“It’ll be ye who will dae the screamin’, ye monster,” Malcolm responded, retaliating with a headbutt that split Sinclair’s nose open, sending blood pouring down his red, sweating face. While the man staggered backward, he struck with such force that sparks flew into the air as their blades locked and they wrestled like animals.
Finally, they shoved apart, both breathing hard, their boots slipping on the blood-soaked flagstones. Sinclair feinted left, then slashed Malcom’s forearm. The pain was white-hot, butthe sight of his own blood only made his rage deepen. He hammered at Sinclair, driving him back step by step until the older man stumbled backwards, losing his balance for a fraction of a second.
With a flick of the flat of his sword, Malcolm sent Sinclair’s sword spinning from his hand. Sinclair stared at it as it clattered across the floor before his hand flew to his belt for his dirk.
He never reached it. With savage ferocity, Malcolm struck. Gripping his sword in both fists, he drove it through the center of Munro’s chest to the hilt.
Munro gasped, blood bubbling from his lips, an expression of surprise frozen on his face, knees buckling beneath him. Malcolm kicked him hard so that he fell on his side, his hands clutching at the blade in his chest, while blood poured from his mouth and pooled in a crimson lake around him.
Malcolm leaned over and looked into the man’s eyes without pity, prodding him with the toe of his boot.
“Ye should have listened tae me when I told ye the lass is mine,” he said grimly. “Now, I’m sendin’ ye where ye belong, tae hell.”
With savage satisfaction, he watched the agony on Sinclair’s face as he twisted the blade in his chest and then pulled it out, wiping it clean on the dying man’s plaid.
“The laird’s dead!” Went up the cry from Sinclair’s entourage, who were lowering their blades and backing away from him. “Laird Sinclair has fallen!” The cry spread throughout the castle yards, and within moments, the enemy soldiers were turning tail and trying to flee.
“After them, lads,” Malcolm bellowed. “Hunt them down and kill them all!”
A mighty cheer went up from the defenders, and the rout began as they chased the enemy from their walls and went on a blood-thirsty killing spree, cutting men down in the meadows like flowers.
Malcolm stood over Sinclair’s body amid the carnage covered in enemy gore, the tip of his bloody claymore rasping against the cobblestones. Replete with gratification, he swung around, eyes searching for the one person who mattered to him.
But she was already there, throwing herself against him regardless of the filth covering his front.
“Thank ye, Malcolm, oh, thank ye fer killin’ him,” she sobbed into his chest. “I’m sorry ye are wounded, but thank God it daesnae look too bad.”
He put an arm around her shaking shoulders and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, full of the certainty that he had slain the ogre and she truly was his now.
“Wheesht, lass, dinnae cry, ’tis naught but a wee scratch,” he told her, lifting her chin to look into her beautiful, shining eyes.
“Sinclair willnae be troublin’ ye any longer, Cat. Everythin’s all right now. We’ll be taegether forever, just like ye said.”
He planted a tender kiss on her lips, turning her sobs to shaky laughter as she kissed him back, hugging him tightly around his waist.
“Aye, we’ll be taegether, me love. And let nay man try tae part us again.”
Together, with a bright future beckoning them, they walked slowly back to the keep.
EPILOGUE
One month after the battle...
The entire castle seemed transformed.
Where only a month earlier the courtyard had echoed with the clash of steel and the cries of wounded men, now it rang with laughter, the hammering of wood, music, and the endless bustle of wedding preparations.
The flag flying atop the towers and fresh banners sporting the Gordon and Grant arms combined snapped proudly in the autumn wind outside. Indoors, servants hurried through the hallways carrying displays of fresh flowers, trays of polished silver, bolts of fine cloth, and enough food to feed half the Highlands.
Malcolm himself was seeing to more than sufficient alcoholic drink of all varieties for the enjoyment of their wedding guests.
“It’ll be the happiest day of me life, and I want tae mark it with a grandcèilidhthat all the guests will tell their grandbairns about,” Malcolm had told Catriona a few days before, clearly notcompletely joking. She had been so touched by the sentiment, she had immediately kissed him.
The ceremony was happening in two days’ time, and this afternoon Catriona was closeted in her chamber with her friend and welcome guest Sorcha Forbes. Sorcha had arrived the day before in a state of high excitement. She was to be one of Catriona’s bridesmaids alongside Elaina, who was due to arrive at the castle later that day with Duncan.
The two women were busy trying on their new gowns and slippers and, intermittently, discussing with Isla such vital topics as how best to style the bride’s hair for the big day. Amidst all this, however, the main focus of events was the wedding dress.
Catriona held out her skirts and glanced down at the ivory silk spread around her feet, then at the reflection in the long looking glass. The young woman with auburn hair and the perfect silk dress looked back at her with familiar green eyes. She looked so elegant and sophisticated, Catriona hardly recognized herself. She turned slowly before the mirror, pleased with the result. She hoped Malcolm would feel the same.
