Chapter 30
CHAPTER THIRTY
“Ye’ve made a dreadful mistake, ye bastard,” Michael said, his voice low and menacing.
Behind Michael, the crunch of boots signaled the arrival of his men. Brodie came first, then the others, their swords drawn and their breaths heavy from the chase. Freya was behind him, her trembling fingers gripping his sleeve for the briefest of moments before she let go.
He didn’t turn, but he felt her there. He knew she was watching.
Leighton only chuckled, rolling his shoulders as if shaking off a mild inconvenience. “Have I?” His voice was thick with amusement as he wiped his sleeve across his nose. “And here I thought ye were supposed to be clever, Michael. Do ye really think I came unprepared?”
He lifted two fingers to his lips and whistled.
Michael barely had time to shift his stance before the forest came alive.
From the shadows, men emerged. There were half a dozen at first, then more. A dozen, at least. They moved like wraiths, their blades glinting in the dim light of approaching dawn.
Freya sucked in a sharp breath behind him. Brodie muttered a curse.
Michael remained still, his gaze cold as he counted the figures slipping through the trees. The odds had shifted.
Leighton grinned, spreading his arms wide. “What’s the matter, me laird? Did ye think ye’d have the upper hand?” He tilted his head mockingly. “A shame, really. Ye always did overestimate yerself.”
Michael said nothing. He could feel his men at his back, waiting. Watching.
They couldn’t charge in. Not yet, at least. They were outnumbered, and every man behind him knew it. If he wanted them to survive this, he needed time. Time for his men to think, to plan, to find a weakness.
And the best way to get time?
Make the bastard talk.
He exhaled slowly, keeping his expression cold. His stance shifted, just enough to appear casual and unconcerned.
“All this,” he drawled, his tone edged with mockery, “just because I threw ye in the dungeon? Tsk. And here I thought it was because ye were a piss-poor healer.”
Leighton scoffed, shaking his head. “Aye, ye always did think ye were clever, Michael.” He took a slow step forward, his men shifting around him like wolves scenting blood. “But this? This was never about the dungeon.”
Michael watched him closely, waiting.
Leighton’s smile was sharp and bitter. “I’ve been waitin’ for this for seven years,” he said, his voice suffocatingly thick with loathing. His eyes burned with something far deeper than mere vengeance. “Seven years since ye killed me brother.”
Michael went still.
Brother?
The realization struck fast and hard, but he gave no sign of his surprise. His mind reeled back, sifting through memories, trying to make sense of it.
“Ye cannae expect me to remember every man whose blood stained me blade,” Michael said in an effort to make him even more furious, because furious men couldn’t think properly. Furious men made mistakes.
If Leighton’s eyes could kill, they would have done so the instant those words left Michael’s lips.
“Laird MacLean,” Leighton said. “Me brother. Me blood. And ye butchered him like he was naythin’ but a common thief.”
Michael’s jaw clenched.
“MacLean was a traitor,” he said, his voice colder than steel. “He sold his own land for English gold. Let his people suffer while he filled his own coffers. He deserved his fate.”
Leighton’s face twisted with fury. “Lies!” he spat. “Ye did what ye always do, Michael. Ye decided who lived, who died, who was worth savin’. Ye’re nay better than the kings ye claim to despise!”
Michael remained silent, watching the way Leighton’s hands flexed over the hilt of his blade. The bastard was seething, losing himself in his own rage.
Good.
“I planned to kill everythin’ ye love,” Leighton sneered. “Yer son should’ve died in that fire. That should’ve been the end of it. But nay. The boy lived. Then ye cured the poison, all because of that bloody wench.” He jabbed a finger toward Freya without looking at her. “Ye ruined everythin’.”
Michael’s blood burned, but still, he didn’t react.
“So what now?” he asked, keeping his tone mild, as if the answer didn’t matter. “Ye settle for killin’ me and the lass? Seems a poor excuse for vengeance, Leighton. A bit… desperate.”
Leighton’s nostrils flared, but his lips curled into a smug grin.
“Oh, make nay mistake. This will be enough.” He lifted his sword slightly, as his men shifted, tightening their formation.
“Ye die. The wench dies. And when yer clan is left without its mighty leader, I’ll take me time burnin’ the rest to the ground, endin’ me revenge with destroyin’ yer legacy. ”
Michael gave a slow nod, his expression unreadable.
“Then ye best be certain, Leighton,” he said. “Because if ye fail tonight, there will nae be a place left on this earth where ye can hide from me.”
Leighton only laughed. “We’ll see about that.”
Michael flicked a glance at Brodie. Just the briefest look. A signal.
They had what they needed. Now it was time to fight.
Michael moved the moment the first blade swung.
Steel clashed, a sharp clang splitting the air as he parried, twisting his wrist to drive his opponent’s sword aside.
The man barely had time to react before Michael stepped in.
He buried his blade deep into the man’s gut.
A choked gasp, then silence. He ripped the sword free, the body crumpling at his feet. There was no time to think.
Another came at him. It was a broad-shouldered brute with wild eyes and a raised axe.
Michael ducked low, feeling the wind of the swing whistle past his head.
Before the man could recover, he surged forward, slashing across his chest. Blood sprayed, dark against the pale light of dawn. He didn’t wait for the body to fall.
The battle had erupted around him, chaotic and merciless.
