Page 43 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

CHAPTER TWENTY

B lood sprayed across Colin's face as a young soldier fell beside him, three Fraser spears punching through his chest in unison. The lad's scream cut off abruptly, replaced by the wet gurgle of a punctured lung.

"Christ," Niven gasped, parrying a sword thrust. "We're losing them too fast!"

Colin's tactical mind was already counting the grim mathematics. Hamish—dead. Dougie—dying. Davie MacBride—wounded on one arm while trying to swing his sword one-handed. Two more of his warriors lay motionless in the heather, their blood dark against the Highland earth.

Eight men down. Twenty-two still fighting. Against Fraser's two hundred.

We'll all be dead within the hour if this continues.

"Fall back!" Colin roared, his voice cutting through the chaos. "Tae the rocks! Defensive formation!"

His remaining warriors retreated in disciplined order, their shields locked despite their losses. But Colin could see the truth written in every clash of steel—conventional tactics would get them all killed. Fraser's men pressed forward like a tide, confident in their overwhelming numbers.

A Fraser warrior broke through the shield wall, his axe whistling toward Colin's head. Colin ducked under the swing and drove his dirk up between the man's ribs, feeling the blade grate against bone. The warrior dropped, but two more took his place immediately.

Too many. Far too many.

MacLeod appeared at Colin's left shoulder, blood streaming from multiple cuts. "Colin! They're flankin’ us on both sides! We need tae?—"

"I ken what we need tae dae," Colin cut him off grimly. His mind raced through every battle he'd ever fought, every tactical lesson his father had taught him. There had to be something—some desperate gambit that might work.

Then he remembered the stories his grandfather used to tell. Ancient tales of Highland warriors fighting impossible odds against Roman legions. The wolf's bite , they'd called it. Strike the heart while the enemy focused on the claws.

"Cover me!" Colin grabbed Niven's arm, pulling him close as Fraser men regrouped for another assault. "I need thirty seconds tae think!"

His lieutenants formed a protective circle around him while Colin's mind worked furiously. Fraser's army was massive but spread out. Their command structure would be centralized—probably around Fraser himself. If that command could be disrupted...

It's insane. Suicidal. But it's the only chance we have.

"Listen tae me carefully," Colin said, his voice urgent but controlled. "We're going tae use the wolf's bite."

Niven's eyes widened. "Colin, that's?—"

"Our only option." Colin pointed toward the Fraser camp spread below them.

"Look at them. They're organized because their captain's givin’ orders. Cut off the head, and the body becomes chaos. We split into three groups. MacLeod, you take seven men and hit their supply train again. Set everythin’ on fire—make them think that's our main assault. "

MacLeod nodded grimly. "Aye. Create chaos."

"Niven, ye take eight men and strike their eastern flank. Hit hard, make noise, then withdraw before they can respond properly. Keep their attention focused outward."

"And ye?" Niven asked, though his expression said he already knew.

"I'm going fer Fraser himself. And fer Morag." Colin checked his weapons automatically—sword, dirk, two throwing knives. "Thirty minutes. That's all I need tae reach their center and find her."

The sound of war horns echoed across the battlefield. Fraser's forces were preparing for another coordinated assault.

"This is madness," Duncan said, wincing as he tried to move his wounded arm. "Ye'll be walkin’ intae the heart of their army alone."

"Better than dyin’ here uselessly," Colin replied. "At least this way, some of us might survive tae see dawn."

MacLeod checked his own weapons, his weathered face grim but determined. "What if ye dinnae come back?"

"Then ye break contact and get our people home. Dinnae throw away lives on a lost cause." Colin met each man's eyes in turn. "But I will come back. With Morag."

"Damn right ye will," Niven said fiercely. "When dae we move?"

Colin looked down at the Fraser camp, noting the patterns of movement, the placement of guards, the areas of heaviest activity. His military mind catalogued every detail that might prove useful.

"Now," he said. "MacLeod, give me ten minutes tae get intae position, then hit those supply wagons like the wrath of God himself. Niven, start yer flanking attack when ye see the fires. Make them think we're tryin’ tae break out tae the east."

"What's our rally point if this goes tae hell?" MacLeod asked.

"The standing stones, two miles north of here. Anyone who makes it out alive meets there at dawn." Colin gripped both men's shoulders. "But we're nae plannin’ tae run. We're plannin’ tae win."

The approaching sound of Fraser cavalry made further planning impossible.

"Positions!" Colin commanded. "Remember—tight formations, watch each other's backs, and give me the time I need!"

His men split into their assigned groups with practiced efficiency, each warrior checking weapons and armor one final time. These were men who'd followed Colin through years of border warfare, and their trust in his leadership showed in every movement.

"Fer Armstrong!" MacLeod called softly, his battle cry taken up by every throat.

"Fer Lady Morag!" Niven added, and the sound of her name seemed to give every man renewed strength.

Colin felt a surge of fierce pride as he watched his warriors prepare for what might be their final battle. Win or lose, they would fight with honor.

Now, tae find me wife.

