Page 48 of The Icy Highlander’s Virgin (Highlanders’ Feisty Brides #4)
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
L achlan tried to sniffle a yawn as he looked from one councilman to the other. The council meeting had dragged on longer than expected, filled with tedious discussions about grain stores and tax collection.
He had just made up his mind to adjourn the meeting so he could go check on Erica when the scream cut through the afternoon air.
It came high, terrified, and unmistakably Erica's across the castle grounds with such raw panic that Lachlan froze for one moment, but then, he was moving before conscious thought could form.
"Frederick!" he shouted, sprinting toward the castle. "With me!"
He raced through the corridors with Frederick and two other men close behind, his heart hammering against his ribs as Erica's screams continued. There was something primal about that sound, something that spoke of immediate mortal danger rather than simple fear.
When he burst through the garden entrance, the scene that greeted him was his worst nightmare made real.
Duncan stood in the center of the flower beds, one arm wrapped around Hayden's small throat while a dirk pressed against the boy's neck.
Erica lay crumpled near the stone wall, blood seeping from a gash on her temple where she'd clearly struck her head.
Her eyes were open but dazed, and she was trying unsuccessfully to push herself upright.
"M'laird!" Hayden cried out, his young voice breaking with terror.
"Erica, are ye alright?" Lachlan wanted to go to her and scoop her in his arms, but he feared for the boy.
"Aye," she muttered. Lachlan felt himself breathe a little better when she stood to her feet.
"Well, well," Duncan said with cold satisfaction, his grip tightening on the boy as Lachlan, sure that Erica was alright, turned his attention to him. "Look who finally decided to join us. Though I notice ye've come quite unprepared for the occasion."
Lachlan's hand moved instinctively to where his sword should have been, finding only empty air. He'd left his weapons in the solar, in his haste to reach Erica, and now faced his armed cousin with nothing but his bare hands.
"Let the boy go, Duncan," he said, forcing his voice to remain calm despite the rage building in his chest. "Whatever grievance ye have is with me."
"Oh, but that's where ye're wrong, cousin.
" Duncan's smile was a twisted thing, full of malice and long-nursed hatred.
"Me grievance is with yer entire false life. Yer sham of a marriage, yer stolen inheritance, and this bastard whelp who ye value more than me even though he is merely the kitchen hand’s son. "
The blade pressed closer to Hayden's throat, drawing a thin line of blood that made the boy whimper with fear. Lachlan felt something cold and deadly settle in his chest, but he forced himself to remain still. One wrong move and Duncan would open the child's throat.
"Ye think I havenae been watchin'?" Duncan continued, his voice growing more manic. "Think I daenae ken that yer precious marriage is nothin' but a political arrangement? That ye've never even properly bedded yer wife?"
"Ye daenae ken anythin' about what ye're talkin' about, cousin."
"I ken about the heir clause, Lachlan. I ken that if she doesnae give ye a child within a year, the marriage can be annulled. Yer servants talk. They say nothin's happenin' between ye and her."
Trying to buy time, Lachlan decided to go along with his cousin. "Duncan, since ye ken nothin' is happenin' between me and me wife, then yer place as future laird is secure. Put down the dirk."
Frederick shifted behind Lachlan, but Duncan's eyes caught the movement immediately. "Ah, ah, ah. Tell yer men to stay back, or the boy dies now."
"How long have ye been planning this?" Lachlan asked, trying to buy time while his mind raced through options. The garden tools lay scattered nearby—a heavy rake, a sharp spade—but they were too far away to reach before Duncan could harm Hayden.
"Months," Duncan replied with obvious pride. "I've been watching yer routines, learning yer habits. Did ye ken yer wife walks in the garden every afternoon when she thinks no one is lookin'? Did ye ken she's been spendin' time with this little bastard, playin' at being a mother?"
Lachlan felt a cold hand grip his chest. Duncan had been stalking them, studying them, waiting for the perfect moment to strike. And Lachlan had been completely oblivious to the threat.
"And the best part," Duncan continued, his grip shifting slightly on Hayden, "is that me supporters among the clan will arrive within the hour. They're tired of yer weak leadership, tired of watchin' ye fawn over a woman who's made ye soft."
"What supporters?" Lachlan demanded, though ice was forming in his stomach.
"Oh, ye'd be surprised how many men remember when this clan was truly strong. When we took what we wanted instead of negotiatin' like merchants." Duncan's eyes glittered with fanatic fervor. "They'll be here soon to witness yer death and the restoration of proper leadership."
