Page 49 of The Laird’s Vengeful Desire (The Highland Sisters’ Secret Desires #2)
CHAPTER THIRTY
“ C annae ye see, me lady, after everythin’ I’ve done tae bring ye back tae safety, this presents us with a perfect opportunity.”
Rhona’s stomach turned nauseatingly as Lachlan MacPherson paced before her like a predator circling wounded prey.
The MacPherson camp bustled around them, warriors sharpening their weapons and tending to fires, but all she could focus on was the calculating gleam in the cold brown eyes staring at her.
“What opportunity?” she asked, though every instinct screamed she didn’t want to hear the answer.
“Why, fer yer faither and the MacCraith’s tae finally see sense, of course.
” Lachlan’s smile was all teeth and no warmth.
“When they arrive and see how I’ve rescued ye from that bastard Wallace, they’ll have nay choice but tae join me cause.
Just think of it – together we can crush me cousin’s pathetic claim tae the Wallace lands once and fer all. ”
“Join yer cause?” Rhona’s voice rose in disbelief. “Have ye lost yer mind? Me faither will never–”
“Och, but he will.” Lachlan interrupted smoothly.
“Especially when he learns of the… arrangement I have in mind. A marriage between us would seal the alliance perfectly, joinin’ the MacPherson clan with the MacAlpin and MacCraith armies, and when we take the Wallace lands…
well, there willnae be anyone with the power tae stand against me. Everyone benefits.”
“Ye’re daft if ye think I’d ever–”
“Ever what? Marry a man of honor who rescued ye from captivity?” Lachlan’s voice hardened. “After months of livin’ as Wallace’s prisoner and then whore, ye should be grateful I’d still consider havin’ ye.”
“Ian Wallace is ten times the man ye’ll ever be!” Rhona spat, her blue eyes blazing with fury. “And I’d rather die than–”
The backhand came without warning, snapping her head to the side and leaving her ears ringing while her cheek felt as if it had been split open.
“Careful, lass,” Lachlan’s voice was deadly quiet.
“Yer value tae me depends on yer cooperation. Push me too far, and I might just decide ye’re more trouble than ye’re worth.
After all, there are more MacAlpin sisters tae be had, should anythin’ unfortunate happen tae ye. ”
Rhona’s hand flew to her cheek, tasting blood where her teeth had cut her lip. But she lifted her chin with every ounce of defiance she could muster. “Me faither will see through yer lies. He’ll never believe–”
“He’ll believe what he sees,” Lachlan cut her off. “His poor daughter, rescued from dishonor by the legitimate laird, offering marriage and safety. And when I tell him exactly what Wallace has subjected ye tae…”
“So ye’ll tell him Ian treated me with kindness and respect, then.” Rhona said firmly.
“I’ll tell him whatever serves me purposes.” Lachlan’s mask of civility finally slipped completely. “And if ye’re smart, ye’ll keep yer whore mouth shut and let me handle this.”
“And if I refuse?”
Lachlan’s smile was more threatening than ever. “Then perhaps ye shouldnae be allowed tae speak tae them at all. Or see them, fer that matter.”
Before Rhona could react, he’d seized her arms and was binding them roughly behind her back. “Murdoch! Take the lass somewhere she cannae interfere. I need tae consider all me options fer how best tae utilize her.”
“Aye, me laird!”
“Keep her close,” Lachlan added with a cruel glint in his eye. “I may need her visible fer our guests.”
As rough hands dragged her away from the fire, Rhona heard the thunder of approaching hoofbeats in the distance. Her heart leapt with desperate hope.
Please let it be Ian. Please let him have seen through the trap.
“Lachlan! Where is she, ye bastard?”
Ian’s roar split the air as his sword carved through another MacPherson warrior. Blood sprayed across his face, but he barely noticed, driven forward by a vengeful rage that made him more force of nature than man.
What had begun as a coordinated assault had devolved into brutal close-quarters combat.
A nearby tent caught fire from an overturned brazier, flames leaping hungrily to the next pavilion.
Acrid smoke began to billow across the battlefield, stinging the soldiers’ eyes and burning their throats.
Warriors from opposing clans clashed with desperate fury, the first screams of the dying piercing the air soon joined by the wet thud of blades finding flesh.
“Steady, me laird!” Killian’s voice cut through the chaos as his own sword opened a MacPherson throat in a spray of arterial blood. “We’ll find her!”
“Aye, we will.” Ian’s blade found another target, the steel biting deep between ribs. “Even if I have tae slay every last one of these wretched dogs!”