The Fraser camp stretched before Colin like a maze of death, but years of border warfare had taught him patience. He moved like a ghost through the smoke and shadows, using every tent and wagon as cover.

The key was confidence. Colin walked with the purposeful stride of a man on orders, his bloodied weapons held casually but ready. In the chaos of battle, he was just another warrior moving through the night.

A Fraser sentry challenged him near the horse lines. "Ye! What's yer?—"

Colin's dirk slid between the man's ribs before he could finish, finding the heart with practiced precision. The sentry's eyes went wide with shock, then empty. Colin caught the falling body and dragged it behind a supply wagon.

One down. How many more?

He moved deeper into the camp, counting guards, noting patrol patterns. Two Fraser soldiers stood talking near a cluster of tents, their attention focused on the distant battle. Colin circled wide, approaching from their blind spot.

The first man never knew what hit him. Colin's arm snaked around his throat from behind, cutting off any cry for help.

A sharp twist, and the cervical vertebrae separated with a wet crack.

The second guard spun around, mouth opening to shout, but Colin's throwing knife took him in the throat.

He dropped silently, blood pooling in the dirt.

Two more.

A patrol was approaching—four men with spears, moving in loose formation. Too many to take quietly, and the open ground offered no cover. Colin pressed himself against a supply wagon and waited, controlling his breathing, his heartbeat.

The patrol passed within arm's reach, their boots crunching on the graveled path. Colin counted to ten, then slipped out behind them and continued deeper into the camp.

The living quarters area lay ahead, marked by smaller tents and wooden structures arranged around Fraser's massive pavilion. But the security was tighter here—guards posted at regular intervals, overlapping fields of vision.

Colin studied the layout with a tactical eye. Direct approach was impossible. He needed a distraction.

A handful of stones, hurled at a distant tent, brought two guards running to investigate. While they were distracted, Colin sprinted across twenty yards of open ground and pressed himself against the back wall of the nearest structure.

Voices drifted from inside—Fraser men discussing the battle's progress. Colin listened carefully, gleaning intelligence while planning his next move.

"—eastern flank is crumbling ? —"

"—Armstrong's men are like demons ? —"

"—orders tae pull back the reserves ? —"

The battle was going better than expected. His men were holding, maybe even winning. But Colin had no time to celebrate. Morag was somewhere in this maze of tents, and every second increased the chance of discovery.

He moved to the next tent, then the next. Each required careful approach—watching for guards, listening for occupants, finding the safest entry point.

Then he saw it again. Fraser’s tent, the one he had seen earlier. A single guard stood outside, alert and well-armed. This was it.

Colin drew his dirk and approached from the blind side, moving with the patience of a stalking cat.

Five feet. Three feet. The guard shifted, hand moving to his sword hilt, instincts warning of danger.

Too late.

Colin's hand clamped over the guard's mouth while the dirk punched up under his ribs, angled toward the heart. The man convulsed once, his eyes rolling back, then went limp. Colin dragged him to a more hidden area and then entered the tent, pushing the flap aside with his hand.

The room was large, the ground covered in rugs.

There was a bed, a desk covered with scattered parchments, a fire pit in the middle.

Off to the sides were two separate areas closed off with a flap.

He looked in the first, but there were just some trunks and bags.

In the second, he found her: Morag, hands bound behind her back, her eyes wide with shock and relief at seeing him.

"Colin!" she whispered urgently. "Thank God, ye're?—"

"Shh," he breathed, already moving to cut her bonds. He kissed her briefly on the mouth. "We need tae get out of here. Now."

As he freed her hands, Morag flung herself into his arms, pressing her lips against his. Colin held her until he felt her relax against him, before helping her to her feet.

"Can ye walk?"

"Aye, but Colin—there are so many of them. How did ye?—"

"Later," he said firmly, moving to the door and listening carefully. "Right now, we run."

They slipped out of the building together. Colin led the way, moving with deadly purpose between the tents, every sense alert for danger.

They made it perhaps fifty yards before shouts erupted behind them.

"The prisoner's gone!"

"Search everywhere! Find the Armstrong bitch!"

"And that's our cue," Colin muttered, grabbing Morag's hand. "Run."

They sprinted through the camp, using the chaos of the ongoing battle to mask their escape. Colin cut down two Fraser soldiers who tried to intercept them, while Morag stayed close behind him, her stolen dirk ready in her hand.

They were almost at the camp's perimeter when a figure stepped out of the shadows ahead—tall, imposing, armor gleaming in the firelight.

Fraser stood directly in their path, his sword already drawn, his face twisted with fury at seeing his prize escaping.

"Going somewhere?" he asked pleasantly, though his eyes burned with deadly intent.

Colin stepped protectively in front of Morag, his own blade rising. Twenty feet separated him from the man who'd poisoned and stolen his wife, threatened his clan, and murdered too many innocent people. Twenty feet between him and vengeance.

Fraser's lips curved in a cold smile as he advanced. "Colin Armstrong. I was wondering when ye'd show yerself."

Their eyes met across the space between them, and Colin felt the familiar calm that came before battle settle over him like a shroud.