Page 83 of The Highlander’s Tempting Touch

Then he flung open the door to another room and froze.

Fergus MacTavish stood there, one hand holding a dagger.

The other hand held Niamh, with the dagger’s tip pricking her throat as she stared at him in wide-eyed terror.

Alistair waved Ewan to the door and stepped into the room, his lip curling in a snarl of fury. “Fergus MacTavis. Release me wife, now, and I’ll make yer death quick.”

MacTavish sneered back. “I’ll nae.” His expression twisted in a gloating expression of self-satisfaction and arrogance. “I didnae expect ye tae get so far intae me keep, but now that ye’re here, ye can watch me cut yer little wife’s throat.”

“Yer hand moves, and ye’ll die.”

“Empty threats. Ye cannae reach me afore she bleeds out. Nay more than ye could stop me afore I killed yer first lover.”

Alistair felt his stomach clench. Fury roared up, red and hot and heedless, threatening to carry him away. He focused on the pressure of the armband he’d had Ewan help him retie before they attacked. The red tide receded, leaving him in control.

MacTavish kept speaking. “’Tis ironic, is it nae? How history repeats itself? I caught yer first beloved away from ye, and I killed her. Now I’ll dae the same tae yer second, and ye cannae stop me. Ye can only decide how fast she dies.”

MacTavish’s sneer deepened. “I expected it tae tak’ longer fer ye tae discover the trail. I’d planned tae have me men entertain themselves with yer woman, as they did with the last. I suppose ye’ll have tae pay me back fer that loss o’ entertainment.”

The knife shifted a little. “What dae ye think? Perhaps I should kill yer wife slowly in front o’ ye? After I’ve broken yer arms and legs, so ye’re helpless o’ course. I’ve dreamed o’ that often, ye ken.”

“I ken ye’re a depraved bastard, nae fit tae be laird o’ a midden heap, much less a clan.” Alistair’s voice raked his throat like swallowing coals, but at least he was coherent enough to speak.

“O’ course, there’s yer braither too. Ye brought him with ye… should I kill him first? An interesting thought. Which would ye save, if yer braither and yer lover both have knives tae their throats? Who would ye send tae die first?”

He wanted, for a single moment, to turn to see that Ewan was all right. But he’d heard no sounds of fighting. No shouts. He had to trust Ewan. He was a warrior, strong and confident, and there was another beside him. He had to have faith in his brother’s abilities. “Ewan’s in nay danger from the likes o’ ye and yer men.”

“Ye think nae? When ye’re so sorely outnumbered, and I have ye and yer lady at the tip o’ me blade?”

Fergus continued to gloat and sneer, but Alistair no longer paid him any heed. His attention focused on Niamh.

She was pale, and still looked scared, but now that she was no longer standing with a dagger at her neck, she looked less terrified. She was also staring at him with a fixed expression. The moment he caught her gaze, she tipped her chin upward.

He didn’t understand. She repeated the motion, this time shifting in MacTavish’s grasp, as if she were struggling not to faint. MacTavish snarled and pulled her closer, moving his grip as he did so.

Another look, and this time it was as if some spirit whispered in his ear.

MacTavish was far taller than Niamh. If she could get loose of his grip, or if she fainted or fell, MacTavish’s head and torso would be open. Not enough, perhaps, for a straightforward attack. But a thrown dagger or belt axe… that was different.

From this distance, he couldn’t miss, especially if Niamh was no longer a shield for the man.

The axe was harder to block, and more likely to do fatal damage at the first blow. Fortunately, Ewan had made him carry a shield, rather than dual blades as he sometimes preferred. It was no difficulty at all to slide his hand to the axe on his belt, under the pretense of succumbing to exhaustion and despair. All it took was for him to let his fear show on his face, and MacTavish never noticed.

A moment later, the axe was in his hand. Alistair met his wife’s gaze. “Niamh…”

Niamh sagged in Fergus’s grip as if fainting or in despair, falling forward so suddenly that MacTavish was taken entirely off guard. He staggered, his grip broken.

Alistair threw the axe. He gave himself no time to think, no time to consider. No time to aim. Instead, he trusted Niamh’s instincts and his own skills, honed in a lifetime of practice.

The axe flew true and buried itself in Fergus MacTavish’s skull with a crunch. Blood sprayed, even as Fergus staggered back under the force of it. Niamh scrambled to get out of the way.

MacTavish was dead before he even began to fall. He hit the wall, then slid down it, his eyes blank and an ugly sneer still on his face. The dagger clattered to the floor, no longer a threat.

It was over. Alistair felt as if he might want to sit down in relief. But there was something more important to take care of. He moved forward and gathered Niamh from the floor into his arms. “Niamh.” He almost choked on the word. “Ye brave, foolish woman…”

“I trusted ye. Tae come fer me, and tae save me, and tae aim true if ye had the opening.” She leaned against him. “I kent… I dinnae ken how, but I was sure ye’d understand me.”

“I dinnae ken how either, but I did.” He tugged her closer. “I… I was afraid I’d be too late.”