Chapter 36
Chapter Thirty-Six
The struggling didn’t stop as her father and his man-at-arms tried to get Amelia onto a saddle. She used her missing weight to her advantage as her father tried to shoulder her upward. Twisting in the opposite direction, she tumbled out of his reach and into the dirt.
At the same time that the two men began to curse, there was a burst of noise from the south. Riders, dozens of them by the sound of it. She winced, a noise that was a mix between a whimper, a laugh, and a groan. The fall was devastating in the intensity of the pain it brought.
Something may have broken. She didn’t have time to take stock, though. Another quiet cry of pain left her lips. She rolled to her back and sat up, tears of exertion making tracks down her cheeks.
The distraction, the battle cries, and the shrill horn weren’t random.
There, leading the charge of irate, determined lairds, was Darragh.
His hands were fisted in the reins, his mare moving smoothly beneath him.
His eyes were locked on her, steady and intense.
The fire engulfing his entire being started and ended in his piercing, blue irises.
Acting on blind instinct, Amelia’s body surged forward.
On a primal level, she recognized him as her protector, even if he’d just walked into the very situation that she had been trying to keep him from.
She was only able to take two labored steps before a guard grabbed hold of her, attempting to pull her away from the chaos.
The rest of Laird Mackenzie’s men reacted instantly. While men from the keep stormed their area with their swords drawn, her father’s men were pulling weapons of their own. They met at the midway point in a cacophony of steel and animalistic cries.
As men dismounted from both sides to properly fight their enemies, horses reared. Blades clashed with a sharp, metallic clang. The trees absorbed the sound, making each blow sound more precise and devastating. Amelia struggled against the guard’s hold, horrified.
It was her worst nightmare come to life, the thing she’d been trying to avoid ever since Darragh had started poking around in search of her name.
“Nay,” she screamed, thrashing against the oppressive hold. Her entire body acted as a weapon, her elbows colliding with her captor’s torso. She swung her legs wildly, both trying to land a blow and throw him off balance. “Nay!”
Just as her heel collided with the man’s shin, Darragh’s voice pierced through the roar of violence.
“Release her.”
It was deadly calm and in a register that she could feel in her stomach. The man behind her did let go of her, and she wasn’t sure if it was the command Darragh gave or the pain of the kick she gave him. But Laird Mackenzie was there, smoothly catching her before she could even think of running.
Darragh walked closer, three deliberate steps that seemed to resonate above the fighting around them. He didn’t say anything, but his message was clear. He wouldn’t be intimidated by Alistair Mackenzie, even if Amelia thought he ought to be.
As she tried to twist out of her father’s grip, she caught sight of his raised eyebrow.
It was like he was a little more than inconvenienced by being ambushed.
What infuriated Amelia the most, overrode her pain and made her swallow the part of her that wanted to give in, was the look of amusement she caught.
“The Golden Wolf,” Laird Mackenzie said, the name rolling off his tongue.
He was looking straight at Darragh, and Amelia realized that golden wolves were more than just a motif he used for himself in art.
She exhaled sharply when her father shook her and said, “Ye’ve taken possession of somethin’ that belongs to me. ”
Darragh didn’t look away from him. “She belongs to nae one. Unless she wishes to.”
Amelia’s father chuckled softly, passing her off to the guard she’d just kicked. She still tried to break free, but her body was tired. The aches seemed to only grow deeper, more overwhelming.
“She is me daughter, Laird Fraser,” Alistair said as he stepped forward, not bothering to look Amelia’s way.
The word landed clearly. It was undeniable, a biological stake of ownership.
As it ricocheted through the tiny clearing, some of Darragh’s men hesitated.
Her father seemed even more emboldened, as if what they were fighting for was righteous rather than a man’s desire to keep his daughter as a prisoner.
Darragh’s expression didn’t change, though. If anything, he stood taller, radiating a confidence that reached Amelia. She straightened her shoulders, her heart no longer muffling the sounds of activity around her.
“If she was yer daughter,” he said as he took a deliberate, threatening step toward Laird Mackenzie, “then ye should have treated her like one.”
Amelia sucked in a breath as her father’s stance seemed to harden. The air around him wavered with a poison meant to maim anyone who breathed it. When he responded, Amelia felt sick with rage.
“I did what was necessary.”
* * *
Darragh felt as if he might snap, turn into the wolf that Laird Mackenzie referred to him as. The desire to lash out was almost unbearable. This arrogant bastard would dare—
Amelia chose that moment to spit on the ground. Blood and phlegm bubbled together in the dirt. The action was so unladylike that it stopped the rest of the fighting, drawing everyone’s focus to the mounting tension in the circle of bodies.
“Ye sold me.”
The fury in her voice was barbed, but the statement wasn’t emotional. It was a fact. And even that didn’t move Alistair Mackenzie.
The man shrugged. It was just as mild as every other response he’d given. The cockiness wasn’t something he’d earned. Just a year ago, the man was so far in debt that most other lairds had written him off.
Inflated sense of self-importance. I never could stand men like him.
“I removed a liability,” Alistair said after a moment, turning to face Amelia.
His gaze lingered like he was already assessing her value again.
A beat later, she turned back to Darragh.
