Chapter 39
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Shadows shifted in the hedges.
Tavish's instincts screamed danger a split second before armed men exploded from the greenery. He grabbed Maighread's arm and spun her behind him, his other hand already reaching for his sword. Steel rang as he drew the blade just in time to block a vicious overhead strike.
The impact jarred his shoulder. The attacker was strong, well-trained, wearing Sinclair colors barely concealed beneath a dark cloak.
"Run!" Tavish shouted at Maighread.
"Like hell!"
From the corner of his eye, he saw her pull a small dagger from her boot. Smart lass. Always armed now, just as he'd taught her.
Another Sinclair soldier rushed from the left. Tavish kicked him back, then drove his sword through the first attacker's guard, catching him in the shoulder. The man screamed and fell. Movement everywhere now. At least six men, maybe more, pouring from hiding spots throughout the garden.
An ambush. Planned and executed while he'd been distracted, vulnerable, holding his wife in his arms like a lovesick fool.
Fury ignited in his chest.
A mercenary swung at Maighread from her blind side. She turned, too slow, eyes widening. Tavish lunged between them, his blade intercepting the strike with a shower of sparks. He shoved Maighread hard, sending her stumbling out of range.
"Stay behind me!"
"I can fight!"
"I ken ye can, but right now ye need tae bloody listen!"
The mercenary recovered and came at him again. Tavish met him head-on, their blades clashing twice before he found an opening. His sword bit deep into the man's thigh. The mercenary howled and dropped, clutching the wound.
More shadows moved. More men emerging. This wasn't just an attack. This was a coordinated strike meant to capture or kill.
Meant for Maighread.
Tavish positioned himself between her and the advancing soldiers, his mind racing through options.
They were too far from the castle proper for immediate help.
The garden paths twisted and turned, offering both cover and confusion.
He needed to get her to safety, but the attackers had them surrounded.
"Well, well." A voice cut through the chaos, cold and mocking. "How touching. The hero protecting his prize."
Keir Sinclair stepped from behind a stone statue, sword drawn, his expression twisted into something ugly. Hatred and entitlement warred across his features.
Tavish's blood turned to ice. Then fire.
"Ye bastard," he snarled.
"Me?" Keir's mouth curved. "I'm simply taking what should have been mine all along."
His men surged forward, cutting off escape routes. Eight of them now, fanning out in a loose circle. Professional fighters, not the hired thugs from the village attacks. This was Keir's elite guard.
Tavish's grip tightened on his sword. "Ye're a dead man."
"Bold words from someone outnumbered." Keir's gaze shifted past Tavish to Maighread. "Hello, sweetheart. Miss me?"
"Go tae hell," Maighread spat.
"Charming as ever. We'll work on yer manners once ye're home where ye belong."
"She's nae going anywhere with ye." Tavish's voice dropped into something lethal. "Touch her and I'll gut ye where ye stand."
"Ye'll try."
Keir gestured. His men attacked.
Tavish met the first strike with brutal efficiency, his sword a blur. Block, parry, riposte. The movements came automatically, honed by years of training and warfare. But he was fighting defensively now, unable to press advantages because every instinct screamed at him to protect Maighread.
She wasn't making it easy.
From behind him, he heard her grunt of effort. A man's pained shout. When Tavish risked a glance, he saw her yanking her dagger free from a soldier's side, blood staining the blade.
Pride and terror warred in his chest.
"Maighread!"
"I'm fine!"
She wasn't fine. She was in mortal danger, fighting men twice her size with nothing but a small dagger and fierce determination.
A blade whistled toward Tavish's head. He ducked, slashed upward, felt his sword bite flesh. The attacker stumbled back, clutching his arm. Tavish pressed forward, driving him away from Maighread with a series of brutal strikes.
Then a shout erupted from the garden path.
"Tavish!"
Greg burst into view, five MacBain warriors behind him. Relief flooded Tavish's system. His friend took in the situation instantly, his scarred face hardening into battle fury.
"Kill them all!" Greg roared.
The MacBain men slammed into the Sinclair fighters with devastating force. Steel rang against steel. Men shouted and cursed. The neat garden paths transformed into a battlefield.
Greg cut down two attackers in quick succession, his movements economical and deadly. He positioned himself near Maighread, creating a defensive barrier.
"Get behind me, me lady!"
Maighread ducked behind Greg's broad frame just as another Sinclair soldier lunged for her. Greg intercepted the strike, his blade moving in a vicious arc that opened the man's throat. Blood sprayed across the stone path.
