Page 85 of The Highlander’s Iron Hold

Colin drew his dirk and approached from the blind side, moving with the patience of a stalking cat.

Five feet. Three feet. The guard shifted, hand moving to his sword hilt, instincts warning of danger.

Too late.

Colin's hand clamped over the guard's mouth while the dirk punched up under his ribs, angled toward the heart. The man convulsed once, his eyes rolling back, then went limp. Colin dragged him to a more hidden area and then entered the tent, pushing the flap aside with his hand.

The room was large, the ground covered in rugs. There was a bed, a desk covered with scattered parchments, a fire pit in the middle. Off to the sides were two separate areas closed off with a flap. He looked in the first, but there were just some trunks and bags. In the second, he found her: Morag, hands bound behind her back, her eyes wide with shock and relief at seeing him.

"Colin!" she whispered urgently. "Thank God, ye're⁠—"

"Shh," he breathed, already moving to cut her bonds. He kissed her briefly on the mouth. "We need tae get out of here. Now."

As he freed her hands, Morag flung herself into his arms, pressing her lips against his. Colin held her until he felt her relax against him, before helping her to her feet.

"Can ye walk?"

"Aye, but Colin—there are so many of them. How did ye⁠—"

"Later," he said firmly, moving to the door and listening carefully. "Right now, we run."

They slipped out of the building together. Colin led the way, moving with deadly purpose between the tents, every sense alert for danger.

They made it perhaps fifty yards before shouts erupted behind them.

"The prisoner's gone!"

"Search everywhere! Find the Armstrong bitch!"

"And that's our cue," Colin muttered, grabbing Morag's hand. "Run."

They sprinted through the camp, using the chaos of the ongoing battle to mask their escape. Colin cut down two Fraser soldiers who tried to intercept them, while Morag stayed close behind him, her stolen dirk ready in her hand.

They were almost at the camp's perimeter when a figure stepped out of the shadows ahead—tall, imposing, armor gleaming in the firelight.

Fraser stood directly in their path, his sword already drawn, his face twisted with fury at seeing his prize escaping.

"Going somewhere?" he asked pleasantly, though his eyes burned with deadly intent.

Colin stepped protectively in front of Morag, his own blade rising. Twenty feet separated him from the man who'd poisoned and stolen his wife, threatened his clan, and murdered too many innocent people. Twenty feet between him and vengeance.

Fraser's lips curved in a cold smile as he advanced. "Colin Armstrong. I was wondering when ye'd show yerself."

Their eyes met across the space between them, and Colin felt the familiar calm that came before battle settle over him like a shroud.