Page 37

“ Y e cannae do anything to me, Campbell,” Darragh growled, unsheathing his sword. “I am yer?—”

“Ye will die tonight by me blade,” Campbell snapped. “For yer crimes against me family. I will have yer heart today.”

“Men!” Darragh yelled, and soon the room was filled with his guards. “Get this intruder out of me lands.”

The guards hadn’t stopped Campbell earlier, seeing as they thought he was only paying a friendly visit to the castle, but at their Laird’s orders, they looked ready for battle.

Their eyes were hard and unyielding, as much as the man who led them and no doubt trained them, but Campbell was impressed by their strength. It had been a long time since he had had reason to fight as he did, and the feeling had him grinning.

Perhaps they were right to call him beastly .

His blood sang as steel clashed against steel, and the thrill of battle rushed through him.

It had been long since he had last felt steel pierce through skin or heard the cry of men falling at his blade, and now he was transported back to the battlefield, where he had stepped through blood-soaked mud and snow to defend his clan.

The well-polished floors of the castle allowed him freedom to move, and as he did, blood began to flow, staining the stone.

Good.

Whenever they looked upon the stain, they would remember to never attempt crossing into Muir lands, like their Laird did.

His gaze was on Darragh as he fought, and he couldn’t hide his disgust as he watched the coward hide behind his men, who were falling underneath his blade.

He was careful to avoid the blades of the men who had circled him and were approaching him desperately. Already, a few cuts marred his skin and were smarting, but he ignored the pain, letting the hurt that his wife and boys had endured fuel him.

He thought of Aidan and Layla, who had been unjustly killed, and the boys, who had to watch their parents die. Their trauma was something that could never be forgiven.

Campbell would not tell them the truth behind their parents’ deaths until they were older, but he knew they would have demanded Darragh’s head all the same. He would make sure that the man’s descent to hell was as painful as possible.

The guards fell, but more kept pouring in, loyal to their damned Laird. A blade suddenly cut his side, which should have stilled him, but the sight of his grandfather’s sneer egged him on.

“Are ye a coward to hide behind yer men, Darragh?” he taunted. “It doesnae become ye.”

“Do ye intend to manipulate me, Campbell?” Darragh snarled. “Ye have changed.”

“Only because I am dealing with a snake,” Campbell spat. “And I must cut off the head and burn it to hell, where it belongs.”

Darragh smiled mockingly as a few of his guards pushed Campbell backward, but his eyes remained fixed on him.

Campbell cut down more of the guards, leaving his path to his grandfather clear. He grinned as the man unsheathed his sword, looking grim as his guards lay dead or dying on the floor.

To think the damned man had been feasting as though he had secured a great victory.

They crossed blades, and Campbell smiled at the weakness he sensed in the man. Darragh was strong, but his age was starting to show, and it almost felt unfair. Campbell could have offered him an easy death by surrender, but he knew his grandfather’s pride would never let him.

Their fight was less of a physical fight and more of a battle of wills and ego.

Campbell had nothing to lose. The man before him had ruined his family, murdered his brother, and now tried to ruin his chance at happiness.

Darragh had his pride and beliefs to defend, along with his ambitions. If Campbell let him live, it would be a much greater punishment knowing he had been humiliated. But he knew what wounded animals could do, and he had enough scars to attest to that fact.

The man moved like a trickster, trying to dodge any fatal blows, but Campbell saw through the tricks. Each blow and strike was delivered with purpose, pushing and driving Darragh to the point where he would realize he was not going to win this fight, whether mentally or physically.

Campbell wanted to break him first, shatter his ego, and force him to acknowledge how weak he was before finally ending his miserable existence.

It wouldn’t be enough to see him die an easy death, and with each swing of his blade, he was making him feel the pain of everyone who had been hurt by his selfishness.

Soon, Campbell had the man’s blade hanging loosely in his hands and spat at his feet.

“How do ye feel, kenning that all yer efforts were for naught, Darragh?” he hissed, easily disarming him.

He kicked him backward and drove his blade into the man’s right shoulder.

“Argh!” Darragh yelled, gritting his teeth.

Red bloomed on his pristine white linen shirt, which brought great satisfaction to Campbell as he yanked back the blade.

“How does it feel, kenning that ye have nay heir to carry on yer name and legacy?” he continued, driving the blade into the man’s left shoulder.

“Ye think ye have won because of this, Campbell, but ye havenae,” Darragh spat, baring bloodied teeth. “Ye have won nothing, and ye will be nothing. Ye will die just as I did, and I will see ye in hell?—”

The words died in his throat as Campbell drove his blade into it.

“Ye wretchedness dies with ye, Darragh,” he growled, pulling back his blade. “Enjoy eternity in flames.”

He turned to see the guards who were still conscious trying to staunch their wounds, and frowned. He certainly hoped he had not injured all the men in the castle, or else he would not be able to find anyone to lead him to the boys.

Harried footsteps sounded in the corridors, drawing his gaze. More guards rushed in and surveyed the scene: him standing in front of their slain Laird. Their eyes went wide. They studied him warily, as though debating whether to attack or not.

Patience already frayed, Campbell made the decision for them.

He had spilled more blood than he would have liked that evening, and he wanted to avoid doing so as much as possible in the following days.

His wounds were starting to smart, but he wouldn’t show weakness, not when the guards could easily choose to avenge their Laird.

His body was starting to feel the effects of the fight he had just won, and he wasn’t sure he would be able to fight against so many men who were still fresh from rest.

“I want nothing from ye except me lads,” he said firmly, sheathing his sword. “Take me to them, and I will spare ye. Me grievances were with yer Laird, and he is dead now.”

They nodded and lowered their weapons.

Their whispers followed as he moved past them into the corridor.

“‘Tis the Beastly Laird, I tell ye,” one of them said, earning a grin from him.

“ He is as bloodthirsty as they say,” another one added.

Campbell knew he must have looked a fright, with all the blood on him—most of which wasn’t his—but his primary concern was finding the boys.

While he had hated the moniker in the past, he liked how it helped him avoid one more fight that evening—and possibly death.

“Who is yer man-at-arms?” he asked, looking at them.

They stiffened and exchanged a look before looking back at him with a grimace.

He raised an eyebrow, his hand moving to the sword strapped to his belt.

“It was Timmon,” one of them answered quickly, sparing him the need to threaten anyone.

Was?

Perhaps he had been one of the first to fall.

That was disappointing. Nonetheless, Campbell had to find the boys.

“Ye,” he said, pointing to a random guard who shrank back. “Lead the way.”

Relief visibly flooded the man, and he took the lead.

When Campbell was led into the courtyard, anger filled him as the cold night air hit him.

Just where had they kept the boys? Outside in this cold?

His hand reached for his blade, but stopped when he heard a feminine voice calling to him.

“Me Laird!”

He turned and saw his wife running to him, half of his soldiers in tow.

Just what was happening?