Behind Duncan, Erica had managed to pull herself into a sitting position, though she was clearly still dazed from her head injury. Blood matted her dark hair, and Lachlan could see her struggling to focus her eyes. But she was alive, and that was all that mattered.
"Ye always were a coward, Duncan," Lachlan said, allowing contempt to color his voice. "Hiding behind a child, attacking an unarmed woman. Is this the strength ye're so proud of?"
"Shut up!" Duncan snarled, the blade trembling against Hayden's throat. "Ye think ye're so much better than me? Ye thnik yer precious wife loves ye? She married ye for protection, nothing more and ye ken this. The moment?—"
It was then that Erica moved.
Still unsteady on her feet but driven by desperate courage, she grabbed a heavy ceramic flower pot and hurled it at Duncan's head with all her remaining strength.
The pot shattered against his shoulder, not causing serious damage but startling him enough that his grip on Hayden loosened for a crucial second.
"Run, Hayden!" she screamed.
The boy twisted free and darted toward Lachlan, but Duncan's reflexes were faster than expected. His free hand shot out and caught Hayden's shirt, yanking the child back just as Lachlan lunged forward.
"I daenae think so," Duncan panted, the dirk now wavering between Hayden's throat and Lachlan's approaching form. "Back off, or?—"
Lachlan's hand closed around the handle of the garden spade. Without hesitation, he swung it in a vicious arc that caught Duncan across the wrist, sending the dirk spinning away into the flower beds.
But Duncan wasn't finished. Releasing Hayden, he drew a longer blade from his belt—a dirk that gleamed wickedly in the afternoon sun. "Finally," he breathed. "I've been waitin' for this moment for years."
The fight that followed was brutal and desperate. Duncan was fresh and well-armed, while Lachlan had only the improvised weapon of the garden spade and reflexes honed by years of combat. They circled each other among the trampled flowers, each looking for an opening.
Duncan struck first, his blade whistling through the air in a cut that would have opened Lachlan's throat if it had connected. Lachlan deflected with the spade handle, the impact sending shockwaves up his arms, then riposted with the metal blade that forced Duncan to give ground.
"Ye should have stayed in exile. I clearly dinnae teach a good enough lesson," Lachlan said through gritted teeth as they circled each other.
"And let you ruin everythin' our grandfather built?" Duncan's return strike nearly took Lachlan's head off. "Never."
The battle moved through the garden as both men pressed their attacks. Flower beds were trampled, stone benches overturned, and blood from both men splattered the carefully tended paths.
A particularly vicious exchange left Duncan with a gash across his cheek from the spade blade, while Lachlan felt Duncan's dirk part the skin along his ribs. Both men were breathing hard now, sweat and blood mixing as they fought with the focused intensity of predators.
"Getting tired, cousin?" Duncan taunted, though his own chest was heaving. "All that soft living with your merchant wife wearing you down?"
Lachlan didn't waste breath on a reply. Instead, he feinted left then spun right, the spade handle catching Duncan across the temple with a sickening crack. Duncan staggered but didn't fall, his own blade scoring a deep cut across Lachlan's shoulder that sent fire racing down his arm.
It was Erica's cry of warning that saved his life.
"Behind ye!"
Lachlan spun to see another figure emerging from the castle—one of Duncan's supporters, sword drawn and murder in his eyes. For a moment, Lachlan was caught between two armed opponents with nothing but his improvised weapon.
But Erica was moving again, this time with a heavy garden stone in her hands. She brought it down on the newcomer's head with a wet crunch that dropped him instantly to the ground.
"Well done, love," Lachlan called, but the distraction cost him. Duncan's blade sliced across his back, sending him stumbling forward into the stone wall.
"Now ye die," Duncan snarled, raising his dirk for the killing blow.
But Lachlan rolled aside at the last second, Duncan's blade striking sparks from the stone where his head had been. In the same motion, Lachlan swept Duncan's legs with the spade handle, sending his cousin crashing to the ground.
Both men scrambled for advantage, rolling and grappling among the crushed flowers. Duncan's dirk came up toward Lachlan's throat, but Lachlan caught his wrist and they strained against each other, muscles corded with effort.
Slowly, inexorably, Lachlan's superior strength began to tell. The dirk turned in Duncan's grip, the point now aimed at Duncan's own chest instead of Lachlan's throat.
"Ye should have accepted exile," Lachlan said quietly.
"I'll... never... yield..." Duncan gasped, still fighting against the inevitable.
"Then die with your pride intact."