Page 145 of Bride of Mist
Dougal was stunned.
What had just happened?
In the space of that horrible instant—where his brother and laird was alive one moment and dead the next—emotions raced through his head. Disbelief. Shock. Horror. Dread. Relief. Sorrow. Anger. Malice. And ultimately fear.
Feiyan.
He had to save Feiyan.
If Fergus could so easily kill his closest companion, the man he’d sworn to protect, what would he do to her?
“Nay!” he bellowed, wrenching away from Fergus’s blade, anything to distract the brute from the precious lass within his reach.
But Fergus wasn’t interested in Feiyan.
He wanted Dougal.
With a vindictive snarl, he lashed out with theshoudao.
The blade caressed Dougal’s flank with sharp steel, slicing into his flesh as if it were butter. Dougal didn’t even feel it at first.
Feiyan screamed. That didn’t seem real either. He’d never heard Feiyan scream before. Even facing the outlaws in the forest, she’d never cried out.
As Fergus turned away, a searing pain swept down Dougal’s side, and a wet warmth trickled down his abdomen.
The world slowed, and he suddenly felt like he was slogging through a bog.
He wanted to move. Wanted to go to Feiyan.
But his legs were weighted. His arms were as heavy as anvils.
Feiyan cast aside Gaufrid’s limp body, revealing her beautiful face. Her silky hair was tucked into a cap, and her rosy cheeks were smudged with soot. But she was still his Feiyan. Still the woman he had dreamed of wedding.
That wouldn’t happen now.
He was a dead man.
But he could still save her.
If he could live long enough.
She looked distressed. Her brows were furrowed. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was open in a silent cry.
He tried to give her a reassuring smile. But he couldn’t. And he couldn’t get to her.
Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Fergus and Morris frantically moving the boat toward the firth. Dragging it across the sand.
They were fleeing.
Of course they were.
They had only ever been interested in their own fortunes. They’d sunk their claws into mac Darragh—befriending Gaufrid, replacing the army, impoverishing the clan—solely for their own benefit.
Having failed, they were fleeing, Leaving a trial of blood and devastation in their wake.
Then he saw the others. Hordes of villagers armed with axes and scythes charged onto the beach, spilling out toward the firth. With fierce cries of “Mac Darragh!” they chased after the escaping villains.
They were mac Darragh folk. Crofters, merchants, maids, youths. People he knew and loved. His heart swelled with pride. They had come to defend the clan.