“Me son is me heir. Her existence complicates matters. Land claims. Alliances.” He waved his hand as he spoke, casual and dismissive.
“Inheritance disputes from her mother’s line as well.
It’s too much bureaucracy to explain to someone like ye. ”
He paused then, waiting for Darragh to understand the dig. The haughty smirk on his face suggested he’d be pleased even if Darragh didn’t react. With a grunt, Darragh crossed his arms over his chest impatiently.
“Understand, Laird Fraser,” Alistair said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “I’ve been cleanin’ up a wee bit of a mess. What I’m buildin’, well, it’s far too new. Fragile like a bairn. The girl is a legal problem waitin’ to destroy everythin’ I have from the foundation up.”
The confession settled over Darragh, igniting the flames of a feral beast in his belly. Then, he saw the way the words hit Amelia. She was trying to remain impassive, but the declaration hurt.
“So,” Darragh said, his fingers flexing before curling into fists at his sides, “ye tried to have her killed. Or worse.”
When Alistair smiled, it was without shame. He rested his palm on the hilt of his sword as his head tilted slightly. As Amelia’s struggles started anew, he said, “I prefer efficient solutions.”
Amelia’s breath caught, and one of Mackenzie’s men laughed under his breath. The last tiny thread of Darragh’s restraint broke then. Slowly, he began to move closer to Alistair. Without ever looking away, he repeated, “Ye sold yer own blood.”
“I secured me clan’s future,” Alistair replied, regarding Darragh’s approach warily. He smirked, though, as if he’d just told himself an exceptionally funny private joke. “It’s somethin’ ye would understand if ye were less… sentimental.”
In an instant, the smile dropped from his face.
He moved like lightning, his hand moving from the hilt of the sword to a concealed blade in a flash.
As Darragh poised himself to fend off an attack, Alistair surprised him, going for Amelia instead.
A column of sunlight caught the blade, glinting as it began its trajectory straight for Amelia’s throat.
Darragh’s body was moving before he could think. Pure animal instinct drove him forward like a wall of hail, finally breaking through thick cloud cover. His sword came free of its holster without a sound.
Bringing his second hand to the hilt, Darragh struck with the intent to kill. With impeccable form from years of focused training, he struck with his entire body weight. If it weren’t for Alistair’s precise block, the cleave would have taken off his arm.
“This is what I mean,” he said, grunting as he pivoted away from Amelia. He was trying to maintain his aura of collected calm, but up this close, Darragh could see that he was sweating. “Ye’re goin’ to lose yer life. For what? A girl who would only be a liability?”
Darragh jerked his sword away, twisting it as he did and knocking Laird Mackenzie’s knife loose. As it clattered to the ground, Darragh ducked, solidifying his stance and adjusting his grip. Then, before Mackenzie could recover, Darragh shot forward, catching Alistair’s jaw with his shoulder.
Despite all the skills Mackenzie had, Darragh’s instincts were sharper.
Darragh was a predator, and this man had made a grave mistake in entering his walls.
There was nothing Alistair could do to keep himself upright.
The momentum from Darragh’s body check, paired with his own uneven footing, was a recipe that spelled disaster for him.
“Ye—” Alistair attempted to say before he hit the ground.
As he wheezed, all of the air being forced from his lungs with the force of his collision with the root-bound terrain, Darragh kicked his knife away.
Several of Mackenzie’s men began to back away, looking as if they were attempting to disappear.
Not a single one looked inclined to help their leader.
Rather than giving Alistair Mackenzie a grand death, a story that could be passed down by a member of his guard trying to make a martyr out of him, Darragh sank his sword into the center of the man’s chest without so much as a grunt.
Alistair’s hands stilled halfway to the hole in his chest. As Darragh ripped his sword away from where it was lodged, an arch of blood spurted from the gash, and Alistair’s fingers twitched as the last of his life left.
“Ye’ve done more than enough,” Darragh said to the man’s corpse, his blade dripping blood onto the dead leaves and dirt at his feet.
He turned toward the Mackenzie men still gathered. They stared on with horror, each one of them running their own silent calculations. Darragh didn’t say a word to them, only ensuring they understood what would happen if they dared cross his clan again.
After a long, silent moment, the banner bearing the Mackenzie stag fell to the ground. The men abandoned their posts, outnumbered and without leadership. Darragh memorized the faces of each and every man that he could.
They’ll be lucky if they never run into me again. I’m nae willin’ to forgive this.
When most of them had turned their backs to flee, and the men that remained were being restrained by Darragh’s guard, he looked back down at the corpse of Alistair Mackenzie. The blood had stopped flowing already. Darragh had hit him so precisely that he’d been drained in a matter of minutes.
In death, Darragh supposed he could see similarities between the Laird and his daughter. Their noses had the same slope. Their browbones were nearly identical. But they were fundamentally different.
“Amelia’s better than ye, Laird Mackenzie,” he said, bending down to wipe his sword clean.
He glanced at the body before refocusing on his task.
“I think ye kent it deep down. And it upset ye so badly, ye had to try and humiliate her.” When he’d cleared away as much blood as he could, Darragh pushed himself to his feet.
“Nay, other men will treat her that way again. And I will show her what it means to be cherished.”