He could hear how quiet the courtyard had grown as the rest of Westall’s men had been dispatched by his clansmen, who hadnow come pouring into the chapel. All the men watched Westall with predatory looks, but no one would interrupt their fight.
This was Ruaridh’s fight alone.
He handed Violet to Logan, who pulled her behind him to where the women were, and her sobs stoked the fire in his heart. He lunged before the man was ready, but Westall was able to block his heavy blow with his sword.
“Where is your honor, Laird McLeod?” Westall growled, his eyes darting around to see if anyone would side with him. “Would you really fight an injured man?”
Ruaridh sneered. “Where was yer honor when ye threatened Violet?” He stepped forward, every word punctuated with a slash of his sword. “Where was yer honor when ye kidnapped me daughter?”
Westall parried every swing, but Ruaridh wasn’t worried. He was playing with the man. He wanted to say all that raged in his mind before he sent him to hell, where he belonged.
“Ye daenae deserve to be treated with honor, Westall,” he snarled, side-stepping one of the man’s weak slashes and slicing his exposed side.
“Arrgh!” Westall howled, cradling his side. He raised his sword too late to block the following slash, which went across his throat.
“Ye deserve to die like a coward!” Ruaridh spat.
Westall fell to the ground, clawing at his throat as he drowned in his own blood. Ruaridh spat on the floor beside his head as his senses finally began to register the scent of blood filling the air.
“Ruaridh!” he heard, before a warm figure barreled into him in a cloud of floral perfume that instantly calmed him.
He threw his sword to the side and gathered Violet into his arms, breathing her in. Relief flooded through him. Relief that this time, he hadn’t failed to save those who mattered to him.
He pulled back to look at her, and unable to help himself, he kissed her, uncaring that his men were watching or that they were surrounded by dead bodies.
She returned his kiss with equal fervor, her arms wrapping around his waist, but when he felt her tears wet his cheeks, he pulled back and held her to his chest so she could sob.
“Daenae worry, lass,” he whispered softly. “Ye’re safe now.”
Looking around at the signs of battle around them and the laughing faces of his family, he found himself smiling as well.
“You’re hurt, Ruaridh,” Violet complained. “Sit and let the healer tend to you.”
“I want to see me men first,” he protested, trying to rise from his seat. “I can be tended to later.”
“Do you want your wound to fester?” she huffed, pushing him down. “You are the Laird, and if anything were to happen to you…” she trailed off, a lump forming in her throat, but she forced it down. “Please sit and let him check your wounds.”
Ruaridh sighed and nodded, squeezing her hand gently.
She returned his nod and gave him a small smile, not wanting him to worry.
Her heart was still racing from the drastic turn the day had taken, but the fresh air was helping. She had nearly fainted in the chapel, where the oppressive metallic scent of blood hung heavy, but Ruaridh had been quick to move her away from the chaos.
Around them, the healer tended to the wounded while those with no injuries saw to burying the bodies. All of them tried to ignore it, but there was tension in the air as they wondered how the English would react to the death of their own.
Needing a respite, Violet stepped away from Ruaridh and paced around, offering words where it was necessary. She spotted Willie recounting to Logan and some of the clanswomen how he had saved her, and while she would have ordinarily moved to thank the lad, she wanted to be alone.
If the English brought war to this clan because of her, she would never forgive herself. None of their men had died today, but when that war came, many would.
Tears pooled in her eyes again, but she didn’t want to cry. She was tired of crying and being weak.
Her only remaining option was to return to London and try to prove their innocence. But she didn’t want to leave Ruaridh.
“Violet, are you hurt?” her father asked, walking up to her.
“Father,” she cried, going to hug him.
“What is it, child?” he asked. “Why are you crying?”
