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It wanted out.
Niall was every inch the warrior king. Muscular and proud. Gold embossed the boiled shoulder guards of his armor. He wore a great sword strapped across his back, as Darach did.
Even from this distance, he carried himself as though the field already belonged to him.
However, she noted that he kept close to the front line of his army, well out of range of their archers and still a distance from the first of the pits. A pity.
“Step forward, Lara!” Niall shouted then, his voice cutting through the howling wind. “State your terms … and I will state mine.”
Ailsa scowled. Shitweasel.
Silence followed, and then the front line ahead of her parted—and a woman stepped out.
Darach watched Lara walk forward.
She wasn’t alone; Alar flanked her left and Bree her right.
Hopefully, she kept walking in a straight line. The first of the concealed pits were just to the left and right of her now, and the lane between them was barely wide enough for three abreast.
One misplaced step would send a boot through the brush and into muddy water below.
Fortunately, Lara halted then, and Darach shifted his focus across the expanse to where the king stood arrogantly alone before his own cohort.
Niall didn’t take his eyes off Lara. Even at this distance, Darach could feel the intensity of his stare.
His brother had always chased whatever prize lay just beyond his reach. Darach remembered the stories. Years earlier, after Lara’s first husband—their uncle—died, Niall had ridden to Duncrag certain she’d accept his marriage proposal. Instead, she’d sent him away with nothing but bruised pride.
Watching him now, he suspected that old wound had never healed.
He’d never truly accepted her refusal.
It struck Darach then how strange it was that he could look at his brother and feel something closer to pity than rage. A few moons ago, that would have been impossible. He’d have stood here already tasting the moment he ran a blade through Niall’s chest, savoring it in advance.
He cut Ailsa a glance then, noting how tall and proud she stood. Her new fighting leathers molded to her lithe frame, and they suited her. She’d tied her long hair back into a braid so it wouldn’t get in the way. She was calm. Focused.
Aye, somewhere on the road south, as he’d watched this woman look beyond herself and show concern for the fate of others, something in him had given way. She hadn’t lectured him out of his hatred, but had shown him what real dignity was. If she could come through what she had and still choose compassion over bitterness, he could do the same.
The rage was still there, of course. But, just like the beast sleeping under his skin, it didn’t run the show anymore. And because of it, he understood his brother a little better.
“I don’t think Niall plans to kill Lara,” Darach murmured then.
Ailsa cut him a surprised sideways glance. “He’ll take her prisoner?”
He nodded. “He’ll execute Alar though.”
“And their daughters?”
“He’ll have no use for them either. It’s her he’s always wanted.”
Ailsa muttered something under her breath.
“It’s been too long, Lara.” Even though he stood around twenty yards away, Niall’s voice carried easily over the wind.
The intimacy in his tone was deliberate, and next to the queen, Alar shifted. He wore two long-bladed daggers strapped to his back, although he didn’t reach for them. Not yet. Instead, his fingers flexed at his sides.
“Let’s get this over with, Niall,” Lara replied. The wind whipped at her, making her fur-lined cloak billow and tearing strands of hair from the tight braid that encircled the crown of her head.
Niall’s eyes narrowed. “Very well. My terms are these … bend the knee to me right now. Hand over your crown, your rule, Duncrag and all its lands, and I will spare your husband’s life.”
