Highland Scoundrel (Campbell Trilogy #3)(116)

The knowledge that his brother hated him enough to try to murder him ate like acid, but he was ready. Hands still bound, he spun and kicked as hard as he could. His booted foot connected with Colin's arm just as he'd raised it, knocking the gun to the ground. Before Colin could recover, Duncan kicked him again, this time in the head as he instinctively bent over his injured arm. It stunned him long enough for Duncan to ram into him with a fierce battle cry, taking them both to the ground.

Conall responded to his signal with a cry of his own and the battle was on. Though with two against nearly two score, it remained to be seen how much of a battle it would be—despite rumors to the contrary, there were limits to his abilities. Their odds would improve some if Conall managed to free the Gordon guardsmen.

Colin grunted with pain as Duncan jabbed his elbow low in his stomach, reaching for the hilt of his brother's dirk. He grabbed it and managed to slice his hands free just as Colin recovered enough to land a blow to his temple. Though Duncan wore a studded leather cotun and chest plate, his steel knapscall had been left at the inn and his brother connected hard enough to make his head ring. Whatever his brother's shortcomings, he did not lack in strength.

Duncan returned the blow to Colin's jaw, hearing the satisfying crunch.

Holding the knife in one hand, Duncan sprang to his feet—he could hear the sounds of fighting closing in and wanted to make sure he was in position to fend off any attackers.

It was dark and foggy, but he could just make out the shadows of approaching men.

Colin struggled to his feet, facing him. “Damn you,” he said, massaging his jaw.

“I wasn't the one trying to murder my own brother,” Duncan bit back through clenched teeth.

But the ugly truth only seemed to infuriate him more, sending Colin reaching for his second pistol. He swung it around to fire and Duncan got his arm up just enough to send the shot careening over his shoulder and not through his heart. Colin swore and reached for the sword—their father's sword. But before he could pull it from the scabbard, Duncan surged forward, pinning him to a tree with one arm across his shoulders, the other holding the long, sharp dirk to his throat.

Colin struggled to break free, but Duncan was immoveable—every muscle flexed. Blood pounded through his body as he fought to control the urge to strike back at the man who'd just tried to kill him—twice. His own brother.

“Why?” he asked, the edge of the dagger biting into Colin's neck.

If he hoped for a confession, he was to be disappointed. Duncan knew his brother would go to the grave with his secrets. “You won't do it,” Colin sneered.

Duncan glanced in the direction of the fighting and hesitated. He realized why no one had come to Colin's aid. The men that he'd sensed approaching moved out of the shadows. The leader looked enough like his sister for Duncan to recognize him.

He turned to his brother, feeling an overwhelming sense of sadness. “You're right,” he said. “I won't.”

“But I will,” the other man said.

Colin's head jerked around to the sound of the voice. He paled.

Duncan stepped back, releasing Colin from his hold. “Lamont?” he asked.

The man who'd become an outlaw to seek vengeance for the rape of the woman he loved bowed his head in acknowledgment, but his predatory gaze never once left Colin. Though it was dark, the force of the rage and hatred that radiated off the Lamont warrior was palpable.

The two men drew their swords and squared off to face each other. Lamont raised his two-handed great sword over his head and attacked with a ferocity that seemed superhuman. The shatter of steel upon steel reverberated like a thunderclap. Lamont came at Colin again and again. Unrelenting. Landing blow after herculean blow that his brother couldn't even begin to fend off. He fought with a force behind him that was undeniable.

This battle had only one possible outcome. Duncan knew it, and from the look in Colin's eyes, he knew it as well.

Not wanting to watch the inevitable, Duncan turned and walked away. He wished he could feel sorry for him, but Colin had forged his own destiny, and now was the time for his reckoning.

Colin was dead.

Lamont and his band of MacGregor outlaws disappeared into the darkness as quickly as they'd come—their battle, it seemed, had been with one man.

Before they could be rounded up again, Duncan sent Conall and the Gordon guardsmen back to Islay to find Jeannie. The big Irishman wasn't happy about it, but understood what Duncan had to do. Like Colin, the time for Duncan's reckoning was here. He hoped his had a better outcome.

He did not grieve for the brother who'd tried to kill him, but for the boy who'd trailed after him when they were young, who'd laughed with him, wrestled with him, and trained beside him.

Duncan might have had difficulty convincing the remaining clansmen not to kill him on the spot were it not for Gillis. The young warrior had happened to look back just as Colin had tried to shoot him. The lack of honor in their chief did not sit well with any of the Highlanders and given Duncan's willingness to submit to their authority the danger of immediate execution passed.

After tending to the wounded and gathering the dead, it was near dawn by the time the somber procession passed through the barmkin gate of Inveraray Castle, the Earl of Argyll's formidable Highland stronghold.

Half expecting to be tossed into the pit prison, Duncan was surprised instead to be lead into the laird's solar.