Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
The keep’s central courtyard was supposed to be safe.
Moyra had just finished settling the last group of children with their mothers, had just checked the barred doors and reinforced locks, when the explosion shook the eastern wall.
Stone cracked. Ancient mortar crumbled. And through the sudden breach poured MacKenzie warriors—a small force, perhaps a dozen men, but more than enough to overwhelm the handful of guards stationed inside.
“Get back!” One of the guards—young Tavish from her training sessions—thrust himself between Moyra and the advancing soldiers. “Me lady, run!”
But there was nowhere to run. The corridor behind her led deeper into the keep, toward the women and children she’d just secured. She couldn’t lead attackers there.
So she stood her ground, grabbing the closest weapon—a torch from its wall sconce—and faced the men who’d come to kill her.
The first MacKenzie warrior who reached Tavish cut him down with ruthless brutality. The young guard fell with a cry that would haunt Moyra’s nightmares, his blood spreading across ancient stones.
“There!” Another warrior pointed directly at her. “That’s the MacKenzie bitch! The one the laird wants!”
They surged forward as one.
Moyra swung her torch wildly, catching one man across the face.
He screamed, stumbling back, but two more took his place.
A blade whistled past her ear—too close, far too close.
She ducked, rolled, came up swinging again.
The torch connected with armor this time, useless against steel, and rough hands grabbed her arms.
“Got ye!” The warrior’s breath reeked of sour ale. “Yer Da’s been waiting fer this—”
Moyra drove her knee into his groin with all the force she could muster.
He released her with a howl, doubling over, and she scrambled backward.
But there were too many. They surrounded her, cutting off every escape route, their faces twisted with the particular cruelty of men who knew they were about to hurt something helpless.
“Me lady!” A familiar voice—Catriona, appearing in the corridor with a kitchen knife. “Get away from her!”
“Nay!” Moyra’s scream came too late.
A MacKenzie warrior backhanded Catriona with enough force to send her crashing into the wall. The maid crumpled, unconscious or worse, and fury unlike anything Moyra had ever felt exploded through her chest.
She grabbed the fallen guard’s sword—too heavy, awkward in her untrained hands—and swung with desperate strength.
The blade caught one attacker across the shoulder, drawing blood and a satisfying howl of pain.
But another warrior’s fist connected with her jaw, stars exploding across her vision as she stumbled.
The world tilted. She hit the ground hard, tasting copper. Through blurred vision, she saw blades rising, saw death approaching in the form of men wearing her father’s colors.
Then the door behind her attackers exploded inward.
Euan came through like a force of nature—armor splattered with blood, eyes blazing with fury that made even the hardened warriors take an involuntary step back.
His sword was already moving before his boots hit the floor, the blade singing as it cleared the first attacker’s guard and opened his throat in one devastating strike.
“Touch me wife again,” Euan growled, “and I’ll make yer deaths last days.”
He moved like violence given form—each strike precise and brutal, his scarred shoulder flexing as his blade carved through MacKenzie warriors with the efficiency of a man defending what he loved most. One attacker tried to circle behind him.
Euan spun, his elbow catching the man’s face with a crack of breaking bone, his sword following through to open the warrior’s chest.
Two more rushed him simultaneously. Euan’s blade deflected the first strike, his free hand grabbing the second attacker’s wrist and twisting until bone snapped. The man’s scream ended abruptly as Euan’s sword found his heart.
“Behind ye!” Moyra’s warning came desperate.
Euan ducked without looking, a blade whistling over his head. He came up inside his attacker’s guard, his shoulder driving into the man’s chest while his dagger—when had he drawn a dagger?—punched up under the warrior’s ribs. The MacKenzie soldier’s eyes went wide with shock before he collapsed.
But more warriors poured through the breach. Even Euan’s skill couldn’t hold against those numbers.
Then Calum MacKinnon appeared in the breach, his sea-blue eyes hard as winter ice. “Need a hand, braither?”
“About bloody time!” Euan grabbed Moyra, hauling her behind him as Calum’s blade flashed.
They fought with the fluid grace of water—flowing around guards, finding gaps, their strikes almost lazy in their efficiency until you saw the bodies piling up in his wake.
A MacKenzie warrior tried to flank Calum, whose blade caught the man’s sword arm, severing it at the elbow, before spinning to open another attacker’s throat.
“East wall’s secure,” Calum reported between strikes. “David’s holding the northern approach. Archibald’s—”
“Right here.” The massive warrior filled the doorway behind them, his face grim. “And we’ve got a problem. Keith MacKenzie himself just came through the main gates.”
Every muscle in Euan’s body went rigid. “What?”
“Ye heard me.” Archibald’s blade removed another MacKenzie warrior’s head with almost casual brutality. “The bastard’s leading his forces personally. And from what I’m seeing, he’s heading this direction.”
Moyra’s blood turned to ice. Her father. Here. Coming for her personally instead of sending his men to do the killing.
Which meant he wanted to watch her die.
