Chapter 39
Dawn broke cold and merciless over the Highland landscape, painting the sky in shades of blood and ash. Tòrr sat astride his horse, watching the horizon lighten while his men made their final preparations behind him.
They had been riding for the better part of the day before they saw Foulis Castle rising in the distance, its stone walls dark against the grey sky. The closer they drew, the more Tòrr's instincts screamed warning. Something felt off. The air too quiet, the approach too easy.
"Something's wrong."
Michael's voice cut through the stillness. Tòrr turned to find his brother studying the castle with narrowed eyes.
"What?"
"The gates. They're already open." Michael pointed. "At this hour, they should be closed. Locked. But look, they're wide open like they're expectin' visitors."
Tòrr's gut clenched.
"They ken we're comin'." Michael's hand moved to his sword hilt. "Could be a trap."
"Could be." Tòrr scanned the tree line, the approaches to the castle, looking for signs of an ambush. Nothing. But that didn't mean they weren't there. "We proceed as planned. Stay alert. If this goes sideways, we fight our way out."
"Aye." Michael turned to relay orders to the men, his voice low and urgent.
Tòrr guided his horse back to where Liliane waited among the warriors, her hair hidden beneath a cap, her face smudged with dirt to complete the disguise.
She'd bound her chest flat, dressed in trousers and a too-large shirt, and from a distance could pass for a young man.
But up close, those eyes gave her away—too bright, too expressive, too distinctly hers.
"We're movin'," he said quietly. "Stay close tae Michael. If I give the signal, ye run. Understood?"
"Understood." But her hand trembled slightly on the reins.
"We'll get her. I promise." He reached out to squeeze her shoulder. "Just stay safe. Please."
She nodded, and he saw her swallow hard. Then they were moving, the column of MacDonald warriors flowing down the hillside like a dark tide, silent except for the muffled sound of hooves on damp earth.
They were halfway across the open ground when the trap sprung.
"Ambush!" The cry went up from one of their scouts, barely a heartbeat before arrows began raining down from the tree line. Tòrr's horse screamed and reared, an arrow buried in its flank. He kicked free of the stirrups and hit the ground rolling, coming up with his sword already drawn.
"Shield wall!" Michael's voice cut through the chaos. "Form up!"
The rest was lost in the thunder of hooves as Munro warriors poured from the forest on all sides. Dozens. This wasn't a border patrol or a small garrison, this was a small army.
They'd been expected. Tòrr roared, cutting down the first man who reached him.
"If it isn’t MacDonald."
The voice froze him mid-strike. Tòrr spun to find Roderick Munro astride a massive warhorse, surrounded by his personal guard. And beside him, looking almost bored with the whole affair, sat Angus Campbell.
"Surprised?" Campbell's smile was cold. "Ye shouldnae be.
Did ye really think we wouldnae notice yer men gatherin'?
? Yer army marchin' toward our borders?" He gestured at the battlefield.
"We've been waitin' fer ye. Preparin’. Rather hopin’ ye'd be foolish enough tae come.
"Tòrr's blood turned to ice. Beside him, he could hear his men fighting desperately, could hear the ring of steel and the screams of the wounded.
Where was Liliane? Had she stayed with Michael?
"Lookin’ fer somethin’?" Munro's voice was thick with triumph. "Or should I say someone?"
He gestured, and two of his warriors dragged a struggling figure forward. The cap had been torn away, revealing golden hair. The dirt couldn't hide those features. And even in men's clothing, there was no mistaking her.
"Liliane!" The name tore from Tòrr's throat.
"Faither, let me go!" She twisted in her captors' grip, her training forgotten in panic. "Ye cannae—"
"Cannae?" Munro's hand shot out, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking her head back. "I'm yer faither, girl. I can dae whatever I damn well please with ye."
Red. Everything went red. Tòrr launched himself forward, cutting through the men between him and Munro with single-minded fury.
His sword found throats, bellies, any exposed flesh.
Blood sprayed across his face and he didn't care, didn't slow, could only see Munro's hand in Liliane's hair, could only hear her cry of pain.
"Tòrr!" Michael's voice, distant. "Wait! It's a trap."
Of course it was a trap. But Tòrr was already committed, already closing the distance, and then Campbell's men were surrounding him, hemming him in, and Munro was backing toward the castle with Liliane held before him like a shield.
"That's far enough, MacDonald." Munro's blade pressed against Liliane's throat, drawing a thin line of blood. "One more step and I open her neck."
Tòrr froze, his sword still raised, his breath coming in ragged gasps. Around him, the battle had stilled as both sides recognized the standoff. His men were outnumbered two to one, hemmed in on all sides. Michael was bleeding from a cut above his eye, surrounded by enemy warriors. And Liliane…
"Tòrr, run." Her voice was steady despite the blade at her throat. "Get yer men out. Please."
"I'm nae leavin' ye."
"Touchin’." Munro's smile was ugly. "But futile. Did ye really think ye could just ride ontae me lands and steal me property?"
"She's nae yer property. She's me wife."
"Yer wife." Munro spat the words. "A woman worth less than the dirt beneath me boots now that ye've ruined her fer any decent alliance. Dae ye ken what ye've cost me, MacDonald? What yer arrogance has destroyed?"
"I ken what I've saved her from." Tòrr forced his voice to remain level even as his heart hammered.
"Saved her?" Munro laughed, the sound harsh. "Ye've doomed her. And yerself. Did ye really think the Pact would let this stand? That Campbell and I would just accept yer defiance?"
"The Pact," Tòrr snarled, "is a collection of cowards hidin' behind political machinations instead of standin' fer what's right. I'd spit on every last one of ye before I bent the knee tae yer schemes."
