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Their orders were simple—kill him, and perhaps take Duncan as a hostage to force his father into submission. But they were stepping into their doom. There was a reason all the Highlands feared him.

And he was happy to demonstrate it.

He raised the same sword Isla had found in the armory, the one she had lifted from its stand, the one that had given him the first excuse to touch her. He bit back a curse and turned his focus to the man attacking him, cutting him down, before he felt a presence at his left flank. Duncan’s blade swung past him just as he turned and drove into the man closing in on them both.

“Thank ye, old friend,” he panted.

“I have yer back, Alisdair,” Duncan said lightly. “Let’s get this over with. Lady Moira has made some lemon tarts.”

Alisdair chuckled at his friend’s dry humor and fell back into the fight. His sword sang a deadly song, each strike lethal, carving a path of fallen men at his feet, their cries filling the air. He was focused, cold, efficient, and all the while scanned the field for the one man he actually wanted to find.

The thrill of battle rushed through him, narrowing his world to the next threat, making his body operate on high alert, all senses heightened. All that mattered was the next blow, the next breath, and finding that bastard.

Soon enough, every man who had come pouring out of the trees learned the price of getting too close to him and Duncan. The two of them were unstoppable, deadly, precise, and no one wanted to risk death or maiming by testing that. So they kept their distance, falling prey to the rest of the MacLeod warriors.

“Kill him!” a voice cut through the air.

Alisdair’s lips curled in malice. Gordon Sinclair. The snake had finally stepped out of his hole. He pushed back the two men upon him, creating a brief gap in the melee.

And there Sinclair was, at the edge of the clearing, sword in hand, with five of his warriors flanking him. He had one of Alisdair’s men in his arms.

He locked eyes with Alisdair across the clearing before pushing the man to the ground. “Finally, MacLeod!” he boomed.

Alisdair said nothing. No words could convey the depth of his hatred for the man who had ordered the attack on his family. The man who had made Isla so scared. The man who had marked her skin and soul.

He jumped over the bodies and fixed his eyes on his mortal enemy.

Sinclair frowned, the fury of the attack surprising him, but he quickly resumed his stance.

“Ye took yer time, MacLeod,” he sneered.

Alisdair swung back his sword and brought it down upon him with a roar, only for Sinclair to jump back. Duncan materialized by his side along with others and took care of Sinclair’s guards.

It was now only the two of them.

“I have longed for this for so long,” Sinclair said, a malicious smile on his lips. He circled Alisdair slowly, savoring the moment.

Alisdair said nothing, his eyes sharp, his grip tight on the hilt of his sword.

“I would have taken me time,” Sinclair taunted. “After all, ye slipped from me once.”

Alisdair’s fury flared hotter. The implication was clear. Eight years ago, he had been supposed to die with his family. His knuckles went white, yet he said nothing, not giving Sinclair the satisfaction of a reaction.

“But then ye had to go and steal Isla from me.”

He saw red at the mention of Isla, spoken of as if she were some misplaced possession.

Sinclair struck first, fast, the move of a seasoned fighter. But Alisdair parried with ease, moving with far more agility than his massive frame suggested. He deliberately gave ground, testing for weakness.

“She was me property, and ye took her,” Sinclair spat. “Is she carrying yer damn seed already?” He attacked again.

Alisdair reacted with a flurry of strikes, each one meant to kill. He saw the madness in the man’s eyes—the idea of Isla carrying his child had clearly enraged him.

He knew, with sudden clarity, that if Sinclair had the chance, he would kill Isla.

That thought was enough to distract him, giving Sinclair an opening. The blade sliced across his forearm, a shallow wound that trickled down, enough to bring him back to his senses. He gritted his teeth and adjusted his stance.

“Ye should never have opened yer gates to me niece, MacLeod,” Sinclair snarled, baring his teeth. “Now, I will have to carve her, too.”