Chapter 33
CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE
Catriona’s heart was pounding fit to burst as Malcolm gripped her wrist and ran, pulling her after him away from the danger, just as he had in the priory tunnels when helping her to escape.
Now, here he was again, selflessly pitting his life against Torcall Sinclair’s to protect her. Despite the danger hemming them in, her love and trust in him provided a stout bulwark against her terror of the mad man.
Keep believin’ we’ll come out of this taegether.
They raced around the corner towards the tower entrance, but they arrived to find thick smoke billowing out from the doorway and sounds of a furious fight going on within.
“The other way, now!” Malcolm ordered tersely, pulling her onwards, away from the smoke and around another corner. They almost collided with two enemy soldiers coming the other way.
“Stay behind me, Cat,” Malcolm shouted, letting go of her and putting himself between the men and her.
One of them grinned as he spied Catriona. “That’s her. Grab her!” he shouted to his mate before lunging towards Malcolm, sword poised to attack. At the same moment, his comrade darted forward, trying to catch hold of Catriona’s arm and pull her away from Malcolm’s grip.
Catriona’s hand flew to her mouth in shock when, a second later, the fellow found himself staring down at the place where his hand used to be.
It was now on the ground, fingers still twitching, while blood fountained from his severed wrist. He staggered and fell to his knees, trying in vain to staunch the flow.
As the other attacker raised his sword to strike at him, Malcolm countered with deadly control, burying the blade of his claymore in the man’s exposed armpit, killing him outright.
“Come on,” he urged her, his hand finding hers as he took off again. They burst through an archway into the smaller eastern courtyard, where they came to a sudden skidding halt.
“Shite,” she heard Malcolm murmur as he backed away and pushed her behind him once again. Not knowing why they had stopped, Catriona peeped around him and would have screamed in terror if the breath had not just whooshed from her lungs.
Ahead of them, surrounded by a phalanx of his men, stood Torcall Sinclair, and he was grinning at them like death.
He stood calmly at the center of it all like he belonged there, gripping his targe with one arm, his hand resting on his pommel.
Not even sparing her a glance, he stepped forward, waving his entourage back.
“I kenned ye’d see sense, Gordon. Hand her over, and I swear I’ll let the rest of yer men live,” he said gloatingly.
Malcolm snorted, replying with equally dangerous calm. “Get out of me way, Sinclair. Ye’ll have tae come through me before ye lay a hand on her.”
Torcall’s gaze drifted past him to Catriona, the first time he had really looked at her. His cold, glittering eyes burned with the lust of acquisition as they traveled up and down her body, making her cringe.
“I hoped ye’d say that, man,” he said eventually, dragging his gaze back to Malcolm, with that awful rictus smile pinned to cruel lips.
“Personally, I cannae wait tae slaughter ye and the rest of yer pitiful army,” he added. “The lass belongs tae me. And if ye refuse tae hand her over willingly, then I’ll juts havetae take her from ye.”
“If ye want her so bad,” Malcolm said, voice low and steady as he girded himself for the long-awaited showdown, “then come.”
“With pleasure,” Sinclair hissed, but the words had hardly left his mouth when Malcolm lunged at him, his bloody blade lethally poised.
Their first clash of steel rang out like a bell, then repeated again and again as Graham bore down on Sinclair, giving no quarter to his enemy.
Sinclair, though shorter, was a seasoned warrior himself, toughened by years of fighting.
He showed no fear, parrying the blows skillfully, striking back where he could, darting backwards when the tip of Malcom’s sword swung dangerously close to his chest.
After the first volley, they circled each other, blades jabbing and darting, each testing the other for weakness or a moment of inattention.
Determined to wear the older man down, Malcolm suddenly lunged forward and delivered a mighty overarm strike, which Sinclair only managed to block at the last second with the edge of his sword.
Malcolm’s blade screeched as it slid down and impacted with jarring force against the hilt of Sinclair’s weapon, the force setting the man staggering slightly. But he quickly recovered and pushed back, snarling as he slashed furiously at Malcolm’s ribs.
He did not even notice the gash that opened in his tunic nor the blood that welled from it.
With cold precision, he continued pressing down on Sinclair, ramming the man full force with his targe and stabbing at him with the concealed dirk.
