Page 45 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold (Kilted Kisses #4)

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

M orag watched in terror as the two men circled each other like wolves, their blades catching the lamplight with every movement.

Her wrists burned where the ropes cut into them, but she barely noticed the pain.

All her attention was fixed on Colin—her husband, who'd come for her despite impossible odds.

"Behind ye!" she screamed as Fraser maneuvered Colin toward a low table. "The furniture!"

Colin heard her warning and rolled aside just as Fraser's blade whistled through the space where his head had been. The sword struck the wooden table with a resounding crack, embedding itself momentarily in the thick oak.

Fraser cursed and yanked his weapon free, but the brief delay gave Colin time to recover his footing. When Fraser turned back, Colin was ready for him.

Their blades met in a series of lightning-fast exchanges that made Morag's eyes water trying to follow them. Steel rang on steel in a deadly rhythm, sparks flying with each impact. Both men were breathing hard now, sweat mixing with blood on their faces.

"Ye've fought well, Armstrong," Fraser panted, his sword weaving defensive patterns as Colin pressed his attack. "But this ends now. I have almost two hundred men outside, and ye have—what? Barely more than twenty? Even if ye kill me, yer clan dies tonight."

"Then I'll die kenning ye willnae live tae see it," Colin replied grimly.

“Because that was what really convinced MacDuff to agree tae an alliance. He accepted me offer of land, aye, but what he really wanted was me promise tae kill ye. And I dinnae care if me wife hears that now. I tried tae keep her from things she didnae need tae ken, that might hurt her, but now that she kens the rest, she should ken this too. I will kill ye, as I promised her faither!”

Fraser's response was a thrust aimed at Colin's heart. Colin parried desperately, but Fraser's blade slipped past his guard, the point scoring across his chest and drawing a line of fire through his flesh.

"Colin!" Morag screamed, struggling against her bonds as she watched her husband stagger backward.

But Colin wasn't finished. As Fraser drew back for the killing blow, Colin's left hand shot out, grabbing Fraser's sword wrist. The two men grappled desperately, each trying to control the other's weapon.

They crashed into the wall, Fraser's greater weight and size giving him the advantage. Slowly, inexorably, he forced his blade toward Colin's throat.

"Look at him, lass," Fraser gasped, his face inches from Colin's. "Look at yer mighty husband. See how he dies."

Nay. Nae like this. Ye cannae leave me like this, Collin.

Morag threw her full weight against the post she was tied to, feeling the wood creak under the strain. If she could just?—

The post shifted slightly, making a creaking sound.

On the floor, Colin's strength was failing. Fraser's blade crept closer to his throat, the steel edge gleaming in the lamplight. Colin's face was turning red with the effort of holding it back, veins standing out on his forehead.

"Any last words fer yer wife?" Fraser whispered.

That's when Colin's dirk, hidden in his left hand, punched up between Fraser's ribs.

Fraser's eyes went wide with shock as the blade found his heart. His sword clattered to the floor as his strength fled, his hands clutching at the dirk's handle.

"Nay, tae ye," Colin said quietly, twisting the blade. "Tell the devil Colin Armstrong sent ye."

Fraser's legs gave out, and he collapsed to the floor, blood spreading in a dark pool beneath him. His eyes stared sightlessly at the ceiling, his dreams of conquest ended forever.

But Colin's relief was short-lived. The four Fraser soldiers stood frozen for one heartbeat, but now they moved as one, drawing their weapons with deadly intent.

"Kill him!" one of them snarled. "Avenge our laird!"

Colin staggered to his feet, swaying slightly from exhaustion and the wound Fraser had given him. Blood seeped through his shirt where the blade had scored across his ribs, but his grip on his sword remained steady.

The first soldier lunged with a spear. Colin sidestepped, his blade sweeping in a deadly arc that opened the man's throat. But the movement sent fire racing through his injured side, and he stumbled.

The second soldier pressed his advantage, swinging a heavy axe toward Colin's head. Colin ducked under the blow, then drove his dirk up into the man's armpit, finding the gap in his leather armor. The soldier screamed and fell back, blood pouring from the wound.

"Colin!" Morag screamed as the third soldier's sword whistled past her husband's ear. "Behind ye!"

Colin spun, parrying desperately as the remaining two soldiers attacked in unison. His wounded side slowed him, making each movement an agony, but years of training kept him alive. His sword work was economical now, conserving strength while seeking killing opportunities.

