True to the Highlander(97)

The enemy stood poised to deliver the blow that would end her husband’s life.

She aimed for the most vulnerable spot on John’s body. Taking a deep breath, she held it and released the arrow. Time slowed. She watched without breathing as the arrow flew toward its target and pierced his neck. John dropped his sword, sending it clattering to the floor. Both of his hands clawed at the wooden shaft protruding from his throat. His mouth opened and closed, and blood spurted down his chest. He dropped to his knees and fell over. His body twitched, and his blood formed a crimson pool in the rushes beneath him.

Frozen to the spot, she turned her eyes to Malcolm. He’d followed the arrow’s trajectory back to its source. Their eyes met—and held. Disbelief flashed across his face, followed by fury like she’d never seen before.

Gasping for breath, she pulled back. Her ordeal wasn’t over. Bringing another arrow to her bow, she faced the door into the gallery. Ronald the Red had also followed the arrow’s path back to her. She’d killed his son. He would be on his way with murderous intent—and this time, she had no vision to guide her.





CHAPTER TWENTY



The coppery scent of blood and death permeated the keep and wafted up to the minstrels’ gallery where Alethia stood her ground. The groans of the dying and the occasional clang of swords from those few still fighting filled the air. Above it all, the sound of her own ragged breathing and her heart pounding in her chest filled her head. A single bead of sweat trickled down her temple. She sucked in her breath—and held it.

The door to the gallery slammed against the wall with a loud crack, sending a cloud of dust into the air as the laird burst through. “Bitch. I am going to kill you,” he growled.

Her skin crawled, and her stomach roiled at the murderous rage aimed her way. The arrow she aimed at his heart was the only thing keeping him at bay. “Don’t move. Not a muscle. Help!” she shouted, not taking her eyes off Ronald the Red. “I need help in the minstrels’ gallery!” She shouted again, her entire body trembling. Weak from fatigue and the aftereffects of adrenaline pumping through her system, would her muscles obey the demands she made on them?

Killing someone threatening a loved one was one thing. Facing your own death—or killing a man while he looked you in the eye—was another thing altogether.

God, let one of the MacKintosh warriors get here in time. She caught a movement as the laird’s right hand shifted. The glint of metal gave her a target, and instinct took over. Another arrow flew from her bow.

It pierced the palm of the laird’s hand, and his dagger dropped to the floor with a thud. Ronald growled with pain, his face twisted in a mask of hatred. She notched another arrow and watched beads of sweat form on her enemy’s forehead. He bit the end of the arrow to break the shaft behind the steel point and pulled it from his palm, never taking his eyes from her.

Another dagger appeared from his sleeve as he advanced. She knew he meant to get close enough to render her weapon useless, He meant to slit her throat.

“Don’t move,” she croaked, taking a step back. “Or the next arrow will go through your eye.” Why hadn’t any of their men come to help her? Had they lost the battle after all? Her legs and arms now felt like rubber bands. She wouldn’t be able to stand for much longer, much less send an arrow with any force. And if she fell, she’d be defenseless, an easy kill. She drew her arrow back as taut as she could manage, resolved to kill him if she could. Ronald came at her. She released the arrow. It grazed his shoulder, hit the wall and came to land on the floor behind him. “No,” she sobbed.

The sound of footsteps in the corridor distracted the laird. All the air left her lungs as Malcolm burst through the door and lunged at Ronald the Red. Alethia moved to the farthest corner, out of range of the wrestling men, and collapsed to her hands and knees. She vomited in the dust and watched through eyes blurred with tears as her wounded husband fought for their lives.

All was quiet when Malcolm lifted her to her feet; his strong arms came around her. She leaned against him and sobbed.

“We must away,” he whispered into her ear.

She managed to nod. Her insides felt like Jell-O. It took great effort to put one foot in front of another. Malcolm lifted her over the laird’s still body. MacKintosh warriors lined the hallway. Some were bloody, but all were standing. Every one of them put their hands on their hearts and inclined their heads to her as Malcolm set her down.

Fresh tears started at their gesture of fealty. Malcolm tugged her hand to get her moving. His men fell into formation, some taking up the front, and the rest guarding them from behind.