His men fought with practiced precision, but Leighton’s forces were brutal, fighting like men with nothing to lose.
And that made them extremely dangerous. The air was thick with the scent of blood and sweat, the ground quickly turning slick beneath their boots.
“Is that the best ye’ve got, Michael?”
Leighton’s voice rang out above the fray, smug and untouched.
Michael pivoted, his gaze cutting through the chaos to find him. He was standing at the edge of the fight, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips. He hadn’t lifted a blade. Not yet.
The bastard was watching, mocking them.
“Ye look tired, me laird,” Leighton called over the clamor of steel and screams. “Mayhap ye should sit this one out. Let real men do the fightin’.”
“Like ye’re doin’?” Michael managed to spit, but then a new opponent lunged at him.
The man was sloppy and desperate. Michael easily sidestepped, then slammed his elbow into the man’s jaw and drove his sword into his chest. He wrenched it free and turned just in time to parry another blow.
His muscles burned, his breath came in sharp bursts, but he didn’t stop moving. A blade sliced too close, nicking his upper arm. Pain flared inside of him, but he barely felt it. He countered with a brutal slash, sending another man to the ground.
Brodie was near, locked in combat with his face bloodied but fierce. Beyond him, Michael caught a glimpse of Freya. She was pressed against a tree, her eyes darting wildly, searching. She was holding a dagger.
Good lass.
“Well, well, I must say, I expected more,” Leighton mused, stepping closer but still out of reach. “Ye always did have a reputation, Michael. Thought ye’d put up more of a fight. Or is it only when ye’re takin’ a man down from behind?”
Michael exhaled slowly, forcing his rage down. He had never attacked a man from behind and that bastard knew it.
Leighton wanted him reckless. Wanted him to charge forward, to act without thinking.
Nae yet.
Another attacker came. This time, it was a wiry man with twin daggers. Fast. Skilled. Michael barely blocked the first strike before the second sliced toward his ribs. He twisted, the blade skimming his side instead of plunging deep.
The man grinned. “Slippin’, are ye, me laird?”
Michael drove his sword through his throat.
“Nay,” he said flatly as the man collapsed.
A flicker of movement, and then pain flared across his back. A coward’s attack, a blade slicing just enough to sting. He spun, slashing in a wide arc, and caught his attacker in the stomach. Another one down.
He kept carving his way through this chaos. Every swing of his sword was precise, ruthless. Another man fell, then another, but there were always more.
Leighton had placed his strongest fighters between them, but it didn’t matter. Michael fought with the fury of a man who had waited too long for justice for his son. His muscles burned, his breath came harsh and ragged, but he didn’t falter.
He could see the bastard now, just beyond the last line of defense. Leighton was smirking, standing as if he were watching a game. He had his arms still crossed, untouched by the bloodshed around him.
Michael cut down another man. Then another. And finally, there was nothing and no one between them.
Leighton’s grin widened. “Took ye long enough.”
Michael dinnae waste words. He lunged, sword flashing toward Leighton’s throat—
But Leighton was fast. Too fast. And Michael was already tired from fighting. That was Leighton’s plan all along. Exhaust him, make him weaker, and then take him on.
At the last second, Michael twisted, dodging the strike, but before he could recover, a sharp pain lanced through his arm. Leighton had pulled a blade from his belt and sliced deep into Michael’s bicep.
Michael stumbled back, cursing, gripping his wounded arm as blood oozed between his fingers. His vision swayed for a brief moment, as a strange heat started pulsing through his veins. Then he felt it. His stomach clenched. His limbs turned sluggish.
Poison.
Leighton clicked his tongue. “Ah, now ye feel it, don’t ye?” He turned the small blade between his fingers, the tip still slick with Michael’s blood. “A lovely little mixture, this. Slow enough that ye’ll still ken what’s happenin’ when I gut ye.”
Michael forced his body to stay upright, forced himself to raise his sword again.
Leighton laughed. “Oh, go on, then. Be the hero, me laird. See how far that gets ye.”
Then he moved. Michael barely blocked the first strike. His arm screamed in protest and his vision blurred for half a breath too long. Leighton’s next attack sent him staggering, his knees nearly buckling down.
“A shame, truly,” Leighton mused, circling him. “I thought ye’d last longer.”
Michael clenched his jaw, forcing his body to obey. “Daenae make the mistake of understimatin’ yer enemy.”
Leighton lunged. Michael met him head-on, but his movements were slower now. The poison was spreading, dragging him down like chains wrapped around his limbs.
And then—
Leighton knocked his sword from his grip.
Pain flared as Michael hit the ground. He reached for his dagger, but Leighton’s boot pressed against his wrist, pinning it to the dirt.
“This is how it ends, Michael.” Leighton crouched over him, pressing his poisoned knife against Michael’s throat. His grin was pure satisfaction. “Do ye have any last words?”
Michael bared his teeth, ready to spit his final defiance—
But then, a blur of movement and suddenly, Leighton was gone. Michael gasped, rolling onto his side just in time to see him stumble back, off balance. He quickly realized what had happened. Freya had slammed into him with all her strength. She had thrown herself at him.
Leighton snarled, regaining his footing, his face twisting in rage, but Michael didn’t waste the chance. With a growl, he forced himself upright, gripping his fallen dagger. The poison burned through his veins, his body threatening to collapse, but he ignored it.
He would not fall. Not yet.