The Highlander Series(40)

As Ewan turned to battle another foe, he snapped his teeth together in fury. Coward. Bloody coward. He’d deserted his men and left them all to die while saving his own arse.

Ewan gave the order for his men to finish it, and he began working his way back toward his brothers. The Cameron soldiers were woefully outmatched.

The remaining commander of Cameron’s ill-fated army evidently came to the same conclusion. He yelled retreat, and his men didn’t just retreat. They fled.

The commander, unlike Cameron, wasn’t a coward. He didn’t flee. He urged his men to beat a hasty retreat and he fought valiantly at their rear, offering his protection—as pathetic as it was—so they could escape to safety.

Ewan signaled his men to give chase, and he turned his sights on the commander.

When Ewan bore down on him, he saw the resignation on the older man’s face. Ewan raised his sword and stalked forward. The commander took one step back, then brought his sword up, prepared to battle to the death.

Ewan swung his sword in a great arch and the blades met with a resounding clang. The older man was weakening. He already had a wound and he was losing blood. On Ewan’s second strike, he knocked the sword from his opponent’s hand and it hit the ground with a clatter.

Death stared back at Ewan from the depths of the man’s eyes. The commander knew it and accepted it as only a warrior could. He sank to his knees and bowed his head in front of Ewan, in acknowledgment of defeat.

Ewan stared down at him, his throat working against the anger that swirled so fierce within him. Had this been what his father had done just before Cameron cut him down? Had his father fought to the bitter end? Or had he known, as this man knew, that defeat was inevitable?

For a long moment, Ewan held his sword above his head, and then he slowly lowered it and looked around at the dying battle. Cameron’s men were scattered across the landscape. Some dead. Some dying. Some fleeing on foot, while others ran their horses into the ground to escape Ewan’s soldiers.

He whistled for his horse, and the commander looked up, surprise glittering in the eyes that had just been shadowed by imminent death.

When Ewan’s horse obediently stopped a mere foot away, Ewan reached back for the sheet bearing Mairin’s virgin blood. He spread it out like a banner, the ends blowing in the wind. Then he wadded it into his hand and thrust it into the commander’s face.

“You will take this back to Cameron,” Ewan said through gritted teeth. “And you will bear my message.”

The commander slowly took the linen and then nodded his acceptance of Ewan’s dictate.

“You will tell Duncan Cameron that Mairin Stuart is now Mairin McCabe. She is my wife. The marriage has been consummated. Tell him that Neamh Álainn will never be his.”





CHAPTER 14





By the time Ewan and his men rode back into the courtyard, it was well past midnight. They were dirty, bloody, tired, but jubilant over such an easy victory.

A celebration would ensue, but Ewan didn’t feel like celebrating. Duncan Cameron had escaped Ewan’s retribution and it burned like sour ale in his belly. He wanted the bastard on the end of his sword, now not only because of what he’d done eight years before, but because of what he’d done to Mairin.

He gave orders to his men to increase the watch. There was much to be done in light of his marriage to Mairin. The keep’s defenses would have to be strengthened, and new alliances, such as one with the McDonalds, were more important than ever.

Even with all of that weighing down on him, his primary thought lay with Mairin. He regretted the haste in which he’d bedded her. He didn’t like guilt. Guilt was for men who made mistakes. Ewan didn’t like the idea of making mistakes or admitting his failures. Aye, but he’d failed the lass and he was at a loss as to how to make it up to her.

He took the time to bathe in the loch with the other men. If it weren’t for the fact that a sweet lass lay in his bed, he’d have crawled beneath the covers in his boots and not worried over the mess until morning.

After washing the dirt and blood from his body, he quickly dried and mounted the steps to his chamber. Eagerness drove him. Not only did he want to show the lass a little tenderness, but he burned for her. Before, he’d only tasted of her sweetness. Now he wanted to feast on it.

He quietly opened his chamber door and stepped inside. The room was cloaked in darkness. Only the coals from the fire gave light as he crossed to the bed. She was nestled in the middle of the bed, her hair spread out like a veil of silk. He slid one knee onto the bed and leaned over her, prepared to wake her, when he saw the lump on the other side of her.

Frowning, he peeled back the cover to see Crispen nestled in her arms, his head laying on her bosom. A smile eased his frown when he saw how she had both arms wrapped protectively around him. The lass had taken her role as Crispen’s new mother very seriously. They were tucked in as tight as two kittens on a cold night.