The remaining MacKenzie warriors in the courtyard fell quickly—caught between three Covenant brothers and with nowhere to run, they had no chance. When the last body hit the floor, Euan turned to Moyra, his hands finding her shoulders.
“Are ye hurt?” His voice came rough with barely controlled panic. “Did they—”
“I’m fine. Bruised, but fine.” She touched his face, needing the contact. “Catriona—she’s hurt, we need tae—”
“I’ll see tae her,” Calum promised, already moving toward the fallen maid. “Ye two need tae get somewhere safer. If Keith’s coming—”
A slow clap echoed through the courtyard.
“How touching.” The voice made Moyra’s skin crawl. “Me daughter, playing at being a Highland wife. Did ye truly think this charade would work?”
Keith MacKenzie stepped through the breach, flanked by a dozen warriors who moved with the professional competence of experienced killers.
He was tall and imposing, dark hair streaked with grey, those calculating hazel eyes that had once looked at her with something resembling affection but now held only cold assessment.
“Faither.” The word tasted like poison.
“Daughter.” His gaze traveled over her, taking in her disheveled state, the bruise forming on her jaw, the way she stood close to Euan. Something dark flickered across his features. “Ye look well. Better than ye deserve, considering the trouble ye’ve caused.”
“The trouble I’ve caused?” Fury burned through her shock. “Ye’re the one who mounted an invasion! Ye’re the one who—”
“Who did what needed tae be done.” Keith’s voice remained calm, reasonable. The same tone he’d used to explain why he was sending her to the priory, why her presence was inconvenient. “Ye were always too soft, Moyra. Too emotional. Yer maither’s daughter in the worst ways.”
“Dinnae ye dare speak of me maither. She was worth ten of ye.”
“She was weak.” Keith stepped closer, his warriors moving with him. “Just like ye. Which is why ye had tae be removed from the equation. Can ye imagine me surprise when I learned ye’d married MacLeod? When me carefully laid plans were disrupted by yer sentimental foolishness?”
“Carefully laid plans.” Understanding crashed through her. “The attack on the road tae the priory. The English soldiers. That was ye. Ye arranged fer me tae be taken tae Norham.”
“Of course I did.” He said it like it was obvious. “The priory would have been too easy tae retrieve ye from. But an English dungeon? Perfect. Far enough away that rescue was unlikely. And if ye happened tae die there—well, tragic, but these things happen in war.”
Euan’s sword lifted, pointing directly at Keith’s throat. “Ye’re a monster.”
“I’m a pragmatist.” Keith’s gaze shifted to Euan, and Moyra saw calculation there. “Ye understand, surely? A daughter who represented the old ways, who might challenge me authority, who could become a rallying point fer dissent. She had tae be eliminated. Just as ye have tae be eliminated now.”
“Try it.” Euan’s voice dropped to something dangerous. “Try tae touch her, and I’ll carve yer heart from yer chest.”
“Bold words from a man surrounded by me warriors.” Keith gestured, and more MacKenzie soldiers appeared—filing through the breach, positioning themselves at strategic points.
Within seconds, they were outnumbered three to one.
“But I dinnae need tae fight ye personally. That’s what mercenaries are fer. ”
His warriors moved forward as one.
Euan, Calum, and Archibald formed a protective triangle around Moyra, their blades raised, their bodies blocking every approach. But even their combined skill couldn’t hold against those numbers indefinitely.
“Moyra!” Keith’s voice cut through the clash of steel. “This ends when ye step forward. Let yer husband live. Let these fools survive. Just come with me, and I’ll call off the attack.”
“Dinnae listen tae him!” Euan’s blade deflected two strikes simultaneously. “He’ll kill us all anyway!”
“He’s right.” Keith’s smile held no warmth. “But at least this way, some of them might survive long enough fer burial. What’s it tae be, daughter? Will ye sacrifice yerself fer these people? Or will ye let them die because ye’re too selfish tae accept yer fate?”
Moyra looked at Euan—at his face set in grim determination, at the way he fought with everything he had to keep enemies away from her.
Looked at Calum and Archibald, risking their lives for a woman they barely knew.
Looked at the bodies already littering the courtyard, at good people dead because her father was a monster.
She couldn’t let this continue.
“All right.” Her voice came steadier than she felt. “All right, I’ll—”
“The hell ye will!” Euan spun toward her, leaving his back exposed for a fatal heartbeat. “Moyra, dinnae—”
The blade that should have taken him through the spine was deflected by Archibald’s desperate parry.
But the distraction cost them—MacKenzie warriors surged forward, overwhelming their defense through sheer numbers.
Calum went down under three attackers. Archibald’s blade shattered against another warrior’s helm.
And Keith MacKenzie stepped forward, a dagger appearing in his hand, his gaze locked on Moyra with the cold focus of a man about to remove an inconvenience.
“It’s time tae end this,” he said quietly. “Past time, really. Ye should have died in that dungeon, daughter. But I can rectify that mistake now.”
He lunged.