A thrust took the third soldier through the heart. Colin's blade slid between ribs with practiced precision, then withdrew as the man toppled forward. But the effort left him gasping, one hand pressed to his bleeding side.

The last soldier, seeing his chance, raised his sword for a killing blow aimed at Colin's exposed neck.

That's when Colin's throwing knife sprouted from the man's forehead. The soldier's eyes crossed as he stared at the steel protruding from his skull, then he crashed backward into the wall and slid to the floor.

Colin stood swaying among the bodies, his chest heaving with exhaustion. Blood dripped steadily from his wounded ribs, staining the floor beneath him.

"Morag," he said, his voice hoarse as he moved toward her on unsteady legs. "Are ye hurt?"

"I'm fine," she whispered, tears streaming down her face. "Colin, I'm so sorry. I was angry and stupid, and I nearly got us both killed."

"Hush." His hands were gentle as he cut her bonds, the ropes falling away to release her aching wrists. "Ye're safe. That's all that matters."

"Ye're bleeding. Colin, ye’re hurt badly."

"I'll live," he said grimly, though his face was pale with blood loss.

The moment her hands were free, Morag threw her arms around his neck, holding him tight against her. She could feel his heart beating, feel the warmth of his body, and it was the most beautiful thing in the world.

"Oh Colin," she whispered against his ear. "I was such a fool."

"Shush, me love," Colin replied, his arms tightening around her. "We'll work through the rest later. Right now, we need tae get out of here."

"What about yer men? The battle?"

Colin's jaw tightened as he listened to the sounds of combat outside. "Fraser was right about one thing—he has more men than we dae. But with him dead, maybe his army will lose heart."

He moved to the tent flap, peering out at the chaos of the Fraser camp. "Or maybe they'll fight harder, fer revenge. Either way, we can't stay here."

Morag followed him to the window, her hand finding his. Outside, she could see the glow of fires, the movement of armed men, the sprawling evidence of Fraser's war machine.

"Then we face it together," she said firmly. "Whatever comes next, we face it together."

Colin turned to look at her, this fierce Highland woman who'd married him for duty but stayed for love. "Aye," he said softly. "Taegether."

Colin grabbed Fraser's sword from the floor, testing its weight. "Can ye hold a sword, lass?"

"Just try tae stop me," Morag replied fiercely, pulling Fraser's dirk from his belt. The blade felt good in her hand—solid, real, deadly.

"Then let's go win a battle." Colin moved to the door, listening carefully to the sounds outside. "When we step out there, stay close tae me. Fraser's men will be confused, but they're still dangerous."

Morag nodded, her heart hammering with anticipation rather than fear. "What dae we tell them?"

"The truth. Their laird is dead, and they can choose between surrender or joining him. Ready?"

Together, they ran through the flap and stepped into the chaos of the Fraser camp.

"Fraser is dead!" Colin's voice boomed across the battlefield, carrying over the clash of weapons. "Ronan Fraser lies dead by me blade!"

The effect was immediate and electric. Fraser warriors who'd been pressing their attack suddenly hesitated, their heads turning toward the sound of Colin's voice. Morag raised Fraser's bloodied dirk high above her head, the blade catching the firelight.

"Yer laird is dead!" she screamed, her voice cracking like a whip. "I saw him fall! Fraser is finished!"

A Fraser captain rushed toward them, his sword raised. "Lies! Ye?—"

Colin's borrowed blade took him across the chest, sending him crashing into a supply wagon. "See fer yerselves!" Colin shouted. "Yer leader bleeds out on the floor like the dog he was!"

"Armstrong speaks truth!" came a shout from the darkness. One of Colin's men emerged from behind a tent, his sword red to the hilt. " The bastard's dead!"

The words spread through the Fraser ranks like wildfire. Morag watched their faces change—confidence crumbling into doubt, aggression melting into fear. Without Fraser's iron will holding them together, his army began to fracture.

"What are our orders?" a Fraser soldier called out desperately.

"Surrender!" Colin commanded, his voice carrying absolute authority. "Throw down yer weapons and live! Continue fightin’ and join yer laird in hell!

"Dinnae listen tae him!" Another Fraser captain tried to rally his men. "We still have the numbers! We can?—"

An Armstrong soldier's thrown dirk sprouted from his throat, cutting off his words forever.