"Then ye'll die on yer feet." Campbell's voice was matter-of-fact. "Along with yer wife, yer braither, and every man who followed ye here. We'll wipe the MacDonald name from the Highlands and divide yer lands among those loyal tae the Pact."
"Ye'd start a war over one woman?" But even as Tòrr said it, he knew the answer. This had never been about Liliane. It was about power, control, the future shape of the Highlands. She was just the spark that lit the kindling.
"We're nae startin' a war." Munro's blade pressed harder against Liliane's throat, and she whimpered. "We're endin' one. Ye declared war the moment ye bid fer her. The moment ye took what was meant fer the Pact. Now we're simply finishin' what ye started."
"Faither, please." Liliane's voice broke. "Ye dinnae have tae dae this. Just let them go. Keep me if ye must, but let them go."
"Quiet!" Munro shook her roughly. "Ye've nay say in this.
Ye never did. Ye're a tool, naethin' more.
And since MacDonald's broken ye, ye're a useless tool at that.
" His eyes found Tòrr's. "But I've still got one daughter left.
Young, sweet, biddable Nessa, who'll do as she's told.
She'll fetch a fine price at the next auction. "
The words hit Tòrr like torrential blows. This was what Liliane had been protecting her sister from. This casual cruelty, this reduction of human beings to commodities. This man who saw his own children as nothing but bargaining chips.
"If ye hurt Nessa," Tòrr said quietly, "there's nowhere in the Highlands ye'll be able tae hide. I'll hunt ye tae the ends of the earth."
"Bold words fer a dead man." But something flickered in Munro's eyes. Uncertainty, maybe. Or calculation. "Though I suppose we could negotiate. Ye surrender yerself, have yer men lay down their weapons, and perhaps I'll let yer braither and wife live. Perhaps."
"Nay!" Liliane struggled in his grip. "Tòrr, dinnae."
"Or," Munro continued, "ye can watch while I slit her throat and then kill every last one of yer warriors. Yer choice."
Tòrr's mind raced, weighing options, calculating odds.
They were evenly matched in numbers, but Munro held the terrain advantage—and Liliane.
Surrender meant death for all of them. Munro would never let them live, no matter what he promised.
Fighting meant Liliane died first, her throat opened before he could reach her.
Unless.
His eyes found Michael's across the battlefield. His brother was bleeding but unbowed, surrounded by their best warriors. When their gazes met, Michael gave the smallest nod. He understood. They'd trained for this, planned for the possibility of everything going wrong.
Now they just had to execute it.
"Alright." Tòrr let his sword arm drop slightly. "Alright. I surrender."
"Tòrr, nay!" Liliane's cry was desperate. "Please, ye cannae."
"Wise choice." Munro's smile widened. "Drop yer weapon. Tell yer men tae dae the same."
"On one condition." Tòrr's voice was steady. "Ye let her go. Right now. Push her forward, and I'll throw down me sword."
"I think nae. She stays with me until every MacDonald weapon is on the ground." Munro's blade pressed harder. "Now dae as I say."
Tòrr moved.
He'd been counting on Munro's arrogance, on the man's certainty that he'd won. The moment Munro's attention shifted to gloat, Tòrr threw his sword. Not at Munro, he'd never get a clear shot with Liliane in the way. At the warrior closest to him.
The blade took the man in the throat. As he fell, Tòrr grabbed his weapon and charged.
"Now!" Michael's roar split the air. The MacDonald warriors exploded into motion, no longer defensive but attacking with desperate fury. The surprise bought them precious seconds, and Tòrr used every one of them.
He cut through Munro's guard like wheat before a scythe. His new blade sang through flesh and bone, arterial spray painting his vision red. Men fell before him, their screams lost in the thunder of his heartbeat, the singular focus that came in battle when nothing existed except the target.
And his target was Roderick Munro.
"Ye want her?" Munro was backing toward the castle gate now, dragging Liliane with him. "Come and take her! But first ye'll have tae get through."
Tòrr didn't wait for him to finish. He launched himself forward, trusting his men to cover his flanks, and collided with Munro and Liliane in a tangle of limbs and steel.
The blade at Liliane's throat went flying as Munro lost his grip. She hit the ground hard and rolled, coming up gasping. And then it was just Tòrr and Munro, circling each other while chaos raged around them.
"Ye've killed us both," Munro snarled, drawing a fresh blade. "Even if ye win here, the Pact will come fer ye. Campbell will make sure of it."
"Then I'll kill him too." Tòrr's voice was death itself. "And anyone else who threatens what's mine."
They came together in a clash of steel that rang across the battlefield.
Munro was good, better than Tòrr had expected.
Age hadn't slowed him, and years of battle had honed his skills to a razor's edge.
But Tòrr was younger, faster, and fighting for something more important than political alliances.
He was fighting for Liliane. For Nessa. For the right to protect what he loved without compromise or surrender.
Their blades met again and again, each strike sending jarring vibrations up Tòrr's arms. Munro started to fight with the viciousness of a cornered animal, all technique abandoned in favor of raw aggression.
He nearly got through Tòrr's guard twice, his blade slicing across ribs and opening a gash on Tòrr's shoulder.
But Tòrr gave back worse. His sword found Munro's thigh, his arm, opened a cut across the older man's face that poured blood into his eyes.
"Yield!" Tòrr roared, pressing his advantage. "It's over!"
"Never!" Munro spat blood. "I'd rather die than let ye win!"
Around them, the battle was turning. With the surprise attack, Munro's warriors had lost heart. Campbell's men, seeing the tide shift, began to retreat. Michael and the MacDonald warriors pressed forward, cutting down those too slow or too loyal to run.