Page 58 of An English Rose for the Highlander
Glaring across at him, Lord Egerton narrowed his eyes, studying for a long moment. Dominik held a firm stance, awaiting the man’s grand attack in hopes of seizing the moment to strike back.
But at the last moment, the Viscount changed his focus, rushing toward the side where Rose stood.
No.
Dominik sprinted between them, a move that was apparently precisely what the horrid man was waiting for. He suddenly angled with a jerk, the point of his blade spearing into Dominik’s side. He hissed, collapsing to the ground on one knee.
“Dominik!” Rose’s terrified scream rang out into the chaotic battlefield, a sight that should have never been true on the ground of Clan MacKay, and Lord Egerton chuckled darkly all the while, circling him like a vulture.
Gritting his teeth, Dominik fought the desire to spring into action and tackle Egerton. He needed to bide his time, to wait for just the right moment to get the final blow on the crazed bastard.
“You think yourself some type of valiant warrior, don’t you? Bah! You are nothing but a wretched Scotsman with delusions of his importance. I will take what’s rightfully mine and secure thewealth and glory that I have been denied for years! No one will look down on Viscount Egerton ever again!”
Stopping at Dominik’s back, because Egerton lacked all sense of dignity and honor, the man raised his sword high over his head, the Laird just able to see him as he craned back to look. Dominik didn’t move; he leaned into his injured side, groaning low.
Then, just as his attack drove his blade downward, Dominik rolled to the side, kicking out Egerton’s arms as he crashed into the ground, the tip of his sword penetrating the earth. The man fell into the mud face-first, and the moment he flipped over, still holding his blade, Dominik used his own to disarm him.
“Ye have one chance, Egerton. Call yer men off, be gone from this place, and I will let ye live.”
The Viscount spat at him, glaring. “I hope everything you love burns to the ground.”
A dagger appeared in the Viscount’s hand, pulled from the folds of his jacket, and he leveled it not at Dominik but Rose. Before the knife could leave Egerton’s grip, Dominik stabbed downward, a fatal blow right through the heart.
It was done.
“Yer leader is dead. Get the bloody hell off me land before ye all join him!”
Dominik surveyed the ragged band of men, and in moments they dispersed. Rose ran up to him then, catching him by the side just as Dominik began to sink to the ground. Warmth trickled down his side. The injury was clearly more than a passing blow.
“I believe ye should fetch the healer, lass.”
“Dominik! Oh God. Someone help him!”
He gazed into Rose’s eyes as the world went hazy around the edges. Then he was left in darkness, falling unconscious.
28
Dominik had fallen unconscious, and Rose had watched as Fiona and Eilidh, and even the little-seen castle healer, Nigel, were there to aid the Laird, to ensure that her husband made it through the night.
I did this. It is my presence that has put Dominik in such danger.
Rose’s finger shook as she sat next to the bed, her eyes fixed entirely on the rise and fall of Dominik’s chest. He breathed, and Nigel had said before that his recovery showed great promise. He was only “slightly” wounded according to the healer, though Rose could see nothingslightabout it.
An injury was an injury to her, and worst of all, it had been done by her own villain. Without her in his life, Dominik might have been spared the hurt Lord Egerton caused. Guilt and shame washed over her in such profound waves that Rose was sure she would drown.
How could you let this happen?
Rose swept a lock of hair off Dominik’s face, keeping her touch so light it was practically ghostly. Her chest ached as if she’d sobbed all evening, when in fact she could not bring herself to cry. She did not deserve it. It was Dominik who truly suffered.
“He will be just fine, me Lady. Daenae fret.”
Fiona’s voice rumbled through Rose’s head. She could see the look of sympathy and care on the woman’s face, her spirits incensed to lift at the kind words of someone whom she now considered a friend. But it was no use. There was nothing that would make Rose feel better except the waking of her husband, and perhaps not even that.
Even Eilidh praising Rose for her help in the hastily put-together infirmary did not provide the lady with enough goodness to feel anything but hopeless and remorseful. Rose’s presence was the culprit and she did not know how to remedy that malady.
You put him in danger, Rose. You do. He is a man who was only doing his duty, and his connection to you has jeopardized not only his own life but that of each life in this keep.
Sagging in her seat, Rose dropped her head to her hands, perching her elbows on her knees. What could she possibly do to make the situation right? Ambrose was dead, yes, but so much destruction had consumed the castle. How would they rebuild?