"Anyone else want tae argue?" Colin called out, pulling another blade from a fallen Fraser warrior.

That broke them completely. All across the camp, Fraser weapons began hitting the ground with metallic clangs. Men fell to their knees, hands raised in surrender, their will to fight shattered along with their command structure.

"Niven!" Colin shouted. "MacLeod! Where are ye?"

"Here, me laird!" Niven appeared from the smoke, grinning despite the blood streaming from a cut on his scalp. "We heard the news! Fraser's really dead?"

"Aye." Colin said.

MacLeod jogged up with a group of Armstrong warriors, all of them looking stunned by their sudden victory. "The Fraser men are surrendering everywhere, Colin. What dae we dae with them?"

"Bind them. Take their weapons. Any man who swears an oath tae keep the peace can go home tae his family. Any man who refuses..." Colin's expression hardened. "Well, we have plenty of rope."

"Aye, me laird." MacLeod turned to organize the prisoner roundup, but paused. "Colin? How many did we lose?"

Colin's face grew somber. "Too many. But not as many as we feared. Fraser's arrogance worked against him—he had expected easy victory and hadn’t prepared fer real resistance."

As his men spread out to secure the camp, Colin turned to Morag. "Ye did well, Morag. Ye were brave today. Any of me soldiers couldnae have been braver."

Morag looked at Colin distraught, suddenly feeling the weight of the day. "What kept me goin' was the thought of seein' ye again. "

"Me too." Colin pulled her close, his arms wrapping around her waist. "I wouldnae have forgiven meself if anythin' had happened tae ye."

"Victory!" Niven shouted, his voice carrying over all the others. "Victory fer Armstrong! Victory fer our laird and lady!"

The cry was taken up by every Armstrong warrior, growing louder and more triumphant with each repetition. Morag felt tears sting her eyes as she looked around at those brave men who'd followed Colin into impossible odds and emerged victorious.

"We did it," she whispered against Colin's ear. "We actually did it."

"Aye," Colin replied, his voice rough with emotion. "We did. Taegether."

"Taegether," Morag agreed, and the word felt like a promise that would last forever.

Colin looked down at her, this fierce Highland woman who'd thrown dirks with deadly accuracy and stood beside him through the chaos of battle. Her face was streaked with dirt and blood, her stolen clothes torn and filthy, but his eyes held nothing but love and admiration.

Morag stood on her tiptoes, bringing her lips only an inch from his, close enough that she could feel the warmth of his breath against her skin. Her heart hammered against her ribs as she looked into his dark eyes, seeing her own desperate longing reflected there.

"I'm tired of waitin' fer ye tae kiss me," she said softly, her voice rough with emotion and everything they'd been through.

Colin smiled, but then his expression changed, his eyes darkening with hunger and something deeper—a raw need that made her pulse race. His hands came up to frame her face, his thumbs brushing away the dirt and tears on her cheeks.

"Well then, wife," he murmured, his voice dropping to that low, intimate tone that made her knees weak, "what am I waiting for?"

He lowered his head and claimed her lips with all the desperate passion of a man who'd thought he'd lost everything. Morag melted into the kiss, her arms winding around his neck as she poured all her love and relief into the connection between them.

It was fierce and hungry, filled with the promise of a future they'd nearly lost. She could taste the salt of her own tears, feel the rapid beat of his heart against her chest, smell the familiar scent of leather and steel that was uniquely Colin.

His mouth moved against hers with desperate tenderness, as if he were memorizing the taste of her, the feel of her alive and whole in his arms. Morag's fingers tangled in his dark hair, holding him close, never wanting to let him go again.

Around them, his men cheered and whistled, their voices echoing across the Fraser camp, but Morag barely heard them.

There was nothing in the world but the taste of him, the strength of his arms around her, the knowledge that they were both alive and safe and together.

The battle, the fear, the pain—all of it faded away until there was only this moment, only them.

When they finally broke apart, both breathing hard, Colin rested his forehead against hers. His eyes were still dark with passion, but now they held something else too—peace, contentment, the quiet joy of a man who'd found his way home.

"Let's go home," he said simply, his voice hoarse with emotion.

"Aye," Morag whispered, her eyes bright with unshed tears of happiness. "Let's go home."