Murray’s face reddened but he held his tongue. Rebbie was the only man here Murray respected and feared. Could he talk him into backing away? Murray slowly ran his gaze over each one. Abruptly, he drew his sword and brandished it overhead. “Kill them!” he commanded his men.
Keegan tensed, hoping the chief would challenge him personally.
A few of Murray’s clansmen hesitated, appearing startled by his words. Others pulled out their swords.
The MacKays and MacKenzies did the same, the swishing of metal blades against leather scabbards sounded ominous in the Highland breeze.
Two pistol shots exploded. Arrows whizzed through the air andthunkedagainst targes. Metal clanged and horses neighed.
One of Murray’s personal bodyguards charged Keegan on foot, slashing his blade this way and that. A surge of battle-lust pounded through his veins, making him relish the challenge. Glad to see he was taller and outweighed his opponent by a couple of stone, Keegan easily deflected his blade and launched a counterattack. After a few more parries and thrusts, Keegan’s blade stabbed through the man’s leather armor and into his chest. He fell to the ground, screaming.
Saints!Keegan turned and noticed that three other enemies had already been felled.
“Retreat!” commanded a younger man who sat on a horse beside Murray.
Some of the Murray clansmen turned tail and ran, while others kept fighting.
“Are you mad, Malcolm?” Murray yelled at him. “Why are you not fighting?”
“Why are you not, uncle?”
Chief Murray charged into the fray on horseback. Malcolm simply shook his head and remained where he was. He was Murray’s nephew? Why was he not helping his clansmen?
Chief Murray struck two ineffectual blows at one of theMacKay guards, then directed his horse toward Keegan, attempting to trample him into the ground. Keegan leapt out of the way, then slashed his sword across Murray’s leg. The man yelled out. Blood saturated his trews.
“Bastard!” He turned around, his horse rearing and pawing the air. The more Murray tried to draw the animal under control and head it back toward Keegan, the more unruly it became.
Clearly, the horse was not a trained warhorse, but some fancy expensive breed intended for pleasure riding or racing.
The horse screamed and bolted.
Murray shouted, yanking on the reins. The animal bucked, tossing him into the air. Murray turned a flip and crashed to the ground.
“Saints,” Rebbie muttered. “That must have hurt.”
The old man didn’t move.
Malcolm rode to where he’d landed and swung down. Murray’s other clansmen ran toward him, a few of them falling to their knees around him. Others shouted. One headed back toward the MacKays.
“Halt!” Malcolm yelled, and the man obeyed. ’Twas a good thing or he would’ve been a dead man. All was silent. Still, the old man didn’t move.
Malcolm stood, muttered something to his clansmen, then strode toward Keegan.
“Ready yourselves,” Keegan told those closest to him and gripped his sword tighter.
The man stopped ten paces away. “Chief Murray is dead.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chief Murray is dead.Malcolm, around thirty summers with dark hair and dark eyes, had uttered the words calmly. Keegan had expected a mad attack, but nothing about this man appeared threatening. He had not drawn his sword or any weapon.
Speechless, Keegan eyed him for a few moments. “I’m sorry to hear it,” he finally said, though ’twas a lie.
“I’m not. The man was a monstrous bastard.”
What the devil? Keegan frowned and sent Rebbie an inquiring glance. Had they both heard the same thing? “Are you Chief Murray’s nephew?” Keegan asked.
“Aye. And his heir. I’m Malcolm Murray.” He approached and offered his hand.
