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Her arms filled with energy, like lightning flowed through them. Her claymore became an extension of her arms. Her cheeks hot, her muscles straining against her skin, she planted her feet wide.

The MacDougall limbered up his neck and rolled his mighty shoulders. Despite his age, he was a dangerous opponent. He took his sword in both his hands. A guttural roar escaped his throat, “Buaidh no bas!” He launched at Marjorie.

She cried, “Cruachan!” and darted forward.

Their swords clashed. The impact knocked Marjorie back, stealing her breath. She gasped and attacked again, only to meet the rock-hard resistance of his claymore.

Marjorie and John MacDougall circled each other. She searched for weaknesses in him, her muscles taut. He was big. She was small. He was stronger, but she was faster.

Malcolm’s words echoed in her head, “In a real battle, that unexpected move might be why ye win.”

That was what she needed to do. Surprise him, just like she and her people had surprised the MacDougall camp.

She kept moving in slow circles to disorient John. He came at her, striking down into her sword over and over. Her arm absorbed the impact, and it resonated painfully in her bone marrow. The sound of metal rang in her ears.

There was a small moment of opportunity, and she stroked with her blade from the side, ripping into his chainmail. MacDougall roared with pain and slashed at her with his claymore. Marjorie stepped back, but not fast enough, and the blade went through her leather armor and bit into the flesh of her shoulder.

“Arghhh!” she cried. Unexpected pain burst into flames. The shock of it, her first real battle wound, caused her to fall still for a moment. That was a mistake. Because MacDougall did not stop. He slashed low. Only the instinct honed over years of daily training helped Marjorie block his blade with hers and avoid her thigh being cut open.

MacDougall raised his sword to give her a death blow, but Marjorie spun out of the way and it hit the ground beside her. She thrust her sword upward, ripping open his chainmail and sinking it between his ribs.

The man roared. She pulled her sword back and pointed it at his neck, about to kill him.

But she stopped.

Did she have to kill him? She could take him prisoner. But she’d won the fight. She’d wounded him. She was strong. That was all she’d wanted to prove to herself—and to the MacDougalls. She didn’t need to take his life or his freedom.

She kicked his sword out of his hands and looked around. The battle stopped. Archers stood on the walls, their arrows pointing at the remaining MacDougalls. The men were exhausted, but many glanced at her and John MacDougall with a question in their eyes.

“Leave,” Marjorie spat. “Take yer men and leave if yer life is dear to ye. And never come on our lands ever again.”

“Ye dinna decide over my life. Ye won, wee bitch. Finish me. Kill me. Dinna ye want me dead after what we did to ye?”

Marjorie’s arm jerked a little.

“Oh, I want to kill ye. But I wilna take my son’s grandfather’s life. Take yer loss and crawl back to yer castle, and live with the knowledge that ye’ll never see yer grandson. That the wee bitch won. That she’s stronger in every way than ye.”

Taking someone by force and torturing them wasn’t strength. Strength was coming back from it and choosing not to take a life. Making the choice was the strength.

The strength was hope.

And she had it now.

Chapter 25

Colin peeked from behind the merlon at the retreating remnants of the army that had just attacked his home. Arthur, his wooden sword, shook in his hand. He couldn’t believe what he’d just heard as he watched the big man with white hair attack his mother.

“Ye’ll never see yer grandson.”

That was his other grandfather—an enemy of his clan. A MacDougall.

His family had never told him who his father was, but Colin wasn’t a simpleton. He suspected something bad had happened to his mother.

And now he knew that this MacDougall’s son had done bad things to her. He knew his mother was strong and kind and capable. But sometimes, he’d see her stare into the distance with a sad look in her eyes.

Colin knew now that she looked like that when she remembered the bad things that had happened to her. He wished with everything that he was to shield her from the memories, even with his wooden sword.

After all, his mother and Glenkeld were in danger because of him. His evil grandfather could come back and hurt his mother to get to him. He should be like Uncle Ian and his Great Grandfather Colin. Brave. Capable. He should protect his mother and his clan.