Maighread didn't hesitate. She drove her dagger into another assailant who'd gotten too close, aiming for the gap in his armor. The man screamed and fell.
Tavish's heart hammered. His wife was fighting like a born warrior, fearless and brutal. It was magnificent and terrifying at the same time.
A blade came at him from the side. Tavish spun, blocked, and recognized the attacker. One of Keir's captains, a man he'd seen at MacEwan Castle during that first tense dinner. The captain fought well, pressing Tavish hard with a series of complex attacks.
But Tavish was better.
He feinted left, drew the captain's guard out of position, then drove his sword through the gap. The blade punched through leather and flesh. The captain's eyes widened in shock before he crumpled.
Movement to his right. Keir, circling like a predator, waiting for an opening.
Their eyes met across the chaos.
"Still hiding behind yer men?" Tavish taunted.
Keir's jaw clenched. "I dinnae hide from anything."
"Could have fooled me. Sending mercenaries tae dae yer dirty work. Attacking from ambush like a coward."
"Strategy isnae cowardice."
"Call it what ye want. Ye're still a pathetic bastard who cannae accept nay fer an answer."
Keir's face flushed with rage. "She was meant tae be mine! The Council agreed, her faither practically promised, everyone understood the logic of it. Then ye appeared out of nowhere and stole what wasnae yers tae take!"
"She wasnae yers tae steal. She's a person, nae property."
"She's a clan asset! A means tae power! And ye've ruined everything!"
Keir lunged. Not at Tavish, but past him. Toward Maighread.
Tavish's blood turned to ice.
He threw himself between them, his blade meeting Keir's with bone-jarring force. The impact sent shock waves up his arm. Keir's face was twisted with fury, all pretense of civility stripped away.
"Get away from her!" Tavish roared.
"Why? So ye can keep her? So ye can marry her?" Keir's voice was venomous. "It daesnae matter. Once yer dead, she'll have nae choice but tae turn tae me. The clan will need protection. I'll be there tae provide it."
"We're married, ye delusional bastard. Properly married. Before witnesses, before a priest. She's me wife!"
Keir went absolutely still. Then his eyes blazed with something beyond rage. Beyond reason.
"Then I kill him first," he snarled.
He came at Tavish with reckless abandon, all strategy abandoned in favor of raw fury. Their swords clashed again and again, the sound ringing across the garden. Tavish gave ground, letting Keir's momentum carry him forward, waiting for the opening.
"Ye think ye deserve her?" Keir spat between strikes. "Ye think ye're worthy? Ye're nothing! A second son from a middling clan, playing at heroism!"
"And yer a spoiled lordling who cannae handle rejection."
"I was building an alliance! Creating something greater than one clan! MacEwan and Sinclair taegether would have been unstoppable!" Keir's voice rose, cracking with desperation. "But nay, she had tae be stubborn. Had tae refuse the logical choice. Had tae ruin everything!"
Tavish blocked another strike, sidestepped, and drove Keir back. "She made the right choice. Yer nae interested in alliances. Ye just want power."
"Power is all that matters! The strong take what they want. The weak submit or die." Keir's sword came down in a vicious overhead strike. "And I am nae weak!"
Tavish caught the blow, their blades locked together. They stood face to face, close enough that Tavish could see the madness burning in Keir's eyes.
"Ye are weak," Tavish said quietly. "Because ye dinnae understand what real strength is. It's nae taking whatever ye want. It's protecting what ye love. It's standing between danger and those who matter. It's choosing honor over ambition."
"Honor is fer fools."
"Then I'm a fool. And I'll die a fool before I let ye touch her."
Tavish shoved hard, breaking the lock. Keir stumbled back. Greg appeared at Tavish's side, blood-spattered but grinning.
"Need help finishing this bastard?"
"Aye. Keep the others off me."
"Done."
Greg spun away, his blade flashing as he engaged two Sinclair soldiers trying to flank them. His men were making quick work of the remaining attackers, the tide of attack turning decisively.
Tavish's focus narrowed to Keir alone.
The Sinclair laird recovered his balance, chest heaving. "This isnae over."
"Aye, it is. Ye just havenae realized it yet."
They came together again. This time Tavish fought without restraint, every strike meant to kill. He drove Keir backward step by step, using the garden terrain to his advantage. A bench here, a statue there, forcing Keir into awkward positions.
Keir was good. Well-trained, experienced. But he was fighting angry, letting emotion cloud his judgment.
Tavish, on the other hand, was fighting cold. Calculated. Lethal.