Highland Outlaw (Campbell Trilogy #2)(81)
“Just go,” Patrick said. And with one last look at Lizzie, a look that would have to hold him for a lifetime, he turned to face his brother.
But it was too late.
A hail of arrows broke through the canopy of trees and landed with deadly precision behind him. Patrick turned in time to see the stunned look on Finlay's face before he slid from his saddle and dropped like a rock to the ground, an arrow pinned right between his eyes. Two of the Campbell guardsmen he'd brought with him fell at his side.
Gregor and at least ten MacGregor warriors broke through the trees. In addition to the men with his brother yesterday, he recognized the others as some of the most dangerous, bloodthirsty, and savage of the lot—men who'd earned the MacGregors their outlaw name.
The Campbells under Patrick's command looked to him uncertainly—Finlay's pronouncement had not been without effect—wondering what to think.
Patrick was caught between two worlds—one real and one invented. He was a MacGregor, the blood enemy of Campbells. A few months ago, he would never have hesitated to lift a sword on a Campbell, but he'd lived among these Campbell guardsmen for months. Knew them. Ate with them. Drank with them.
He'd hoped to get Lizzie to safety without bloodshed, but Gregor had made it impossible.
When a Campbell guardsman next to him lifted a hagbut from his pack and took aim at his brother, the hesitation was gone. In one seamless movement, Patrick reached behind his head, grabbed the horn hilt of his claidheamhmór, and swung. The long steel blade slammed into the mail chest plate of the Campbell, knocking the gun from his hand and the man from his horse.
The battle lines were drawn.
He was a MacGregor. The MacGregor. For better—or worse—these were his men.
There was only one reality. All it took was one look at Lizzie's horrified expression to remind him of that.
Her face had drained of color. “My God, what are you doing?”
Patrick didn't have time to explain; he needed to get her the hell out of here.
The battle erupted around them like wildfire as his men joined Gregor's in battling Campbells—only the four Camp bells he'd brought with him had yet to join the fray, momentarily stunned by his actions. Before they could turn on him, he stopped them. “Take the lady and go. Ride south for Dunoon as fast as you can.”
One of the men reached for his gun, but Patrick was faster. The guardsman pulled his hand back in pain, cut from thumb to wrist by the swiping edge of Patrick's sword.
One of the other men called him a foul name and lifted his blade, but Patrick easily blocked the attempt.
Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the Campbells falling under the MacGregor blades—the fight inching closer.
“You can kill me later. Go. Protect the lady.”
The men appeared to be reconsidering when Lizzie, who'd been conspicuously quiet, spoke. “Why should anyone listen to you—”
“If you want to live, you will do exactly what I say,” he said fiercely. “I told you the truth, these men mean you harm.”
“Then why did you …” Her voice dropped off as his brother drew close enough for her to make out his face. She gasped with recognition.
Her gaze shot to his. Confusion. Disbelief. Hurt. None of which he could explain or excuse.
A lifetime lost stretched between them in that one look. Of her eyes sparkling with merriment, of a smile no longer tentative, of holding her in his arms, of looking deep into her eyes as he slid inside her, of her cheeks pink with rapture as she came apart around him, of her sitting before the fire, her belly softly rounded.
Of everything that could not be. His chest cinched with pain, wishing …
Hell. “Go,” he said roughly. Coldness was the only mask he could don to smother the pain.
If he'd wanted her hatred, he had it. The last look she gave him before turning her mount and heading south along the path through the trees left him no doubt. The accusation and betrayal pierced like a dirk in his chest.
His gaze lingered on her back, on the flaxen strands of hair loosened by the day's events and now flying behind her like a silken veil. Farewell. The heaviness pressing against his chest cut off his breath.
But before Lizzie and her guardsmen could pass out of sight, two arrows fired in quick succession hit the backs of two men riding behind her. One slumped forward, the other one fell to the side. His foot caught in the stirrup, and he was dragged for a few feet beside his horse before coming loose.
Gregor's voice rose above the din of battle. “Don't let them get away. I want the Campbell bitch.”
The last guardsman with her had slowed to see what had happened to his companions, and it proved to be his death. Another MacGregor arrow fired and hit him in the neck.
Lizzie's cry was all that Patrick heard. He swore, knowing that his last-ditch effort to send her to safety with her cousin's men was not going to work. It would be up to him to keep her safe, but his options were running out.
Before he could go to her, two Campbell guardsmen rushed him on foot. He shouted at her to stay back— hoping that she would listen to him—and met them full force, wielding his sword with deadly precision and knocking them back long enough for him to dismount. His horse was only an encumbrance in the dense trees. They attacked him from both sides, but Patrick used his sword with one hand to hold one back as he dispatched the second with his dirk in the other. A few swings later, the second man lay beside the first.