Page 118 of Ruined By the Ruthless Highlander
The thought of her getting more injured in there hit him like a blow, and his jaw clenched, something dark and relentless taking hold of him.
The wind roared in his ears, and he pushed himself harder, drowning out everything but the sound of hooves and the rattle of the carriage ahead. He was closer now.
One of the men riding along the carriage turned, spotting him in the forest, and shouted. Just then, a pistol cracked loudly, catching him off guard.
Lachlan squinted his eyes and kicked his heels into his horse’s flanks again, the beast veering just enough as the bullet struck one of the trees he sped past. He let out a sharp breath, drawing even closer to the carriage.
The man cursed, reaching for his powder as they began to approach the plains, but his horse was hardly steady, and he was far too slow.
Lachlan tightened his grip on the reins, pushing his horse even faster as the path curved sharply ahead. It was his chance.
The carriage slowed as it drew closer to the edge of a cliff, and he surged forward, closing the gap at last.
“Stop!” he roared, his voice cutting through the chaos, but they did not.
He pulled on the reins one last time, trusting his horse as they jumped onto the main path, intercepting the carriage right at the mouth of the pass.
The horses neighed, confused, and came to a violent halt.
“Marian!” Lachlan shouted, his heart thundering against his ribs.
There was no answer. Instead, the door to the carriage creaked open, and her uncle stepped down with a loaded pistol in hand. His men dismounted their horses, and Lachlan’s gaze flickered over them, sharp and assessing.
There were four of them in total: Lord Norton and three armed guards. But their hands shook as they aimed their pistols at him.
Cowards.
Lachlan’s eyes flicked past them to the carriage, searching for any sign of further movement. There was none.
His jaw clenched.
If Marian was hurt worse than he’d assumed earlier, if that man had done anything more to hurt her while in the carriage…
He dismounted his horse, his fingers closing around the hilt of his sword with practiced ease.
Up close, Lord Norton looked every inch the English aristocrat—tailored coat, polished boots, silver-streaked hair that was perfectly arranged despite the wild ride. But he was a small man. And his cold eyes reflected his emptiness to anyone who looked closely enough.
Lachlan had killed men like him before. Men who thought titles and lineage placed them above consequence. Men who believed the lives beneath them were worth less than property.
He would kill another today.
“Ah,” Lord Norton said, his tone sarcastic. “The ghost arrives.”
Lachlan had no mind for his humor. Now was not the time. But he responded anyway, his focus still on the carriage.
“Ye wanted me dead,meLord?” he asked mockingly.
He took a step closer, and the first shot came without warning. A crack split the air, and he moved instinctively, shifting just enough for the bullet to whizz past him, tearing through the sleeve of his tunic.
Still, he did not stop.
The second guard raised his pistol, but this time, Lachlan was better prepared.
He closed the distance between them in two strides. His sword drove forward with brutal precision, cutting clean through the man’s chest before he’d even had a chance to pull the trigger.
His blade gleamed in the dimming evening light, blood dripping from the tip onto the ground as the man collapsed onto the dirt with a gurgle.
There was no time to slow down. Another guard rushed him, and Lachlan turned sharply, avoiding the strike that was meant for his ribs. He slammed his shoulder into the man’s chest with enough force to send him stumbling backward, dangerously close to the cliff’s edge.
