Page 20 of A Wife for the Highland Villain (Breaking the Highland Rules #3)

Alasdair shifted, a mild groan escaping his lips at the feel of her pressed against him. But he couldn’t linger; he pushed himself up.

Dirt clung to his palms and trousers, and he brushed it off as quickly as possible. His breath was steady, but his heart thudded against his ribs. He turned to Lily and reached for her arm, exhaling as he pulled her up gently.

“Are ye all right?” His voice was sharp, perhaps a bit sharper than he had meant.

Before she could respond, another sharp whistle cut through the air.

A second arrow flew past Alasdair. The tip of the arrow grazed his arm, and he felt heat flare sharply across his flesh.

He hissed and clutched the wound as the arrow once again buried itself deep into the bark of a tree behind them.

“Damn it,” he groaned, the pain in his arm sharper than he could have imagined.

Lily’s eyes widened as she scrambled closer. “Yer arm?—”

“Stay down,” he cut her off, his voice firm.

“But—”

“I am nae joking this time, Lily. Stay. Down.”

Blood welled beneath the torn fabric of his sleeve, and the wound continued to burn, but his focus never left the shadows among the trees. His eyes darted between the branches, and then he saw it. A figure crouched low, half-hidden, nocking another arrow.

The man’s movements were steady and confident. Alasdair could tell that whoever this was was no stranger to weapons.

He looked around quickly, trying to find something he could use to stop the archer from shooting another arrow. His eyes settled on a rock that lay just a hair beside Lily’s feet. It was heavy enough to wound but light enough to throw.

“Give me that stone,” he called, pointing toward it.

She blinked at him, stunned. “What are ye?—”

“Nay questions, wife . Hand it to me. Now.”

She grabbed the rock and passed it to him, her hand trembling. He took it, well aware of the fact that her eyes never looked away from his face. He tightened his grip on the rock, weighing it and feeling its edges bite into his palm.

The archer lifted his bow, and Alasdair pulled his arm back with every ounce of strength he had left.

He hurled the rock.

The rock cut through the air with a low whistle and struck hard, slamming straight into the crossbow, knocking it out of the man’s hands. Almost at the same breath, it hit the archer’s cheekbone and sent him staggering backward. The bow dropped into the dirt.

The man’s head jerked up, his eyes wild with alarm. For the first time, he looked straight at Alasdair. Then, he turned and bolted, branches snapping under his feet.

Alasdair’s chest heaved once, then he turned back to Lily, who was still crouched low, pale but unharmed.

“Stay here.” His tone left no room for argument.

She found one anyway.

Her head snapped up. “What are ye doing? Ye’re bleeding.”

His hand pressed hard against the wound in his arm, and blood slicked his palm, but he ignored the pain. “Forget about me arm.” His voice lowered, now filled with fury. “I am going after the bastard.”

He could hear Lily’s shrill scream. He wouldn’t stop hearing it until the man who’d caused it was no longer among the living.

It reverberated through the trees and settled in his chest like a blade, but he didn’t stop running. Not now. Not when the archer was only a few yards ahead in his line of sight.

Alasdair ran like a man possessed. His sword slammed against his thighs, but he didn’t stop to give it a second thought. His boots tore at the ground, and his shoulders ripped through branches as he followed the dark figure.

He breathed hard, feeling his blood pound in his ears. The smell of pine and fresh air filled his nostrils, and the sky grew darker by the minute.

The archer, on the other hand, moved quickly. He slipped between the trees, and his hood brushed the low branches. He turned back once, his eyes sharp and narrowed. Then, he bent, grabbed a rock, and flung it over his shoulder.

Alasdair dipped his head and jumped to the side. The stone thudded into the earth where he had been a breath before.

Another log rolled down toward him, but he leapt over it, his teeth clenched. The wound in his arm throbbed with each push forward, but he did not slow down.

Clouds pressed low, swollen with uncertain storms, and the light dimmed even more in the forest. If he didn’t know better, he would think the dark clouds were more than the occasional empty threat brought by Mother Nature herself.

The archer darted left, scrambling up a slope, and Alasdair followed, his lungs burning, his body driven by rage. When they reached a clearing, he lunged.

His arms wrapped around the man’s waist, and both of them went crashing down the slope. Leaves and dirt gathered around them as they fell, and the man twisted, jabbing his elbow into Alasdair’s jaw.

Pain shot through his teeth.

Alasdair grunted, turned his head, and answered with a punch to the ribs. He felt a bone crack beneath his knuckles. The archer snarled, rolled, and shoved him away. Then, he grabbed a stone, raised it high, and drove his knee into Alasdair’s chest.

