Chapter Eighteen
"Murderer!" Sleat yelled over the harsh gale wind bombarding the mainland. He thrust his sword.
Neacal dodged out of the way. "'Tis on your own head!" Spiked targe on his left forearm and dirk in his left hand, Neacal shoved the targe toward his opponent's face, but Sleat leapt back. "You brought him here to sneak in and ambush us during the night."
The cold rain blew in sideways from the loch. Neacal traversed until the wind was at his back, giving him an advantage. Sleat turned to face him, squinting and blinking against the rain pelting his eyes.
Neacal made a feinted slice toward the other man's shoulder. When Sleat lifted his targe to block the blow, Neacal switched direction, his blade cutting into Sleat's thigh. The man howled out in pain and gritted his teeth. His next thrust was clumsy. Neacal easily blocked it with his targe and feinted another strike to Sleat's injured thigh. When his targe came down, Neacal shifted, his blade flying toward his opponent's shoulder. Sleat was too slow on the defense and Neacal's blade met its mark, but the leather armor prevented it from going deep.
Neacal lunged, his left leg propelling his body forward. Landing on his right foot, he aimed his blade arrow-quick toward Sleat's gut. It penetrated the leather armor and drove deep. Sleat struck out with his blade but Neacal caught the blow with his targe. Withdrawing his sword, he pulled back. Sleat dropped to his knees, his teeth bared.
Well out of reach of his opponent, Neacal surveyed the fighting going on around him, but a small boat out on the loch caught his attention. Blackburn was the man rowing it away from the castle. Why the devil was he leaving? Wait… someone lay in the boat in front of him, wrapped in a plaid, twisting and squirming. Who was that? Could it be Anna? "Nay," Neacal growled in denial, even though he knew it must be. How had Blackburn gotten inside the castle to her?
Running footsteps reached his ears. Neacal forced his gaze toward the person approaching. Sword raised over his head, Titus MacRankin advanced, shouting a war cry. His wet, blood-spattered face pulled into a snarl, he leapt forward and chopped his blade downward. Neacal dodged out of his path and, in the same motion, swung his sword around to slice it across MacRankin's abdomen as he turned.
Neacal had to defeat this bastard quickly if he intended to see who Blackburn was rowing away with and stop him. He blocked every thrust of his opponent's blade. He feinted a slice toward his enemy's ear, then swiftly switched direction to cut the man's calf. He yowled and limped back.
Breathing hard, MacRankin bared his teeth in a vicious grin. "This is for Lady Aislinn!" He struck out with his sword.
Neacal caught the blade on his targe. "I didn't cause her death," he shouted over the wind.
"I couldn't marry a woman who had been used by you, Scots traitor," he spat. "No doubt she carried your bastard!"
Neacal shook his head, for he hadn't lain with the lass. 'Twas just as he'd suspected. "You killed her! You shoved her from the tower!"
Several more strikes were delivered and blocked by both men.
"No choice!" MacRankin said, breathing hard. "She betrayed me! Tried to convince me you were nay a spy for the crown."
What?Neacal was momentarily thrown off-kilter. "She did?"
"Of course. You bastard! You turned her against me. She wanted naught to do with me after you finished with her."
Aislinn had been highly intelligent; she'd figured out what Neacal was about, spying for King James. And he'd always thought Aislinn had betrayed him to MacRankin.
"Who told you I was a spy?" Neacal asked.
"He did." MacRankin nodded to where Sleat lay unmoving in the mud and rain.
Damnation! All this time he'd blamed the wrong person for his capture.
"You didn't have to kill Lady Aislinn. She was an innocent."
"Ha! I trust your word about as much as that of a viper. And I couldn't break the betrothal contract." MacRankin lowered his body and charged, blade directed forward.
At the last second, Neacal jumped out of the way. MacRankin barreled forward, tripped over a large rock and fell. Neacal quickly returned for a counter attack while the man was down. He got in two slices before his opponent leapt to his feet.
The sideways rain drove harder against Neacal, the water in his eyes making it difficult to see. The ground had become muddy and slippery. Moving again, he put the rain at his back so his opponent would be forced to change position to face him. MacRankin charged him again and Neacal blocked several of his blows.
"Neacal!" a female shouted from several yards away.
"What the devil?" Neacal glanced briefly toward the castle to see who approached. He hardly recognized Constance with the cowl of her dark cloak over her head. "Get back inside, lass! 'Tis too dangerous out here!"
MacRankin rushed toward her, surprising Neacal. Realizing the danger his cousin was in, he raced after MacRankin.
"Run!" Neacal yelled to her.
But 'twas too late. MacRankin ran her through with his sword and sliced her throat with his dirk. He kicked her to the muddy ground.
