once stood between them had burned away.
“While ye were watching?” A weary flicker of humor crossed his face. “Never.”
Her breath broke. That single sound undid him.
He pulled her against him, hard. As though surviving had stripped away every final excuse for restraint.
She came into his arms without hesitation, pressing her face to his chest while he held her against blood, wool, sweat and the savage thunder of his own heart.
They were blessedly alive.
They made quick work apprehending the prisoners of war.
Few had escaped on the remaining boats and Lachlan watched with narrowed eyes as the cowards returned to the galleons, far fewer in number than they had been before.
The rest were rounded up to be put in Dunvegan’s dungeons, which normally only held a few drunks, or the errant murderer.
He didn’t like for them to be full but knew the rotten English would be better there than dead on this beach.
Even they had families, and it was up to the Bruce if they were to ever see them again.
The courtyard erupted into exhausted cheers while warriors embraced and shouted victory into the wind. A few tossed remarks not suited for children’s ears toward the slumped shoulders of the English as they were led away.
Callum approached through drifting smoke and clasped Lachlan’s forearm. “Ye look terrible.”
Lachlan gave him a tired grin. “Ye should see the other bastard.”
Ewan glanced toward Kerr’s body. “Aye. I’d say he came off worse.”
Laughter rippled nearby. But Lachlan’s attention remained fixed on Isabel.
Only hours ago, loving her had seemed like the one battle he had no right to win.
Now she stood in his arms while Skye still breathed around them, while Kerr lay dead at his feet, while the sea battered the anchored ships as if trying to remind them both how close ruin had come.
He had promised to marry her if they survived. Well, here they were, and Lachlan would never again pretend he could let her go.