Page 41 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

Morag.

The old stone bridge loomed ahead, ancient and weathered, spanning a rocky stream that marked the traditional boundary. Once the Fraser men crossed it, they'd be on their own territory, with reinforcements potentially waiting and terrain they knew better than any Armstrong.

"We have tae stop them before the bridge!" Colin shouted over the thunder of hooves.

But the Fraser men had seen them coming. Instead of fleeing, they wheeled their horses around to face their pursuers, weapons already drawn. Colin counted four men, all armed, all positioned to fight. The one holding Morag maneuvered his horse behind the others, using her unconscious form as a shield.

The men showed no fear at being discovered. Their leader, a scarred brute with arms like tree trunks, grinned through his beard with feral anticipation.

"Aye, Armstrong!" their leader called back boldly, raising his sword in mocking salute. "Glad ye came. We were hoping ye'd follow. Taenight we kill ye, take yer lands, yer bride, and eventually MacDuff himself! This is just the beginning!"

"Like hell it is," Colin snarled, spurring his destrier forward.

The first Fraser man barely had time to raise his sword before Colin was on him. The laird's blade swept in a deadly arc, finding the gap between helmet and gorget, and sending the man tumbling from his horse into the rocky stream below. Blood darkened the water as the current carried him away.

The second attacker swung wildly at Colin's head, but years of combat had honed the laird's reflexes to lethal perfection. He ducked low in his saddle, the blade whistling harmlessly overhead, then drove his dirk up between the man's ribs. Steel slid through leather and flesh with a wet whisper, and the Fraser warrior toppled sideways, his scream cut short.

Behind him, Duncan and the others engaged the remaining kidnappers in a clash of steel that rang out across the night like a blacksmith's anvil. The Fraser warriors were skilled—Colin would give them that—but Armstrong soldiers fought with the desperate fury of men defending their own.

"Fer Lady Armstrong!" Duncan MacLeod roared, his sword weaving deadly patterns in the moonlight.

The cry was taken up by the other men, and suddenly the night air rang with battle cries and the sharp song of steel on steel. One Fraser man fell with a gurgle, Duncan's blade having found his throat. Another managed to wound young Tim MacDonald before taking a spear through the chest from Hamish.

But Colin's attention was fixed on the leader—the one who held Morag. The bastard had wheeled his horse around, trying to flee with his prize, using her unconscious form to shield himself from pursuit.

"Nae this time," Colin growled, urging his destrier forward.

The gap between them closed with terrifying speed. At the last moment, Colin leaped from his saddle onto the other horse, his hands closing around Fraser's throat with crushing force. The impact sent all three of them—Colin, the kidnapper, and Morag—tumbling to the hard ground in a tangle of limbs and curses.

Colin rolled, using his momentum to come up on top of his opponent. The Fraser was strong, broader through the shoulders than Colin, but desperation gave the laird inhuman strength. They grappled desperately on the rocky ground, each trying to gain the advantage.

The Fraser pulled a hidden dagger, the blade gleaming wickedly as he slashed at Colin's face. The point scored a burning line across his cheek, but Colin barely felt it. Blind fury had overtaken him, the red rage that came when everything he cared about was threatened.

His fist connected with the man's jaw with a sickening crack that echoed off the stone bridge. The Fraser's head snapped back, but he kept fighting, clawing at Colin's eyes with desperate fingers.

"She's ours now!" the man snarled through broken teeth. "Fraser will have his revenge, and ye'll watch yer pretty wife suffer fer it!"

That was his mistake. Colin's vision went white with rage, and his hands found the man's throat again. This time, he didn't let go. The Fraser thrashed and clawed, but Colin's grip was iron, unbreakable, fueled by every nightmare he'd ever had about failing to protect someone precious.

When the body finally went limp beneath him, Colin released his hold and immediately turned to Morag. She lay crumpled where she'd fallen, her face pale as moonlight, her breathing shallow but steady.

"Morag," he whispered, gathering her carefully into his arms. "Morag, can ye hear me?"

She didn't respond, but her pulse was strong beneath his fingers, and he could see no obvious injuries. Whatever they'd given her had knocked her unconscious, but she was alive. She was safe.

Around them, the battle was over. The Fraser men lay dead or dying, their blood dark on the ancient stones. Duncan approached, his own sword dripping, his face grim with satisfaction.

"All of them?" Colin asked without looking up from Morag.

"Aye, me laird. None escaped tae tell Fraser what happened here."

Colin nodded, then looked up at his captain with eyes that burned like coals. "Take the bodies. Hang them from the highest trees on Fraser's border where all can see. Let Ronan Fraser ken what happens tae those who dare touch what belongs tae Clan Armstrong."

"It will be done, me laird."

Colin stood carefully, Morag's unconscious form cradled against his chest. She felt so small, so fragile in his arms, and the rage that had sustained him through the fight now transformed into something deeper and more terrifying—the knowledge of how easily he could have lost her.

"We ride home," he said quietly. "As fast as we can. She needs the healer."