Chapter Nineteen #2
The Highlanders guarding the room had little chance.
They fought valiantly, even injuring one of the Vikings but in such close confines, it was only a matter of time.
Lorna lifted the sword and stood her ground as one was thrown back, mayhap dead, she could not tell.
The other man suffered a swipe across the chest and continued to fight until all three men turned on him.
His gaze locked briefly with hers—regret written in his expression—before Ivar delivered the death blow.
Lorna longed to tell him that he’d done his duty before he passed, but it was too late.
Ivar lowered his dripping axe and let slip a grin as he approached.
Here was when her front would be useful.
She adopted the pose she had become accustomed too.
The one that radiated confidence and power, and icy calm.
Her husband had not beaten her into submission and nor would this man.
“My lady.” The Norseman dipped his head as if he had not just spilled the blood of her clansmen across the wooden floor, as if it was not now dripping between the floorboards and scenting the air.
“Leave while ye still can,” she commanded. “There is no one important here. Yer army is being defeated as we speak.” She hoped that was true. “Ye’d be better returning to the battle.”
He thrust a dirty finger at her. “You are here.” He peered around her at the grey-haired laird who had put himself between the women and the Norsemen. “And the laird.”
“Ye would cut down an old man?”
He appeared to debate this, his lips twisting in consideration. “Come with me and I’ll leave the womenfolk be.”
“And the laird,” she prompted.
“Aye, and the laird.”
Shoulders rigid, she eyed him. Dare she trust such a man? But what other choice did she have? She lowered the sword cautiously. She had little intention of going with him, but she’d do anything to get them out of this room and away from her son and the other women.
“Lorna, dinnae—” Alana called out, but Catriona tugged her back and nodded her understanding.
Ivar took the blade from her and flung it aside.
It crashed against the wall and made her wince.
However, when his hand wrapped painfully around one arm, she kept her expression stoic.
Lorna had every confidence she could manage this situation.
And every hope she would not have to handle it on her own.
***
Logan swung his blade and felt the give of flesh.
Blood, hot and sticky, splattered him but he had no time to consider that many of these men were people he had come to know.
Before he had withdrawn his sword, steel flashed and bore down upon him.
He ducked and whirled to bring his pommel into the man’s face.
Most of the enemy were Norse, he vaguely realised through the red haze misting in front of his eyes.
As soon as they had opened the doors, hoping to surprise the enemy and take advantage, they had been staggered by how much their opponent’s numbers had dwindled.
Mayhap their plans to make their overnight stay as uncomfortable as possible had worked and many had deserted.
And mayhap the realisation they’d be going up against their countrymen by joining with the Norse had plagued some.
Either way, Logan was grateful for their increased chance at victory.
The fighting was vicious enough as it was.
He had lost track of Morgann and Finn. He dove into the mass of men trying to fight their way into the keep with a fire in his belly that he hardly recognised.
All this time, he’d been fighting for something—land, power, his memory returned—but nothing had filled that empty ache until now.
Even without his memory, he felt whole again. He had something to fight for.
Lorna.
Pain rang through his back, juddering his spine and skull, and he spun, acknowledging the kick from an especially large Viking.
The man’s hair was tinged red at the ends and it whirled as he swung at Logan.
This mass of hair and blood moved slowly to his eyes.
Sounds dimmed and his skin heated. He would have laughed if he had a moment. He felt invincible.
Their blades clashed once, sending a shock down his arm, but Logan recovered quickly and scored a slice across the man’s arm.
As his enemy yowled in pain and retaliated by driving his sword forward, Logan stepped aside and brought his steel across the man’s back.
He fell, face forward into the mud that had been churned up by the feet of men fighting for their lives.
Before Logan could choose his next target, a familiar head of golden hair caught his eye. Finn carved a path through the brawling men to his side.
“Norse,” he panted, “in the keep. They broke through.”
Hell fire. Logan didn’t acknowledge the words, and didn’t wait to see if Finn followed.
Agony clamped about his heart. He savoured that pain as he pushed through the fight, cutting down anyone who dared impede his progress.
