Page 74 of Leila’s Legacy

“This is Brodie and his sister, Bonnie,” Leila explained. “They helped me escape, except Niall—”

“Leila?” A frail voice came from the entryway of the castle and stopped her words as well as her heart.

She spun around to find her father bundled heavily against the cold, with Rose at his side helping him to walk with the aid of a new cane.

He was alive. Leila’s spirits buoyed for a brief moment and she found herself running to him.

His face was too thin, but his eyes crinkled with the same affectionate joy they’d always held. Her sisters crowded around her as she gently embraced her father.

There would be much to explain to them and little time to do it. She only hoped she wouldn’t be too late.

The Lion faced the men charging toward him, and like his namesake, he lay in wait for his prey. His focus centered on Alban whose red hair shone in the overcast light. The arrogant bastard had thought Niall so easy to take down, he hadn’t even bothered with a helm as protection for his head.

The cur would learn his lesson today.

A quick glance over Niall’s shoulder told him the remainder of the party was traveling over the English border. Some of the tension abated from his muscles. Leila was safe, as well as Bonnie.

He winced at the twinge in his chest, at having to let Leila go. Alban and his men would have caught them all if Niall had not stopped to fight.

Alban threw a dagger as he rode closer, but Niall did not swerve from its path. He’d known the attempt to be poorly aimed. He didn’t flinch as it sailed past him at a speed that would have bounced from his gambeson even if it had hit. It was a pathetic attempt. A true warrior would know better than to lose a weapon in such a careless fashion.

It would cost the younger man his life.

Niall adjusted his grip on the hilt of his sword. After a lifetime of serving someone unworthy of his loyalty, he had abandoned his previous role. He now had only two points of focus: to ensure Leila’s safety and to avenge the death of his father.

Leila would be in Werrick Castle soon, leaving only the purpose of vengeance.

Niall waited until the men were nearly upon him before he charged, his blade held aloft to catch Alban just above the knee where the greaves ceased to protect his leg. Alban jerked aside at the last minute and spun about on his horse in an attempt to strike Niall.

“Stay back,” Alban ordered his men, who promptly fell back.

Some of the guards with him were men Niall had commanded previously, but ones who had always paid homage to the Lord Armstrong and his son.

Alban’s horse circled Niall’s. Each man brandished his weapon in preparation for battle. Alban lashed out with his sword, but Niall dodged the blow and parried with one of his own. He feigned right before jabbing left, stabbing his blade hard against Alban’s gambeson.

The whoreson flew backward, thrown off his horse, and landed with a solid grunt. It would be easy to kill him now; a stamp of a hoof, a dagger to the throat. But Niall wouldn’t lower himself to such a level. Not like Alban would have.

Instead, Niall jumped from his steed. “Get up and fight like a man.”

Alban groaned and dragged himself to his feet. He pulled his sword free and glowered at Niall. “Ye’ll wish ye killed me when ye had the chance.”

“I fully intend to.” Niall lunged first, swinging his blade toward the cur’s throat.

Alban stepped back with a cocky grin and thrust his sword at Niall, who ducked to the side.

“Did ye know about my da?” Niall gestured to the reivers that stood by as the two fought. “Do they know about him?”

“That he was always in the way?” Alban wielded his blade with two hands and brought it down with enough force to fell a tree.

Niall darted out of the way, then ran at Alban with his blade aimed toward the bastard’s heart. Alban blocked the hit. Their swords clanged together and held for a long moment, rasping the discordant song of metal scraping metal.

“My father was killed, and an innocent woman was accused of being a witch,” Niall ground out. “Same as yer da did to Leila.”

Alban shoved Niall back with such force, they both staggered a step. “It was yer fault. Ye escaped with Leila, and ye took her as yer lover. Ye fool. And ye killed yer da the day ye kidnapped Lord Elliot. If ye hadna—”

“Nay,” Niall roared. “Yer father killed him.” He rushed at Alban and arced his sword toward the bastard. No sooner had Alban blocked one strike, Niall had another sailing toward him, then another, and yet another still. The sharp ring of weapons clashing was staccato as their blades met again and again and again.

Niall’s muscles burned with aggression. If they tired, as they often did in battle, he did not feel it. The power of his need for vengeance was too great.