Alasdair threw up his leg and slammed his knee into the man’s back, breaking his hold. He seized the moment, catching his wrist and twisting it until the stone fell from his hand.

The man howled.

They rolled again, their faces streaked with dirt. Blood from Alasdair’s arm smeared the earth. The archer threw another wild punch, catching his cheek. Alasdair’s vision blurred, and he tasted iron. He ducked, caught the man low in the stomach, and drove him back.

Once he got a proper hold, he straddled the archer and pinned his arms with sheer force. Then, he pulled out his sword and pressed the cold steel to his throat.

His chest heaved as he growled, “Who are ye, and why are ye after me wife?”

The man stared up at him, his lips curled into a bitter smile, his breath hot against the blade.

“Answer me,” Alasdair hissed, pressing the sword harder against his skin. “Who sent ye?”

The archer spat. “Ye think yerself a laird? Ye are nae a true MacRay.”

Alasdair pressed even harder. “I daenae hear an answer.”

“Ye are a bastard born of lust, Alasdair. Ye are nothing but a pretender.”

Alasdair’s grip tightened.

“Tell me what I need to hear,” he said, his voice almost as dark as the clouds. “Or I will carve it out of ye.”

The man’s eyes flashed. “What ye need to hear?”

Alasdair’s eyes narrowed as the man broke into a soft laugh.

“The truth is, the Highlands laugh at ye. They laugh at the boy who found himself in power. They laugh at the lass ye dragged back to play yer lady.”

Alasdair’s jaw tightened, rage coursing through his blood.

“‘Tis one thing to insult me,” he started, his voice clear. “But if ye come for me wife, I cannae promise what will happen to ye.”

The archer merely laughed.

Alasdair could see it in his eyes. The man knew there was nowhere to run. He knew it was over, and this was him trying to get in his last licks.

“She heals yer men and thinks it makes her belong. She belongs to no one. Least of all to ye. Ye’re better off letting yer men share her.”

Alasdair swallowed, his sword now drawing blood. He just needed a reason to apply more force. “Careful now. Lily is a lady. Say her name.”

The man sneered. “Yer wench?—”

The blade plunged.

The scream died in the man’s throat as steel tore through flesh, and his blood splashed hot across Alasdair’s face. He shuddered, twitched, and then went still. The forest fell silent except for the sound of Alasdair’s breathing.

He pulled the blade free with a long hiss, his hand shaking. The clouds had grown heavier, and the scent of rain drifted through the air.

He pushed himself to his feet. He could feel his chest rise and fall like a war drum as he used his sleeve to wipe the blood from his eyes. He turned back and headed to Lily.

She stood stiff, her skirts clutched in her fists, and her face pale. When he broke through the trees, she ran to him.

“Alasdair,” she breathed, reaching out and pausing when she saw his wound. Her eyes widened. “Yer arm. Ye are bleeding.”

He caught her hands in his. “We must go,” he said, his voice hard. “The storm is near.”

She shook her head and glanced up at the dark sky. “Ye and I both ken that it never rains this time of year.” Her eyes dropped back to his arm. “Let me treat it. At once.”

“Lily—” he began.

“Sit,” she ordered, her tone firm.

He let out a low groan, weary and stubborn, then gave in and sank to the earth.

Her hands were steady as she cut a piece of cloth from her dress and pressed it against the wound. His jaw clenched at the sting. Her hair brushed his cheek as she leaned close.

The sky rumbled above them once more.

Lily pressed the cloth even harder against his wound, her hands quick and steady. His arm burned as she dabbed at the cut, and he winced in pain.

“Stay still,” she ordered. “I have treated babies with a higher pain threshold.”

He let out a low grunt. “That man would have killed ye if ye were here alone. I just saved yer life, lass. I think I deserve a little credit.”

She did not look up. “Ye will get credit later. But nae now.”

A smile tugged at his lips. “Is that a promise?”

Her eyes rose for a moment, sharp and cutting. “Can ye keep yer mouth shut so I can focus?”

He tilted his head, the smile lingering on his lips. “Ye ken, ye can boss me around here as much ye like. I find it incredibly attractive. But in the castle, ‘tis the other way round. In the castle, I do the ordering.”

Her lips curled into a smirk. “Aye, ye have said so many times already that I belong to ye. But we both ken that is nae true.”

“Oh, really?”

Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Ye never claimed me. Nae truly.”

His chest tightened, and he leaned closer. “Do ye want me to claim ye then, lassie? Is that what it’ll take for ye to finally listen to me?”

Her laugh was soft and teasing. “In yer dreams, Laird MacRay.”

The words cut, yet her hands on his arm softened the sting. Every brush of her fingers made it harder to hold himself back.