Sinclair cursed as he danced backwards, blood streaming from wounds on both legs.
“Ready tae surrender yet?” Malcolm spat, wiping sweat from his forehead with his injured arm, oblivious of his injury.
“Never, ye bastard!” Sinclair roared furiously, rushing at him again.
Sensing his foe was starting to tire, Malcolm stepped up his attack, one swift arc of his claymore opening a crimson slit in Sinclair’s cheek that drew an infuriated snarl from the man.
Malcolm smiled, the shedding of his enemy’s blood feeding his determination to annihilate him and free Catriona from his evil machinations.
Sweating, grunting, panting raggedly, they fought on amid the growing chaos of the attack, barging into other fighters as they hacked at each other relentlessly.
Sinclair’s cold gaze momentarily flicked toward Catriona, who was cowering against the wall by the archway behind Malcolm.
“When I’ve finished with ye, I’ll take me pleasure of the lass, as her future husband has a right tae dae,” Sinclair taunted, panting heavily. “I’ll enjoy makin’ her scream fer me.”
“It’ll be ye who will dae the screamin’, ye monster,” Malcolm responded, retaliating with a headbutt that split Sinclair’s nose open, sending blood pouring down his red, sweating face.
While the man staggered backward, he struck with such force that sparks flew into the air as their blades locked and they wrestled like animals.
Finally, they shoved apart, both breathing hard, their boots slipping on the blood-soaked flagstones.
Sinclair feinted left, then slashed Malcom’s forearm.
The pain was white-hot, but the sight of his own blood only made his rage deepen.
He hammered at Sinclair, driving him back step by step until the older man stumbled backwards, losing his balance for a fraction of a second.
With a flick of the flat of his sword, Malcolm sent Sinclair’s sword spinning from his hand. Sinclair stared at it as it clattered across the floor before his hand flew to his belt for his dirk.
He never reached it. With savage ferocity, Malcolm struck. Gripping his sword in both fists, he drove it through the center of Munro’s chest to the hilt.
Munro gasped, blood bubbling from his lips, an expression of surprise frozen on his face, knees buckling beneath him. Malcolm kicked him hard so that he fell on his side, his hands clutching at the blade in his chest, while blood poured from his mouth and pooled in a crimson lake around him.
Malcolm leaned over and looked into the man’s eyes without pity, prodding him with the toe of his boot.
“Ye should have listened tae me when I told ye the lass is mine,” he said grimly. “Now, I’m sendin’ ye where ye belong, tae hell.”
With savage satisfaction, he watched the agony on Sinclair’s face as he twisted the blade in his chest and then pulled it out, wiping it clean on the dying man’s plaid.
“The laird’s dead!” Went up the cry from Sinclair’s entourage, who were lowering their blades and backing away from him. “Laird Sinclair has fallen!” The cry spread throughout the castle yards, and within moments, the enemy soldiers were turning tail and trying to flee.
“After them, lads,” Malcolm bellowed. “Hunt them down and kill them all!”
A mighty cheer went up from the defenders, and the rout began as they chased the enemy from their walls and went on a blood-thirsty killing spree, cutting men down in the meadows like flowers.
Malcolm stood over Sinclair’s body amid the carnage covered in enemy gore, the tip of his bloody claymore rasping against the cobblestones. Replete with gratification, he swung around, eyes searching for the one person who mattered to him.
But she was already there, throwing herself against him regardless of the filth covering his front.
“Thank ye, Malcolm, oh, thank ye fer killin’ him,” she sobbed into his chest. “I’m sorry ye are wounded, but thank God it daesnae look too bad.”
He put an arm around her shaking shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, full of the certainty that he had slain the ogre and she truly was his now.
“Wheesht, lass, dinnae cry, ’tis naught but a wee scratch,” he told her, lifting her chin to look into her beautiful, shining eyes.
“Sinclair willnae be troublin’ ye any longer, Cat. Everythin’s all right now. We’ll be taegether forever, just like ye said.”
He planted a tender kiss on her lips, turning her sobs to shaky laughter as she kissed him back, hugging him tightly around his waist.
“Aye, we’ll be taegether, me love. And let nay man try tae part us again.”
Together, with a bright future beckoning them, they walked slowly back to the keep.