He nurtured the hurt while his mind reeled with possibilities.
That pain steeled his determination. Lorna would not be harmed this day.
She would live a long and happy life by his side.
A sting tore through his arm but the door was in sight, so he didn’t bother returning the glancing blow to his biceps.
Sprinting up the few short steps, he dodged the bodies of several Norse and pushed aside another.
The Glencolum men were doing a fine job of seeing off the rest of the enemy, but they were too busy trying to keep any more from entering to withdraw inside.
He glanced behind to see Finn had become lost in the seething mass of men.
Lorna had placed her trust in him and it looked as though she would depend on him to protect her now.
His last breath, he had promised. With his last breath he would protect her.
Those same breaths seared his lungs as he raced up the spiral stairs, his blade thrust forward, to the solar.
When he spilled out into the dimly lit room, two men spun at the sound of his boots on the floorboards.
Swords held aloft, both came at him. In the distance he heard Lorna’s scream and saw her pull from Ivar.
The other women huddled back and Logan was aware of the close confines of the room.
One wrong move and they’d all end up sliced to ribbons.
Most of all, the pounding in his chest reminded him his son lay in the arms of a nursemaid mere feet from a ruthless enemy and his love was held against the Viking’s chest.
He had to move swift and sure.
His brawling style of fighting gave him an advantage here, and he ducked the first swing to cut at the man’s legs.
He fell but Logan had no time to finish him before the other was upon him, blade aimed at his gut.
Logan gripped the tang of the sword and drew it past him, bringing him face to face with the enemy.
He saw the sweat on his brow, smelled his sour breath and noted the widening of his pale blue eyes as Logan thrust his steel into his gut.
The weapon slid easily from the man as he collapsed. Sweeping his wild hair from his face, Logan lifted his blade to the other man crawling on the floor. He was only mildly wounded and still posed a threat, but a shout prevented him from acting further.
“Logan!” Ivar bellowed.
Jaw twitching, muscles tense, Logan faced the man who held Lorna. Ivar held his blade to her throat. Logan’s heart and stomach switched places. Would the Norseman really kill her? He wanted her badly enough to break into the castle and go directly to her, and he had not killed her—yet.
He glanced at Lorna, impressed by the way she held her body so still.
Not even a whimper spilled from her lips.
He knew of her courage but still, it amazed him such a woman loved him.
This daring, passionate woman had spent so much time fighting for him to return to her, and now he had, he would not fail her. He too would fight.
“Release her and let us fight,” Logan barked. Tension made his voice grittier than usual and his scar created a tight ache in his neck.
“I do not think so.” Ivar pressed Lorna closer and sniffed her hair. “You fight like a Viking. I am impressed. But I am not so foolish as to go up against a man like you. A man with much to lose.”
“I fight like a Highlander,” he declared, eyeing the large Norseman and edging forward.
Ivar, as he had hoped, backed up, still clutching Lorna.
“If you step away, Logan, mayhap I shall let your lady live.”
He took another step forward. “And if ye let her go, mayhap I’ll let ye live.” Logan resisted the desire to grin. He had the man backed into the corner, away from the others. The only life he had to worry for was Lorna’s. Even his was inconsequential.
He locked gazes with Lorna and sent a silent plea to her. A plea to trust him and an urgent plea to understand his plan. He shifted his weapon to his other hand and caught Ivar’s slight scowl.
“Keep still,” Ivar ordered.
Lorna fidgeted against his hold. It made Logan’s throat constrict further to see her body so close to that sharp axe, but he was grateful for the distraction.
While Ivar shifted her into a tighter hold, Logan reached beneath his plaid.
Lorna must have caught the movement as understanding flashed in her eyes and she wriggled again, sending Ivar stumbling back a few more steps.
He felt the reassuring smooth wood against his palm and curled his hand around the dagger handle. He had one shot, one chance to save Lorna. Time slowed once more. Ivar’s threats were lost to him, his growls of frustration at Lorna’s uncooperativeness drowned by the rush of blood in his ears.