Page 52 of Wild Highland Rose (Time After Time #4)

" I 'm not your brother." Cameron spat the words, feeling adrenaline kick in. He tightened his grip on the claymore and held the silver shield aloft.

"I think that's been made clear enough." Allen snarled. "I suspected something when we first found ye on the mountain, but Father would no' listen. He's always had a blind spot where yer concerned. But even he couldna ignore what that witch has done to ye."

"Marjory hasn't done a thing." Cameron hissed, circling around the larger man.

"Tell it to Father," Allen laughed, the sound vile. "He'll see her dead. Which is exactly the way I want it."

Understanding dawned. "Torcall annihilates the Macphersons, and Clan Cameron takes out your father."

"Yer bright for halfwit." His smile was cruel. "If things go as planned, I should be head of Tyndrum afore winter."

"Aren't you forgetting about me?"

"Nay, that's the best part o' it. Yer a crazy man, fighting against yer father.

There's no' a man in Scotland who'll blame me for killing ye.

" Allen moved quickly for such a big man.

The jab came and went before Cameron even had time to blink.

Looking down, he saw a fine line of blood seeping through the linen of his shirt.

"Ye bleed awfully red fer a devil," Allen taunted. "Perhaps yer no' a demon after all." He moved as he spoke, rocking back and forth on the balls of his feet. "No' that it matters, I'll see you dead either way."

Cameron forced himself to stare into Allen's eyes. He'd heard somewhere that fighters often gave themselves away with their eyes. He fervently wished that the same would be true for Scottish warriors, and more importantly, that he'd be able to recognize it when it happened.

He shifted to Allen's left, crouching to better balance the weight of the sword, waiting for Allen's next move. Somehow in the movies these things always seemed to happen faster.

Before he completed the thought, Allen's eyes shifted. Reacting purely from instinct, Cameron twisted right an instant before the blow fell to his left. He could actually feel the rush of air as the blade swung by.

"No' bad. Ye move better than I would have expected." Allen grinned. Cameron felt a lot like a mouse being sized up by a very crafty cat. He pulled in a ragged breath.

"Really? And here I was just thinking you were a little slow."

The big man snarled, all humor fleeing his face.

Cameron felt his own anger rising. Focusing on Allen, he sprang forward, shoving his claymore in front of him. It wasn't an artful move, but what it lacked in dignity, it made up for in force. Allen stumbled back in surprise.

Cameron felt a surge of satisfaction as a crimson slit appeared in Allen's shirt. He swallowed the desire to yell 'touché' and forced himself to concentrate. They circled around until they had reversed places. Allen now had his back to the chest and Cameron stood in front of the door.

With a harsh cry, Allen lunged. Metal rang against metal as the swords intersected. In a series of short thrusts and parries, they moved through the door and into the solar. Breathing hard, they watched each other warily.

The wind whistled through an open window, the sound harsh against the quiet of the room.

Cameron knew he was outmatched. He might manage a hit here and there, but in the long run Allen would win.

He clenched his jaw, thinking of Grania.

He might not win the battle, but he'd damn well inflict as much damage as he could.

Then Allen shifted slightly to the right and, incredibly Cameron saw an opening. He thrust his sword forward, catching Allen's thigh. He felt a rush of elation, but his triumph was short lived. Allen grimaced in pain then, with a roar, came straight for Cameron.

Cameron stepped back, using both sword and shield to defend against Allen's blows. The room rang with the sound of the battle, the noise almost deafening. Grimly, Cameron held his own, but bit by bit Allen was forcing him back.

He stumbled over something, losing his balance, and fell backward, his head slamming onto the stone floor, something sharp stabbing into his skull. Colors exploded through his head, followed by blinding pain. He tried to open his eyes, to move, but his body refused to respond to his commands.

Somewhere above him, he heard Allen's laughter. He struggled to open his eyes, to ward off the inevitable death blow, but he couldn't.

"And now, mo bhràthair , 'tis time to die."

The words sounded far away, as though Allen was speaking to him from inside a tunnel.

He felt the darkness surrounding him, beckoning him.

He fought against it, a part of him wanting to stay with Marjory even if it meant dying.

But another part of him, the twenty-first century part, knew it was time to go home, to face his own life.

To try and help Lindsey. No matter the cost to his heart.

