Page 47 of Taken By the Vicious Highlander
“Hold the line! Push them toward the clearing!” he barked, his voice carrying over the din.
Out of the corner of his eye, he spotted Tristan fighting with a precision that caught him off guard. The councilman’s movements were swift and calculated, each strike landing with deadly accuracy. Damon felt a strange sense of recognition as he watched him.
What are ye hidin’, councilman?
There was something about his technique that reminded him of the assassin who had attacked him in the keep. The calculated strikes, the fluid movements—it was too much of a coincidence. The thought unsettled him, but he forced himself to focus on the battle at hand.
But that moment of distraction cost him.
A brigand lunged from the shadows, his blade arcing toward Damon’s unprotected side. Damon turned just in time to parry the strike with the flat of his claymore, but he underestimated the attacker’s speed. The brigand pivoted, his second bladeslashing in a wide arc. Damon felt the searing pain before he realized what had happened—a sharp, fiery line shot across his back as the brigand’s blade bit into flesh.
He staggered backward, a hiss of pain escaping through gritted teeth. The world narrowed down to the immediate threat, his claymore swinging instinctively to block another strike.
His attacker pressed the advantage, but Damon quickly recovered, his anger flaring like a beacon in the dark. With a ferocious roar, he drove his claymore forward, catching the brigand in the chest. The man crumpled to the ground with a gurgle.
Blood seeped from the wound on Damon’s back, soaking into his shirt and dripping down his sides. The pain was sharp and unrelenting, but he forced himself to stay upright, his focus shifting back to the battle. The last thing his men needed was to see their Laird falter.
Christ… Lilith is goin’ to be in a state…
Tristan appeared beside him, his face grim. “Ye’re hurt, Me Laird.”
“It’s nothin’,” Damon growled, waving him off. He didn’t have time for concern—not now, when the fight was still raging. “Focus on the brigands.”
Tristan hesitated, his eyes narrowing as if he wanted to argue, but another attacker barreled toward them, forcing him to turn his attention back to the fight.
Damon pressed on, ignoring the searing pain in his back. Every movement sent a fresh wave of pain through him, but he refused to let it slow him down. The brigands were faltering, their lines breaking under the combined assault of his men.
The fight was over. The brigands, surrounded and outnumbered, had little choice but to surrender. When the last of the brigands were subdued, Damon finally allowed himself a moment to breathe, letting the men finish the job. His chest heaved, and sweat mingled with the blood that soaked his back. The pain had dulled to a persistent throb, but he knew the wound needed tending.
Tristan approached him again, his sword sheathed and his expression unreadable. “Ye should sit down before ye keel over.”
Damon shot him a glare. “I’m fine.”
Tristan arched an eyebrow, his gaze flicking to the bloodstained fabric at Damon’s back. “Aye, because bleedin’ out is what we call fine now.”
Damon ignored the jab, his focus shifting to the brigands being rounded up by his men. But even as he watched the aftermath of the battle, his thoughts returned to Tristan. The man’s skill in combat, the way he had let one brigand escape, and the unsettling similarity to the assassin’s fighting technique—it allgnawed at his thoughts like a splinter buried deep under his skin.
A movement out of the corner of his eye caught the attention of all of them. A body flipped over on the ground, and one of the attackers broke free, darting toward the river in a desperate attempt at escape. Some of the men started to give chase, but Tristan raised a hand to stop them.
“Let him go,” he ordered, his voice calm but firm.He shrugged, his sword still in hand, his voice growing louder. “Let him deliver a message to his master. Tell him that McCallum lands are secure and that they shouldnae come back.”
Damon’s jaw tightened, but he relented, sheathing his sword. “And ye think that’ll stop them?”
“It’ll give them pause,” Tristan replied evenly. “Besides, these brigands arenae local. Nay. These men are from the lowlands, likely hired for this.”
The implication hung in the air, and Damon’s mind raced. If the brigands were hired, then someone had to be behind the attacks. And the more he thought about it, the more Tristan’s calm demeanor and strategic mind seemed to fit the profile of someone who could orchestrate such chaos.
As the men began to gather the prisoners and secure the area, Damon couldn’t shake the unease that settled over him. Tristan was hiding something—he was sure of it.
He stood at the edge of Kiel, his gaze fixed on the horizon, where the first light of dawn was beginning to creep over the hills. “Better get back now,” he said with finality.
His men stretched and then mounted their horses.
She’s goin’ to be furious.
11
Damon lumbered into the inn as the first light of dawn crept over the horizon, bathing Branloch in a pale golden glow. Exhaustion weighed on him like a millstone, but his steps remained steady, resolute.