As if accepting the challenge, a MacPherson axe man charged him from the left – weapon raised high.
Ian ducked the crushing blow and came up with his dirk, driving it deep into the man’s armpit where no armor could protect.
Hot blood cascaded down his arm as the warrior dropped, gurgling his last breath.
Then, another enemy rushed him – a scarred brute with a mace that could crush a skull like an egg. Ian sidestepped the wild swing and his sword found the man’s leg, taking it off at the knee. The warrior toppled, shrieking, into the flames of a burning tent where his screams rose to join the smoke.
Ian pressed forward through the carnage, his sword cutting through enemy after enemy with nothing short of mechanical precision.
A spear thrust came at his chest but he batted it aside and opened the spearman’s belly, spilling steaming innards onto the already blood-drenched ground.
Each fallen MacPherson warrior brought him closer to the heart of the camp, closer to where they supposedly were holding Rhona.
The taste of blood and smoke filled his mouth as he fought with single-minded determination.
The MacPherson camp erupted around them like a kicked anthill.
Tents collapsed in a flurry of flames, horses reared and neighed, and the clash of steel on steel echoed across the terrain.
But Ian’s focus was laser-sharp, cutting through enemies one by one, like wheat before a scythe.
“Me laird!” Rupert called over the chaos, his face spattered with gore and soot. “They’re fallin’ back toward the center!”
Indeed, the surviving MacPherson warriors were retreating deeper into their camp, forming defensive lines around the largest pavilions.
But they might as well have been trying to hold back the tide.
Ian and his men carved through their ranks like death incarnate, leaving a trail of blood and shattered bone in their wake.
A bearded giant with a two-handed sword came at Ian, the massive blade whooshing through the air.
Ian rolled under the swing and came up with his sword already moving, taking the man’s hands off at the wrists.
The giant stared in shock at his spurting stumps before Killian appeared at his back, his blade opening him from his throat to his spine.
Around them, the Wallace men fought with equal fury. Their war cries echoed across the battlefield as they pressed their advantage, but Ian heard none of it. Every fiber of his being was focused on one thing, and one thing only: reaching Rhona before any of those animals could hurt her further.
“Me laird!” Young Alec pointed through the smoke. “There! The big pavilion! They’re draggin’ her out of it!”
Ian’s head snapped toward the direction, and through the shifting smoke and flames, he caught sight of something that made his blood freeze in his veins – Rhona, bound hand and foot, dragged from wherever they had been hiding her, now being tied to a wooden post that had been hastily driven into the ground.
Her dark ginger hair was wild around her face, and even from this distance, he could see the dark bruise marring her cheek.
His vision flared red.
Someone dared tae raise a hand tae her!
“Cover me!” he bellowed, breaking from the main battle line like a man possessed.
Numerous MacPherson men threw themselves at him in desperate fury, knowing their laird’s plan depended on stopping Wallace from reaching the girl.
But they might as well have been fighting with wooden swords – Ian’s blade moved quicker and faster than ever before, each strike calculated to kill efficiently.
Finally, after what felt like an eternity of combat, Ian broke through the last line of defenders.
“Wallace!”
Lachlan MacPherson himself stepped from behind his pavilion, sword already in hand, that familiar evil smile playing about his lips. “Right on time. Though I must admit, ye walkin’ intae me trap so eagerly is rather… disappointing’.”
“Let her go.” Ian’s voice was deadly quiet despite the chaos raging around them.
“Och, I dinnae think so.” Lachlan moved to put himself between Ian and Rhona. “Ye see, the lass and I have been havin’ such interestin’ conversations… about marriage. About alliances. About the benefits of choosin’ the right side.”
“Is that how she got that bruise on her face? Conversin’ with ye?”
Lachlan shrugged carelessly. “Och, just a reminder of her position. ‘Tis wonderful how quickly a lass’s perspective changes when she realized the… reality of the limits her options have reached.”
Ian’s grip tightened on his sword hilt, coiling the muscle in his wrist and turning his knuckles white. “Ye struck her.”
“I corrected her.” Lachlan’s eyes glittered with malicious satisfaction. “Just as I am about tae correct ye, cousin.”
Without another word, Lachlan lunged forward, his blade seeking Ian’s heart. Steel clashed as Ian parried, the impact sending both men backwards in a shockwave. Lachlan was skilled – better than Ian had expected – but fury lent her strength to Ian’s strikes.
They circled each other like wolves, each looking for an opening. Lachlan’s blade wove hypnotic patterns as he attacked with calculated precision, hoping to unearth a blind spot, but Ian matched him blow for blow.