Page 92 of Devil Black

“Then he awaits word from my wife.”

“No.” Randal balked at it. “She stays with us.”

“There is no one else here free from your influence,” Dougal pointed out, trying not to reveal his desperation. “How are we to assure the contest is fair?”

“I shall assure it.” Unexpectedly, the scribe stepped forward. “My name is William Campbell, and I become interested in this.”

“Trust a Campbell?” Dougal sneered inwardly. “And how do I know, sir, you are not also under his influence? He is the one who brought you here as witness to all this.”

“I shall write the terms out in a letter,” Campbell said, “which your man, Hewett, will carry with him.”

Dougal looked at Randal and quirked a brow.

“Aye, agreed,” Randal growled. “But both women stay. That is my assurance.”

Catherine lifted her head. “Stay I shall. I am not afraid. I know, Master MacRae, you will prove victorious.”

If only, thought Dougal, he himself felt half so confident.

****

The flames from the torches on the wall danced in a draft of air as the company sorted itself, the warriors muttering in anticipation, the two women standing close, still with clasped hands. The men had formed a rough ring in the forecourt, site of Dougal’s previous defeat, as he remembered all too well. Randal MacNab, looking every bit the proud laird, stood at one side, the scribe at the other, where he could, presumably, witness fair play.

Bertram MacNab and Dougal had both stripped down to kilts and leggings, assuring their only weapons were the swords in their hands. But Dougal did not feel the cold wind. His entire being focused on the man in front of him. Stripped down, Bertram looked massive, bulky with muscle and ugly as a boar. Rage touched Dougal again at the thought of Aisla, so delicate and beautiful, in this brute’s hands, but he knew he had to manage his anger, channel it. He would need every advantage at his disposal.

He glanced at Isobel, who stood straight and tall, and her eyes met his and caught. His heart clenched painfully at what he saw there, for it seemed she offered to him, at that moment, all her faith, all her strength—all her love.

By God—if, indeed, such a being existed—did he deserve such a woman? Curse his black heart, he felt sure he did not. But perhaps, just now, for one moment in time, he could earn such love.

And, return it? The idea, pure and golden as flame, blossomed in his mind. Did he love Isobel? Suddenly, it seemed impossible he should not. But his feelings for her were so different from what he had felt for Aisla, gentle Aisla, like a dream. For Isobel, he felt passion, admiration…aye, respect. And he would gladly give his life for her now, to pay for her safety and happiness.

Was that love?

“Fight to first blood, for the sake of honor?” Campbell asked Randal MacNab.

Bertram laughed. “First blood? What coward chooses that? ’Twill be last blood or none at all.”

Dougal nodded, tore his gaze from his wife’s, and shut down all distractions. There existed, in all the world, naught but himself and this bastard, the man he must kill.

His sword felt good in his hand; he felt good withal, strong and undefeatable. And so he must prove.

Bertram came at him like a charging bull, with a snarl that rose to the chill night sky. Using the brute’s own impetus against him, Dougal stepped aside at the moment of impact and raised his sword to slash Bertram’s legs. Aye, and I am no’ the lad you brought to his knees last time.

Bertram might be cruel and merciless, but he was not stupid and learned caution swiftly. He rounded on Dougal, blood streaming from his knees, and narrowed his eyes.

How patient are you? How canny? Dougal watched to see.

Not very. Bertram’s next charge came in a forward sweep of sword and muscle. Dougal, more agile, ducked beneath it and just missed landing a slice to MacNab’s belly. The man moved quickly for a great lout. This time, Dougal rounded and slashed him from behind. His sword just caught Bertram’s shoulder before Bertram turned, and the big man howled in what sounded like outrage. The watching warriors began to mutter again, and Dougal strove to shut them out.

Concentrate. It may mean your life, and Isobel’s.

Bertram swung round and faced Dougal again, rage in his eyes, and deadly intent. The next rush came in a flurry—Bertram was learning, and this time Dougal was not quick enough. He felt Bertram’s blade tear the flesh over his left bicep, but felt no pain.

I must bleed him, and tire him. I shall, aye, give no quarter…

There began, then, a deadly dance. The wind rose above their heads, and the clouds cleared to reveal the stars. It might, Dougal reflected, have been a contest taking place at any time, anywhere in Scotland. The blood knew, the blood remembered.

And he, he fought for her. As his breath grew short and his muscles began to scream in pain, as he took and inflicted wound after wound, his heart continued to cry her name.