Marjory was out of the tower, safe with her clanswomen, and Fingal and company were holding their own. He had to go. There might never be another chance. With a sigh that reached to the depths of his soul, he surrendered to the darkness.

Marjory watched in disbelief as Allen raised his claymore. Cameron lay on the floor, A pool of his blood already spreading beneath his head. She took a step forward, sword raised to try and stop Allen, but before she could act, Torcall Cameron stepped into the room, his eyes wide with horror.

Everything seemed to freeze. Torcall's eyes locked on his son's, the pain in his face almost palpable. Then with one fluid motion, he grasped and threw the dagger at his waist.

The small knife arced through the air and found its mark. With a strange sense of disassociation, she watched as Allen dropped the sword and turned to find his attacker. His angry eyes turned disbelieving when he saw his father. His mouth opened, but though it moved, no words came out.

Torcall's tear-filled eyes locked with those of his youngest son as he stepped forward to catch Allen as he fell.

Cradling the man in his arms, he watched the life ebb away, his dagger still embedded in his son's neck.

Then with great effort, he stood and crossed to Cameron, kneeling beside what he believed was his other son, reaching out to smooth the hair from his face.

"Move away from him." Marjory hardly recognized the words as her own. Fierce rage burned within her, and she stepped forward, sword in hand, seeing nothing but her enemy.

He stood slowly, his hand on his weapon. "This is yer fault, girl. If ye hadn't bewitched my son, none of this would have happened. I should have killed you all those years ago. I was soft then, and look at the price I've had to pay."

Marjory's eyes were drawn, almost against her will, to Cameron's body, her heart withering and dying. With a ragged inhalation of breath, she turned back to Torcall. He was moving toward her, his claymore angled in front of him.

She met his gaze, shaken by the depth of hatred she saw reflected there. Gripping the hilt of her sword, she moved more fully into the chamber, her eyes never leaving his.

With a cry of rage, he was on her, his blade flashing in the fading light. She swiveled to the left, warding off his blow with her blade, the impact reverberating down her arm, shaking her entire body. They circled warily. "'Twas you who started this," she hissed.

"'Twas no' my doing. 'Twas yer father. He began this when he killed my Cait."

"He didn't murder her. It was an accident."

"'Twas still his fault. Because o' him, my wife is dead these twenty-one years. Just as surely as yer bewitching has caused the death o' my sons."

"I've no' killed anyone," she spoke through clenched teeth, "until now." With a quick intake of breath, she lunged, bloodlust surging through her. This man had cost her everything, and she'd see him dead.

Again and again, she thrust and he parried, dancing around the room as though following the steps to a silent reel. He was stronger and bigger, but she was agile and quick and had the stamina of youth on her side.

Marjory sidestepped a tapestry frame, twisting just in time. Torcall's blade missed her, snapping the frame neatly in half. Torcall struggled to pull it from the mangled wood.

Seeing an opening, she swung her claymore up and under, the edge landing neatly against Torcall's shoulder. With a twist of her wrist, the sword drew blood and Torcall jerked back and away, his weapon cracking the frame as it came free.

Movement at the corner of her vision momentarily distracted her. Fingal and Aimil stood in the doorway. Fingal met her gaze with a question, his hand tightening on his sword. Marjory shook her head. This was her fight.

Her attention returned to her opponent in time to see his blade descending. She hit the floor and rolled, hearing a loud chang as Torcall's sword met stone. Leaping to her feet, she swung her weapon, aiming for his back, but Torcall was faster, twisting successfully away.

Marjory backed away, her breath coming in gasps. The backs of her legs hit something solid. She looked down and stifled a scream. Allen's lifeless eyes looked up at her. Swallowing her revulsion, she looked up to find Torcall advancing, hatred contorting his face.

She waited until he was almost upon her then, as his arm raised to strike, she dropped down, rolled over the body, then jumped to her feet again. Torcall's claymore struck Allen's body. Stunned, he stopped, the anger in his eyes replaced by unspeakable horror.

Taking advantage of the moment, she raised her blade to his throat and with delicate pressure forced him to his knees. One twist, and he would be gone. It would be over. Forever. She met his eyes, and saw no remorse. She knew her own held no forgiveness.

"Finish what yer father started, girl. Or haven't ye the stomach fer it?"