The Ranger (Highland Guard #3)(116)

Arthur’s blood rushed in anticipation.

The MacDougalls were being pushed back, and it soon became clear that Lorn’s superior numbers were not going to win the day.

Locked in a fierce sword fight with one of the MacDougall clansmen—a man he unfortunately knew—Arthur heard the cry for retreat.

He swore, knowing that he had to stop Lorn and his bloody henchman before they reached the safety of the castle gates.

He wouldn’t come this close and be denied.

With a renewed burst of energy, he deflected a blow from his opponent and, using the force of it, spun his sword around under him and delivered a death strike.

Lorn—still protected by his henchman—was racing the fifty feet or so to the castle gate.

Not this time.

Arthur drew the attention of a few of MacRuairi’s men, telling them what he wanted them to do. He fought his way toward Lorn, the men following behind him. They created a hole in the protective circle around Lorn, cutting him and his henchman off from the group. Once Arthur was through, MacRuairi’s men spread out to form a barrier behind him.

If Lorn wasn’t a few dozen feet from the safety of the castle walls, Arthur would have enjoyed this particular death more. But as it was, he was forced to dispatch the henchman quickly. For all the man’s skill at torture, he was no match for Arthur—even one-handed.

At last he turned to Lorn, catching up with him not ten feet from the gate. Lorn’s men were so busy defending themselves that no one was able to come to his aid.

Arthur could see the rage in his eyes as Lorn lifted his sword to his. “How did you escape?” he demanded incredulously.

“Surprised to see me?”

Lorn’s eyes flashed murderously. “I should have killed you.”

“Aye, you should have.”

“You are the reason for this disaster. You betrayed my plans to the murdering whoreson.”

“King Robert,” Arthur prodded, circling him like prey. “I would say you should get used to saying it, but you won’t be around long enough.”

And with that he swung.

Lorn was prepared for the blow and managed to deflect it—albeit barely, his entire body shaking with the effort. John of Lorn, once one of the most feared warriors in the Highlands, was no longer a threat. Age and illness had taken their toll. It wasn’t cowardice but illness that had kept him on the loch and at the back of the battlefield. Lorn’s damned pride prevented him from admitting just how sick he was.

Arthur’s second blow brought him to his knees. He held the tip of his sword to Lorn’s neck, the mail coif no match for the sharp steel of Arthur’s sword.

The sun flashed off the older man’s helm—just as it had that day fourteen years ago when Arthur had watched from afar as his father held the blade to this same man’s neck and offered him mercy.

It was the moment he’d been waiting for. Anticipation should be surging through his veins. The taste of victory should be sweet. His muscles should be clenched, ready to drive the blade forward.

But he felt none of those things.

All he could think about was Anna.

If he did this, he would forever be to her the man that Lorn had been to him: the man who killed her father.

Perhaps her forgiveness was more than he had a right to hope for, but if he killed Lorn he’d destroy whatever chance remained.

What honor was there in killing a man too sick to fight? His father had his justice. Lorn was finished. His defeat at Brander had crushed whatever hope he’d had of stopping Bruce.

Anna was right. Killing him now would be nothing more than revenge, and he wanted her more than he wanted whatever fleeting moment of satisfaction killing Lorn would give him.

Well, maybe more than fleeting, but he wanted her more all the same.

From beneath the steel visor of his helm, Lorn’s gaze burned into his. “What are you waiting for? Just do it!”

Mercy. His father’s last lesson; though he’d forgotten it until now.

“Submit to the king, and I will let you live.”

Lorn’s face contorted in rage. “I’d rather die.”

“And what of your family? What of your clan? Would you have them die, too?”

His eyes blazed with raw hatred. “Better than to submit to a murderer.”

“You’d see your daughters die for your damned pride?” Arthur could feel his temper rising. He knew Anna. She would never go against her father. Family was everything to her. “Give Anna your blessing. I’ll keep her safe. You know as well as I do that you are done. But your clan can live on in our children—in your grandchildren.”

Lorn’s rage had turned frenzied. Veins bulged at his temples, his eyes were glazed with madness, and his face was beet red. He let go a string of vile oaths, spittle foaming at the edge of his mouth. “You will never have her. I’d rather see her dead!”

“Father!”

Arthur heard the anguished cry behind him. Anna. He turned instinctively.

Giving Lorn his back. Just as his father had done before him.

Twenty-six

Anna reached the courtyard just as Arthur brought her father to his knees.

Oh God, she was too late!

She ran faster.

Ewen and the other men were attempting to defend the castle with carefully aimed arrows through the slits in the curtain wall, ready to lower the gate just as soon as her father and his men retreated inside.